So. What a month, and I’ve missed communicating with you and spewing my nonsense. Packing, planning, selling—wait, no leasing—wait again, selling. OK, selling what was previously leased. Buyers of a leased home forcing me to face the separate realities of a life lived wishing to be separated, yet drawn back by familial necessities. La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe will soon be renamed to suit the enjoyments of its new owners, and the dogs and I? Well, we’ll soon be back to my boyhood home, deep, deep, deep in the tainted heart of Texas.
Travelling to Texas to visit—revisit—seeing family, friends, ex-wives. Explaining—why, when, really, you’re leaving Santa Fe?—what the fuck is wrong with you? Struggling—words, concepts, desires, emotions. Smelling—dense garden smells of rich earth created by me, sharp odors from the compost made from rotting waste, the sweet, sweet aroma of fully-ripened Cherokee Purple tomatoes fat, and so plump they bend thick stems to break.
Staring—a gay pig and his ostrich lover—Laurel and Hardy in feathers and boar bristles slow dancing to Johnny Cash’s last CD, my Gram climbing into her bright red Ferrari with the mega-watt smile of a sexual predator, the stacked-rock marker that marks the spot of Dixie’s final repose. Staring—into Mother’s hazel eyes, deeply, seeing there but tiny flashes of the searing disappointment that once flared like the ass-end of a Titan rocket fully loaded for a moonshot. Sensing Mother’s judgements more than hearing them. Listening, carefully, for a thread of cogent thought not the repetitive patter of dementia.
Staring, sensing, thinking, planning, struggling, grasping. Staring—blankly into the giant Texas sky, wondering what has happened to my life, will happen. Wondering—the sharp blade of a second-guess slicing thin wafers of imagery to fix upon glass slides to reflect, refract, recombinations of decisions made, not made. Adjusting—focus, light, angles, hypothesis, conclusions.
Listening—hoping—searching for a sign of acceptance, the eager prospector panning words for a thoughtful nugget—but finding no golden speak, not even the fool’s gold of false praise. Wishful—not hopeful, as hope remains a four-letter word, its nastiness reinforced by the short, bitter proclamations of an old woman’s ire. Smells—old people confined, disinfectant, bile—the pungent stench of parental disappointment assaulting to even not delicate senses.
Thirsting—dry mouth, grainy eyes, parched soul probing for just a sliver of approval. Cursing—her, me, the fucking Baptists. Mostly me, myself and next the fucking Baptists. Might I have done more to please, had I not been raped would it matter? Should I have? Could I have?
Differentiating—reality/fantasy, want/need, love/hate, family/other. Reflecting.
The Squirt says Mother looks as healthy as ever, but tells me if my maternal unit asks one more time, “Where do you live now,” she’s bringing her final days pill stash for a dosing of Mother’s afternoon hot chocolate. “I’ll put a handful of those downers in her cup.”
OK, let’s reset. First I leased the Santa Fe house, then sold it. After the sale contract was fully accepted, we took a trip back home to see what would be required to resettle there. What I found is that four years can be a very long goddamn time. My psycho therapist, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson suggested to me that maybe I should let my mother go without any care from her adult children.
“Give her a few months without any familial support, Mooner. Make her ask for your help. You three stay in Santa Fe and live a good life,” was the suggested advice.
“I’d have to hogtie Sister and kidnap her to New Mexico, Sammie. You know she can’t allow Mother to suffer no matter how our mother feels about her.”
My sister is killing herself for a woman who despises everything about her own daughter. Tells her caretakers what an abomination Sister is when Sister sits in quiet repose at Mother’s side. When Mother “Sun downers”—the actions of a demented person to freak and try to escape whatever it is the feel captured in, happens each day as the sun goes down—it’s always Sister she calls, screaming and crying, to save her. Every fucking day, and sometimes many times a day.
Now, I’m substituting myself for Sister in Mother’s care, and I don’t know what to do. I’m a morose sonofabitch and troubled to find even a flicker of light in my tunnel. I do not have anything of what it takes to nurture a batty old woman who blames me for ruining her life.
“I could have been a dancer on Broadway if it weren’t for you, Mooner! You ruined my life!”
Archive for the ‘Rush Limbaugh the pig’ Category
So. What a month, and I’ve missed communicating with you and spewing my nonsense. Packing, planning, selling—wait, no leasing—wait again, selling. OK, selling what was previously leased. Buyers of a leased home forcing me to face the separate realities of a life lived wishing to be separated, yet drawn back by familial necessities. La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe will soon be renamed to suit the enjoyments of its new owners, and the dogs and I? Well, we’ll soon be back to my boyhood home, deep, deep, deep in the tainted heart of Texas.
So. I’m up at 3:15 am, again, and it seems to be a new habitual. Before today, this time of awakening was for me, as said in Spanish, “Tiempo de perros.” Most times when I’m up too early it is dog related. And for those of you wondering why I speak so often of my hounds I say, “You, sir, need to pay attention.”
This morning, however, it wasn’t the dogs who awakened me, it was my own fevered brain. True enough, the Squirt was doing her adorable snurffle-snuffle snore dealio, a complex cacophony of puppy sleeping noises that puts a smile on my face and a lump of love in my heart. But it wasn’t that or Yoda’s constantly severe halitosis that awakened me today. It was my own spinning brain waves that kept me wide awake.
My issue, according to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, is that I have a guilty conscience about something, with said whateverthefuck something remaining a mystery to me. The often insightful psycho therapist and former Mrs. Mooner Johnson seems to believe that my early risings are all connected to something about which I feel either embarrassment, or guilt. Because I feel guilty, ipso facto, I can’t sleep.
“It is proven medical science, Mr. Loony Bird. Most insomnia is either anxiety or guilt driven, and in your case, my money lays nine-to-two it’s guilt. You need to spend some time in self-reflection, Mooner. There has to be something you’ve done that’s laying heavily on your crazy mind—you obviously feel embarrassment or guilt over something. Lord knows you’re always doing something that embarrasses me.”
When my psycho therapist say shit like this I start to wonder which of us is the nutty one. “Have you lost your mind, Sammy? It’s gotta be five-to-two, worst case. I haven’t been embarrassed since back to junior high school when I slow danced with an actual girl not Gram or Sister the first time. Accidently dry-rubbed against the silk and taffeta prom gown of who’s her name, and received both pleasure and a slap. She had one of those corsage dealios that girls used to wear on their wrist and I can still see how the air caused the baby’s breath to blow off her wrist as her flat hand headed for my cheek.”
Enjoyed the thrills too much to be embarrassed in the moment even with the slap, but paid the price next day in Sunday school. Offended young lady had to tell Mrs. Browningwell the story with added allegations. True, I did get a boner, and true as well that I left it pinned to her front halfway between her belly button and soft, budding breasts. But I wasn’t moaning. I was counting my one-two-three-fours under my breath so’s not to step on her tootsies. That was the only way I ever danced through an entire song without tripping over everyone’s feet.”
Who’s her name was far shorter than was I, and I was humming my numbered steps with my mouth closed. In reflections, might have sounded like moaning to her virgin ear plastered to my chest, spray-fluffed hair in my face. Oh, and I just remembered that she wore Taboo perfume except wasn’t it spelled “Tabu”? God, rememberating the sights and smells of young first encounters is exhilarating. Remember the first time you sniffed a lover’s sex smells? Intoxicating.
For those of you questioning my grammatical choices, I purposely used “who’s her name” rather than “what’s her name”, and speaking of dry rubbed, my Gram called me last night to complain about her sex life. OK, she actually called to see if I’d come visit and, as she put it when she told me, she said, “Git yer fuckin’ pig ta stay tha shit out tha garden.” But as always, my Gram’s conversations will hit sex talk at about the ninety-second mark, as in this conversation when she ran out of steam complaining about Rush Limbaugh the pig eating all her squash.
“… fuckin’ Rushie Limberhog ate summer squashies an’ tha Zukkies too. So, there’s this Texas student working down ta tha church—nuclur engineerin’ or sum such a major, an’ doin’ tha Lord’s work with tha kids fer Pastor Browningwell—an’ he says ta me, ‘Mz. Johnson, that’s a mighty nice car you drive.’ An’ afore I can git tha door open to hop him on in, fuckin’ Leticia grabs tha boy’s arm damn near out tha socket. Yanked tha poor kid hard enough ta snap his head off, what with him eyeballin’ the Fee-rarie an’ all.”
And that’s twice now that Mrs. Leticia Browningwell has bothered into a Johnson’s sexual activities in four paragraphs of this word swill. Maybe I can’t sleep because that old bag had so much influence on my life. She’d have boiled me in oil had we lived back in the days of such, and then fed me to the pigs. Told me just that this one time. Maybe that’s likewise why I own 400-plus pounds of piggy meat on the hoof.
Folks ask me why I’m an atheist and moments with Leticia come to mind. In my world, no actual God would allow her to influence so many young lives. Then, and again, no God as a deity exists in my world excepting for my own, quite personal God, a creature of my own divining.
I often wish for a Divine all-knowing, all-being God, as that would make it easier to live life. Using a third party with a God’s power can justify any action one might choose to make, as abdication of our bad deeds to the edicts of a cult grants a pardon to some. No guilty consciences when you can confess your sins to your God for absolutions.
“Dear God. I’m so sorry for being a greedy and bigoted racist lying fuckhead, and if You make me President I promise I’ll be better. Ah, er, well ah, might You also consider making this current bankruptcy go away? Amen. Oh, and the lawsuits.”
Fuck Walmart and Donald J. Trump as well.
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.
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.
So. It’s been an interesting several days. First we got word that a Federal District Judge has ruled that the State of Texas cannot de-fund Planned Parenthood. As fits Planned P’s purpose, the Judge ruled that there are no reasonable alternative choices to Texas women for the affordable reproductive services offered by PP. Of course our Attorney General, Herr Field Marshall Greg Abbott, has already declared that he will appeal this ruling.
“How dare the Federal Government try to protect women from our right-wing christian idiocy,” Herr FM Abbott said from his wheelchair on the steps of the Federal Courthouse.
“I went to war for America and lost the use of my legs so that I can help Governor Perry enforce christian law sharia. Making our women bow to the teachings of the bible is my primary function.”
Actually, Abbott didn’t say that, rather I have provided a decoded translation for you. The “I went to war for America” part is also a lie as told by many of his supporters. I think many Texas right-wingers are a bit embarrassed that Abbott isn’t a war hero. Herr FM Abbott was actually injured in a freakish jogging accident when he was hit by a tree.
He’s said to be a fine man, but he’s just another asshole who thinks he has the right to enforce his religious beliefs on the rest of us. Me, I think the boy might be a touch bitter about that entire “rabid tree attacks 26-year old runner confining him to a wheelchair for life” dealie. I have a heart full of sympathy and empathy for his malady.
Unless he did something to piss off the tree.
Then, Squatlo posted part of a speech Dan Savage made to young journalists yesterday. It was Squattie’s second-from-the-top post last time I looked. Savage made the most sense you will ever hear as to the debate about homosexuality and the bible. Please go over to Squatlo Rant and watch the couple minutes of video. I have been baiting christians to supply the specific bible scriptures they use to condemn homosexuality so that I can lambaste them with the truth. There are actually none—not a single fucking biblical passage says “don’t be gay” or in any way says that sucking a man’s dick is wrong. Or that muff diving is biblically illegal.
There’s something about gay prostitution, but that’s it.
However, Dan Savage spotted the christians a twisted interpretation and granted that the bible says homosexuality is against said good book. He then pointed out that the bible allows, endorses and even encourages human slavery. Hell, it even tells you when you can have sex with your slaves and tells the slaves how to behave. It even gives slave owners the right to hold hostage the wife and kids of a to-be-freed slave. That slave must choose freedom alone or agree to a lifetime as slave to his master to remain married and with his family.
The bible, dear christians, also mandates that you stone to death new brides who are not virgins. Your precious bible demands that the offending not-a-virgin bride be dragged to her father’s front stoop where the entire neighborhood must stone her to death. This isn’t optional equipment, folks, it’s a fucking mandate. I’ve always thought this a silly biblical rule for modern times and I’ve been quite fearful that today’s republican assholes would start making laws to enforce it. Stupid asshole republican lawmakers have already started turning us into slaves.
How far down the road from jamming a 2-foot electronic dildo up a woman’s vagina is stoning your slaves?
In the video, you get to watch a few pissy, pious and pompous teeny bopper assholes walk out of the speech. Survey says that more than half of them have already had sex, so maybe they are headed to their daddy’s front stoops. I doubt, however, that these young christians interpret their bible any more fairly than their leaders.
Classic speech from a classy man. To quote Squatlo, “Dan Savage is my hero!”
Oh, Rick Perry’s wedding dress came in and it is beautiful. I swear to god he looks like Liberace. Remember when Liberace did that special for TV and he’s dressed all in white splendor? Put a beak and giant silicone titties on the flamboyant pianist and you’ve got my big bird bride in his wedding dress. Same bedroom eyes as well.
The whole family was at breakfast this morning and I had him come to the kitchen to show everyone how he looks all dressed up for the alter. I had him wear everything except the head dress or crown, or whateverthefuck it is you call that silly hat thingie. The big ostrich strutted into the room like a peacock, kicking the long train of the dress left, then right, as he sashayed around the breakfast table.
We were having International Flat Food Day this morning and breakfast featured Belgian waffles, crepes, blintzes, mid-Eastern stuff with filo (philo?) dough and flat Polish pirogi. Maybe the pirogi are Russian, but who really gives a shit anyway? I mean except the Russians. Have you ever noticed how sensitive Russian people can be about silly shit?
You’d think a person would develop really thick skin living in the harsh conditions over there. But Russians are the most easily offended on earth except for right-wing christian assholes.
Anyway, Ricky is strutting around the table and Mother is ignoring the parade. She has her head hidden with the morning paper when she gets to the Herr Field Marshall Abbott story and slaps the paper to her lap. “Oh why must those liberal Federal Judges ruin everything. They have no right to tell us what to do.”
I swallowed a bite of berry-filled crepe and told her, “Oh yea, baby, that’s turned into the single most important job Federal Judges have anymore—protecting us from you assholes. Go Federal Justice system!”
“Don’t you dare call your mother an asshooo…” Mother started, then, “what… is that? You cannot allow that dumb bird to wear white, Mooner. I’ll not allow it!”
My mother eyed the table seeking support for her silly proclamation. Finding none, Mother said to Gram, she said, “Gram, tell Mooner this isn’t right. You have to be a virgin to marry in white. And after the horrid, tawdry display at this very breakfast table last week… Well, I never!”
I’ll remind you that when we unveiled Rick Perry’s new set of surgically altered titties, Rush Limbaugh lost control of himself and dry mated the ostrich right at Mother’s feet.
Gram swallowed whatever it was she’d most recently stuffed in her mouth, placed her fork carefully onto the tabletop and said, “Is that so? Seems I ‘member that you was wearin’ white at yer weddin’, er am I wrong about that?”
Mother’s face flushed with what I recognized as embarrassment, but she sat silent and hid again behind the paper.
“We all knowed ya banged Junior Spellman, Mother, an’ more ‘an once. Only reason Chigger started ta datin’ ya was acuze Junior braggerated ’bout yer handie jobbers. So shut yer yapper an pass me tha butter.” With that, Gram held an expectant hand Mother’s way for butter dish. I always put three full sticks of butter on the table when we have a Flat Food Day. I can never get enough butter on a waffle.
I waited for things to calm—just a half-minute I’d say—and I struck.
“Oh, my god! Are you telling me that my mother wasn’t a virgin when she married Daddy? Am I a bastard as well as a crazy redneck fuckbrain?”
I winked at Gram and stared at Mother, face still hidden by newsprint. “Mo-ther, you got some splainin to doooooo. How can I ever face my friends and family ever again? My mother was a harlot and I’m a bastard—oh woe is me.”
The table of Johnsons and Johnson family honorees all tittered and giggled save Mother, who continued to hide behind the Metro Section.
When the tittering subdued, Mr. Dave, a gentleman and giant-peckered Lothario who has never before shown a sense of humor, cleared his throat to get our attentions and said in his robust baritone, “Is it too late to have her stoned on the front stoop?”
“Indeed,” I provided the second to a quite sensible motion.
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.
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.
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 http://www.thankq4commonsense.blogspot.com/ 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.
So. Today’s posting subject is a secret that I’ve been attempting to hold tight to my chest for an entire fucking month. See, Quincy over to the Common Sense bloggie asked me to do a guest visit at his place, and after I wrote and submitted the posting to Sir Q, I realized that it disclosed to his readers things not herein predisclosed to you guys. Since I got Q’s dealie written early to meet deadlines, I didn’t want to say anything here to spoil the surprise over there.
It isn’t that I don’t like Quincy’s readers and buddies, it’s that I like you all better. Not that I won’t like Q’s readers any less in the future, it’s just that I don’t know most of them and some might be assholes—which isn’t my way to say that my buddy Q attracts assholes. Now I’m sounding like Political Correctness is my party line, an ill-fitting costume formel, as the French like to say. I don’t wear political correctness well.
OK, look. The guest posting by me is playing over to the Q’s place very soon—as in right now—and some of his readers should make their way over here to Loonyland. If some of them are assholes, I want to insure that I strictly enforce my personal code to insure I fully-disclose to those assholes that I think they are—in fucking fact—assholes.
What I’m trying to say is that I spend some amount of time with every one of my postings to drive the assholes away from my pages. I work hard to hurt your feelings if you are someone I consider to be an asshole. If you think that government SHOULD regulate every American woman’s choices for her own body yet you think that government SHOULD NOT insure that every American child gets the chance to have a free public education of the highest possible quality, then I know that you are an asshole.
If you think that my sister and her wife are sinners living in sin simply because they are lesbian—you, dear friend, are a fucking asshole. If you think that giant flaming asshole Zimmerman was justified when he committed murder down to Floriduh, then you too are a giant flaming asshole.
Asshole is a big word and has many meanings, so please allow me to narrowly refine said meanings to my personal use of the word asshole in this context. An asshole is a bigot. And, basically, a bigot is, “Any person who is intolerantly devoted to his own prejudices or beliefs, or/and one who treats the members of a group with intolerance and/or prejudice.”
And holy shit is my ADHD running at full throttle. My already disparate thoughts have become distracted. At this very instant: I’m talking to the people and bots who read over to Q’s place; I’m writing about a secret that I wanted to disclose herein a month ago but couldn’t because of the story I wrote for Q; I’m bitching about assholes; other things and such; and I am, for certain, thinking about sex.
Of the fifteen independent lines of thought currently running through my ADHD-addled brain, nine are centered on sex as the subject line. My main, and only, squeeze is somewhere in America teaching local law enforcement officers how to combat terroristic threats. As a Special Agent in Charge, US Department of Homeland Security, SAC Ellen has been spending way too little time in Austin to properly service me. Not getting sexed on a routine basis seems to cause my already frittered mind to become even more fritzed.
In my guest appearance at Quincy’s, I mention the fact that Rick Perry wants to get a boob job. Normally I would call getting a new set of fake titties “breast augmentation” surgery, but Rick Perry is so dumb I think boob job is a better fit. My big ostrich wants giant boobies because Rush Limbaugh, Ricky’s gay lover, is a breast man, and, OK, lets stop again. Maybe you should go over to Quincy’s place and read what I wrote there first, and then come back here. You can find Quincy at ThankQforCommonSense . The referenced story is running. At least I think it is.
Now that you are up to date it’s time to tell you the big secret. I want to announce here to the entire world that I, Mooner Johnson—father of both grooms—wish to announce that Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh will be wedded into holy matrimony in a ceremony to be held at the Johnson Family Ranch at five pm on Saturday the 26th of May.
Since the pig and ostrich have lived in the closet in an effort to keep the world blind to their homosexual affair for over a year now, a Coming-Out Party will be held on Saturday the 5th of May. This party will be in lieu of a bridal shower. I’m very excited about the wedding because the closet where these two lumpheads have been hiding is located in my bedroom.
Now that the cat is out of the handbag at Quincy’s place, I can start telling you guys all about wedding plans and all of that shit. As for Rick Perry’s boob job, I am going to attempt to trust the readers of Q’s bloggie to give me guidance.
Which reminds me. My tomato plants are already waist high and some chest high, and all are covered with tomatoes. The lovely little gems are as big as golf balls and the weird warm and wet winter weather has plastered a bumper crop of them to every fat plant. Today and Sunday we are scheduled for high winds, heavy rains and dense, large hailstorms. The Weather Service issued only its second way-in-advanced warning in history because these storms are going to be a bitch.
Which reminds me of one last thing for today. If you think that Global Warming doesn’t exist or you think it is one of the more curious aspects of “god’s will”…
Then you, dear friend, are a right-wing republican goat-fucking braindead religious—and likely bigoted—asshole.
OK, I lied, as I have one more thing. America was founded by groups of people who held wildly differing political and religious viewpoints—all of whom, and each of whom as well—were persecuted for holding said viewpoints. All of those differing beliefs were merged into a basic document—the Constitution, with its attending Bill of Rights—that carefully explained that all men were created equal and that religion had no place in the government of those people. It stated that America was founded under god, not under YOUR god’s thumb.
These folks were mostly descendants of the Inquisition and all had lived under the tyrannical rules of Monarchy governments. They were told where to work, how to pray, where to live and they were not allowed to make decisions for themselves. Only the wealthiest or those of the ruling classes were even allowed to obtain educations. The greater common populations of the entire fucking world lived under those oppressions.
Our Forefathers fought a bloody war to separate America from those oppressions so that our people, We—those people—would never be faced with those oppressions again. Yet here we are in the year 2012 fighting for our freedoms once more. I have one simple question about this:
And one simple answer:
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.
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.
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 ===}}}
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?
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.
So. I feel like I’ve been whining and bitching too much, so I might stop. Nobody wants to hear any more of my silly complaints anyway. Like Gram said at breakfast this morning when she said, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner? Yer problems ain’t mine and ya need ta redo my eggies onna count as ya cooked all tha life out the yellers.”
As do I, my prickly old grandmother likes her eggs just barely over-easy. Turn the sunny yolks pasty and they’re garbage to me. Actually they make pig fodder as Rush Limbaugh likes eggs cooked any whichaway. Which reminds me of the breakfast that BJ cooked for me the morning I left Tennessee to head back home from BlogCon2011.
Sausage, bacon and ham—all three of the porcine varieties—biscuits, and three perfectly-cooked eggies. I remember using my fork to scrape the last of the yolks that had almost dried on my plate. The leftovers were made into pork-stuffed sammies enjoyed by me all the way back to Texas. I spent but a short time with Bill but it was time enough to make a very close friend.
I gave Gram’s over-cooked eggs to my pet pig and went to the friggie to get several more. I dropped the container to the floor and broke them all. “Oh fuck a duck,” was the best I could get out, not a complaint mind you, but an simple explanation of the circumstance.
“You ain’t got no time fer romance, Mooner. Git yer ass to tha neighbor’s an fetch me some more eggies. An get tha turkey from him while yer at it.” We get our eggs from the man next door, and Gram gets a touch cranky without her daily dose. We also buy all of our cooking birds from the same family and he raised a special turkey for us. Great big fucker and mean as my Grandmother. And as stupid as Rick Perry. The Texas governor and not my pet ostrich.
Maybe I should hire a cook to take a few of the pressures off of my back. Cooking for this bunch of family Johnsons and attendant visitors can be taxing.
Maybe I should drown my grandmother and eliminate most of the pressures.
I’m having a book launch party on January the 12th and I’m looking to sponsor a charitable organization while at it. You know, charge a little extra for books sold there and give the profits to the charity. I’m having lunch with the charity of my choice today so they can determine if I’m appropriate for their mission.
Maybe I’ll meet some nice people and the lunch won’t be a total waste of efforts. Until there’s a charity based upon the need of ADHD sufferers the inappropriate actions of a their quite befuddled and crazed members, whatinthefuck organization is going to find me appropriate?
But today—I simply don’t give a rotten Republican’ rat’s smelly ass. Fuck problems and fuck all the fuckers that cause them. I’m thinking that the right-wing Christian wackos have finally managed to bring about their sacred fucking Armageddon and I simply refuse to spend the last days in a bad mood.
The fucking Christians have fucked the political scene into such a mess that I think the end of days is nigh upon us. I hope that I’m wrong and their “my way or the highway” method of government is a temporary aberration, and sanity and human kindness and sensibility will soon return to America’s governments.
But just in case, I’m enjoying what time is left. I’m smiling and drinking Carta Blanca beer, eating whateverthefuck I want, and getting myself all the sex I can stand.
So… fuck Armageddon, and the horse he rides in on. Manana, y’all. Oh, yea. And please buy my book. It will help me stay in a good mood.
So. Today is Halloween and it’s to be a really big day here to Loonyland. I have been staying away from the Planned Parenthood for the last week, or so, because of today’s Johnson Family Playhouse performance titled, “The Last Supper Goes Anti-Anti-Abortion Re-protesting”[.]
The asshole Christians have ratcheted-up their anti-abortion protestings recently. They are doing this “bow our heads in saddened silence” thingie where the turn their backs to traffic and face the clinic.
I’ve got my crew dressing as Jesus and his Disciples having that last dinner. OK, not all of the D’s will be represented as Mother refuses to play, and SAC Ellen is in Costa Rica, again. Can somebody tell me what possible business a Special Agent In Charge for the US Department of Homeland Security would have in Costa Rica?
Me, I love Costa Rica and I really love Costa Rican coffee. But you’d need a long-range tactical bomber to attack America from Costa Rica, and they don’t even have an air force down there.
We had quite the skirmish when deciding roles for today’s Halloween skit. First, everyone wanted to be Jesus, and then nobody wanted that role. I have refused it from the start as it just doesn’t seem fitting. In a final compromise with Gram and the ostrich Rick Perry, I cast Dubbie-J in the Jesus, Lord and Saviour, role. Dubbie-J is Woodrow Wilson Jones, Aunt Hilda’s shrunken head-in-a-box. And don’t even ask because that story is, of course, in the fucking book. A book that you can buy, coincidentally enough, by clicking to this linkster:
The little presumed to be African native man has already got long hair and a beard, and he looks terrific in the made from hemp fabric robe the guys over to the factory made for him. Gram said it best when she said, “Why tha little guy is cute enough ta date.”
Then Gram and Yoda started haggling over who got to be Judas. Gram wanted to be Judas because, as she again so eloquently put it, “He’s tha one what got tha gold. There is real gold, right, Mooner?”
Yoda wanted that role because Judas and Jesus sound alike and are almost spelled alike, which is a conundrum for another dichotomy. I love dealies like that. Like how Mormon and moron are a simple “m” apart.
When all of the fighting was over, we decided to go with Matthew, Mark, Luke, John and Judas, plus Sleepy and Dopey. Rush Limbaugh is the perfect Sleepy, as hogs tend to be a tad sluggish by nature. And Rick Perry as Dopey… Enough said.
My role is head administrator, driver of the family flat bed truck, and director of the play. I’ll be wearing my new sandwich board sign that says, “I’m An Abortion And I’m OK,” on the one side, and, “A Woman’s Right Of Choice Is Sacred,” on the flipper.
Enough. I need to get things going. I was gonna say, “I need to get this show on the road,” but it seemed a tad over-the-top. Manana, y’all.
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.
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.
So. All of this political crap is happening and I’m wanting to get all angry and shit, but I’m having trouble getting a mad on about much of anything. For the first time in decades, I’m taking a road trip all by myself. No wife, literally no wife, nor girlfriend nor any pets are loading up with me to head East. I’m not taking the Squirt or Yoda and I’m for certain not taking the fucking cat.
I’ve told you guys about the sleeping arrangements here to Mooner’s pet emporium, right? I have a big California King-size bed and a giant closet both, and each are filled to capacity with animals. The closet holds Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, closeted gay lovers in both the figurative and literal senses, and the over-sized bed holds the Squirt, Yoda and Honor the fucking cat. I don’t need to make room in the bed for the gay ostrich and giant pig, and for that I’m grateful.
When I sleep, I have three specific positions through which I rotate through the night. OK, I need to throw one of those throughs away. Try this: During the night I rotate through three positions. Position Number 1: Flat on my back, arms straight by my sides, hands flat and palms down, feet with toes pointed slightly down. This is my “start sleep/restart sleep” position. It is vitally important to not tuck the sheets into the bottom of the bed to keep pressure off my big feet. I cramp and have nightmares if my feet feel clamped-in by the covers.
This position is where I do my final thinkings of the day and practice my relaxation techniques to get calmed and sleep.
Position Number 2: I lay on my right side with my hips perpendicular to the bed, arms bent and flat on the bed under my pillow edge and with my head turned laying flat and looking at my right palm faced up, and my left palm down. The hands are side-by-side, my head is cradled in my pillow—the one with the rolled edge and cupped center—and my legs are casually bent. As I sleep, I’ll bend my legs more, or less, to ease any strain on my back or neck.
This position is the one where I spend most of my sleep time.
Position Number 3, AKA “The Fetal Position”: Always on my left side and always curled perpendicular to the bed. This is the position I lay in when I’m frustrated and aches and pains hit, either physical or otherwise. Since my brain always hurts, Position Number 3 is frequented.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Jesus, Mooner, who gives a shit how you lay when you sleep?” Right?
The reason I told you all of this is because how my body is positioned has lately become additionally encumbered with modifications required as the result of my sleeping with a small female dog, a slightly larger yet still small male dog, and a fucking cat. Each of them loves me and I love them back, and each wants to stake a claim to differing patches of my naked carcass as we sleep.
Squirt gets first dibs since she was here first. She like to be between my legs as I lay in each position. As time has passed, she’s learned to anticipate my shiftings to avoid serious injury. Honor the cat has second choice and she seems to want to be near my head. She tries to lay on all of my pillow that is not covered by my own head. Sometimes this requires her to lay across my neck or over my head in order to put furry cat parts on exposed pillow case.
Yoda takes his choice from what of me is left. His usual choice involves him curled in a tight ball anywhere that he can poke his nose to the crack of my ass. I’ve learned to ignore his breath as it tickles the hair on my butt, but I still jump at his occasional lick.
These sleeping arrangements have caused me to totally lose respect for The Princess and the Pea. “Fuck you, you spoiled little bitch. Shut up and go to sleep.”
So I’m sleeping last night just after the 3:30 am trip to the back yard to take Yoda to pee. I had awakened with mild night wood, so I was able to pee in the back yard with the dog. We climbed back in bed and I lay flat on my back in Position Number 1 to restart my sleep. I bumped into Squirt and she cursed me and moved to my feet, Yoda wedged himself to have his snout at the crease of my left butt cheek, and the cat hissed at me and jumped off the bed.
“Hang your ass all the way over the sink, little lady. Don’t be pissing on my tooth brush again.” I’m finding cats to be somewhat more difficult to potty train than dogs.
Anyway, I’m finally back to sleep and I’m having a sex dream about Roshandra, my ex-wife number five. Roshandra is the only one of my wives I have sexed up post divorce, and she likes me to play “human vibrator” for her. Since that is in the book I can’t elaborate, but let me just say the she and I have a buzzing good time.
In the dream, Roshandra has decided to return the favor, and she’s vibrating on me. She’s got her face buried in my crotch and she’s running a Rabbit of some other vibrator over my pecker and balls. It must be summer in the dream because I’m sweating. After a few wonderful minutes of this play, Roshandra looks up at me and says, “How about a little pain with your pleasure, buzzy boy?”, and she starts pricking my scrotum with needles.
That would be when I awakened from the dream to find the cat laying in my lap, purring like a mother fucker and kneading my scrotum. I blame Squirt for vacating her spot.
Should I be worried about this? What would it have meant if I hadn’t awakened before Roshandra finished the job? Is it bestiality if the animal sex is dream sexing?
I’m thinking that so long as I don’t start fantasizing about it and have cat dreams that I’ll be OK.
But what I wanted to tell you is that even though all of this silly political shit is raging around me, I’m too happy about my road trip to get mad. I won’t need to worry about anyone but myself and I’m going to meet some great people. Friends who (whom?) I have never laid eyes upon.
So, FUCK RICK PERRY and the rest of them too. I’m spending the day fishing and drinking Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.
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.
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.