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I Miss Squirt; Not A Prick Perry Story

Friday, August 12th, 2011

So. It’s been quite a traumatic day, starting from the time I got out of bed early this morning. I was awakened at 5:30 am to the sounds of gay sex emanating from my closet. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry were making a terrible racket, banging off the walls—grunting and shit. The big ostrich makes this keening noise when he’s sexing, like I imagine Greek women made in ancient days when their men died in battle. It’s eerie as all get out.

From there, I headed into the big kitchen to start breakfast. I had a hankering for some apple smoked bacon, no doubt a Freudian impulse from waking to pig sex noises. I opened the walk-in friggie but found no bacon. Bummer. I put water on to heat for coffee and headed out to the road to get the morning newspaper. Squirt and Honor, my usual companions on the daily trek to get the paper, are off to New Mexico with Dixie and Streaker Jones. They left town early this morning after spending the night at Streaker Jones’ place.

When I got to the road I found an empty paper tube and a pile of trash. The pile of trash is one of the many that assholes drop off on country roads with regularity. Ignorant shitwads push their refuse off the tailgate of their pick up trucks when nobody is watching them. When the weather gets cooler I’m going to sit out here with Gram’s twelve gage and wait

When I got back to the house, Gram was up and I told her about the trash. “I’mma blast tha fuckers, Mooner. That’s three times since July fourth.”

I know,” I told her. “We can sit out together when the weather cools.”

After a breakfast of toast and coffee I headed to get ready for the day. I got myself lathered for a shave and leaned in to the mirror to make the first cut with my razor. I always start at my right side burn, just at the middle of my ear. I wear glasses so I have to snuggle up to the mirror to see. When I turned my face to the side to make the first razor swipe, glints of silver sparkled from my nose.

I put the razor down on the side of the sink, and poked my finger to the tip of my nose and pushed it back to expose the inside of my nostrils. “Mother fucker,” it was almost an angry statement. “Would you look at that fucking thing?”

As I’ve matured, except for the hair on my head—all of my gray hairs are bristles, and the gray hairs in my nose, on my eyebrows and ears are like boar bristles. Stiff, straight and strong. A few months ago I pulled one from my nose with pliers and ended up in the emergency room with a bleeder. When I wrote about it here, Squatlo suggested that I get a men’s groomer machine. You know, one of those little battery operated devices to trim unwanted hairs.

I got one. A complete waste. The little motor doesn’t have the power to do anything but hang up when attempting to cut a gray timber from my nose. I bitched some more about the hair as I shaved and I had a brilliant idea. “What if I attach the round nose hair cutter dealie to my electric hair cutter machine?” This was said by me, to me after shaving,as I examined the hair through a magnifying glass held to the mirror.

I managed to duck tape and Super Glue the round, business end of the men’s groomer to the many-amped hair shears. I did a couple test runs on my chest and butt to see how she worked. Like a charm. I cut several 1/16th-of-an-inch pathways through patches of my thick hair.

I cleaned the loose hairs from the little blades of the attachment, leaned in close to the mirror, and attacked the gray hair in my nose. Several times I stuck the blades to the thick, stiff gray hair and several times the blades refused to make contact. I kept at it until I was frustrated—I couldn’t seem to get a good angle using my own big fingers. So I called Mother to come help me.

We discussed plans and decided it best for me to lay on the end of the bed with my face in the morning sunlight that filters into my room. Mother knelt on the floor and my I pried my nostril open so she could put the pedal to the metal. She looked into my nose—her cat-eye glasses perched on the tip of hers.

“I see it, Mooner honey. But are you sure of this? I don’t like the idea of sticking a power tool inside your nose.”

“Oh for shitsakes, Mother. Would you just do it already.”

Mother gave me her look of long-suffering martyrdom, turned on the motor to the shears and moved in to cut the hair. She made a good dozen attempts before she turned the motor off and said, “The shear is vibrating so fast I can’t get a hold on the hair.”

We debated a minute and I had an idea, “OK, leave it off and reach in and get the hair inside the blades. Then turn it on.”

She did. “Alright, son, I’m ready to turn it on so be still.”

“Be still” are words my mother has said to me many times in my life. On many of those occasions, I have ended up damaged in some ways. The worst of that damage was inflicted as I stood on the old peach crate Mother used to fit Sister and me to our reworked, hand-me-down clothes.

The last thing I remember before waking up in the emergency room was the “click” sound the toggle switch on the electric shears makes, and the feeling that someone jammed a pool cue up my nose. I had prior experience with a pool cue shoved up my nose and, I guess, the memory caused me to pass out cold.

The first sound I heard upon regaining consciousness was the irritating voice of old Doctor Ashburn. “Well, well well—if it isn’t Mooner Johnson with another medical emergency come to my loving hands for a cure.” He surveyed my face and added, “This is two nostril problems in a row, Mooner. When did you decide to stop wrecking your pecker and start in on your nose?”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, old man. Just give what I need to sign to get out of here and I’m gone.”

He laughed a hearty laugh and said, “I’ll turn you loose as soon as I’m sure I got the bleeding stopped. You had a sharp-bladed plastic knob twisted in one of those wires you call nose hairs. Somehow you managed to spin the whole mess up into your sinus cavity under your eye. When I pulled the plastic free—a difficult chore for an old man—the hair came out by the root and started bleeding like a stuck hog.” The he gave me another dose of his hearty laugh.

“I cauterized the bleeder, Mooner, and packed your nose with medicated gauze. Your face is gonna look like you caught a right hook to the nose. Treat this one just like the last one—don’t blow your nose for a week. And for God sakes don’t get it bumped. You’ve got so much scar tissue up there you’ll bleed-out with a pinprick.” More maniacal laughter.

“How in God’s name did you manage to stick that thing way up there?” he asked me.

“American ingenuity,” I answered. I don’t think I whimpered.

“Oh don’t be a crybaby, Mooner. You’ve been way more damaged than this, and often at that.”

I wonder if Thomas Edison or the guy who invented the wheel hurt themselves while inventerating. Inventionizing? I know I suffer the inattention of ADHD, but you would think that a mind sharp enough to invent a balsa wood airplane bomb would be smart enough to remember to place the wings in the “long flight” setting rather than that for “loop-d-loops”.

We set the neighbor’s shake shingle roof on fire, the Holt boys and me. We unwound 2,000 little Black Cat firecrackers and repackaged the gunpowder into a newspaper stick of explosive. We tied a dozen of the fuses together to buy some time, and wrapped the stick tight with electrician’s tape.

The bomb was then strapped to one of those big balsa wood gliders—the bomber model. It had a fat, real-rubber rubber band as an engine. I remember that it took so many turns of the propeller to wind it up that I got cramps in my hand.

Once fully wound, we stood behind the Holt’s house and I held the plane high above my head, knees bent to lower the fuse into Stevie Holt’s reach. He lit that fuse and I gently threw the loaded bomber towards the open field that stretched for miles next to the Holt property.

After a slow start the plane gained speed and altitude and made this giant, lazy loop. It almost cleared the neighbor’s roof to make a second big loop. Almost.

I’m back home from the hospital and sitting with my second Carta Blanca of the day. I’m lonely without the Squirt, for sure, and I’m concerned that I miss the fucking cat as well. Streaker Jones won’t have them back until Sunday and I’m bored without companionship.

And any of you that suffer from the dreaded ADHD can testify to this fact: a bored ADHD sufferer is a dangerous bundle of fuckball. I’ve had to shake-off my thoughts of how to get tomato stains out of underwear the entire time I’ve been writing to you guys. If my miniature pets had been here, I wouldn’t even have tomato-stained underwear.

Ugh. Manana, y’all.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Honor the cat, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Squatlo, Squirt | 3 Comments »

Scientists Discover Dumb Bomb; Republicans Explode

Friday, July 29th, 2011

So. Now that I have bitched my ass off about the American Congress and after watching talking heads supporting all sides of the debt ceiling debate, I’m all done with it. I have had enough.

It seems that the Republicans have self-destructed from a critical mass of childish dumb ass. It appears that scientists can now measure just how much stupid it takes to blow shit up. When you place power into the hands of uninformed bigots, you get the current Republican House caucus.

After reflecting on events over the last month, I find myself bursting with pride over our President. His mature attitudes and assumed role as a statesman have set the stage for the self-destructive actions of his opposition.

Bullies hate reason.

Which reminds me. The Squirt, Honor the cat and I were at the computer yesterday looking for a copy of the movie Slaughterhouse-Five. Squatlo told the story of the banning of Kurt Vonnegut’s book by some silly school board, and his story sparked my emotions like a baseball bat-sized firecracker punk.

OK, that might have been the dumbest analogy I have ever made. I was attempting to say that Squat’s story was a big cinder that fell into the tinder box of gasoline-soaked rags that is my mind. Those would be cotton rags, and premium gasoline of at least 90 octane rating.

I was sitting at my computer desk, phone in hand and movie rental stores on the screen. My desk sits beside a big window that looks out to an interior courtyard that’s maybe 40-feet square, and open on one end. The open end looks towards the back of the ranch towards the orchard then the big garden, and all the way to the lake.

My view through that open end is framed by our huge pecan trees. Stately and well-trimmed, their tall, straight trunks remind me of the Pines of Rome. I can see the garden beneath their bright green canopy, and blue skies above. This summer, a big herd of Mexican Red Tailed Hawks have taken roost. These guys a too fucking big to call them a flock. There are at least a dozen of the beautiful creatures and we haven’t seen a rodent or a snake all summer. These hawks are smart hunters with efficient skills.

So, I’m at the desk, phone in hand and the cat in my lap. I’m not yet fully comfortable having the little tailless Siamese feline sit in my lap. The thought of having twenty razor-sharp miniature scimitars nestled against my balls is somewhat unsettling. The whole purring dealie concerns me as well. It hasn’t yet happened in my awake time, but I had a dream the other night where I got a woody pecker from the vibration of the purring cat. I can handle having dreams about stuff that I can’t handle when awake.

I have a small quilt that I fold and lay across my legs anytime I sit with the cat in my lap.

The Squirt is perched on the back of the low couch that sits in front of the big window beside my desk. She loves to sit there looking out the window while she jabbers away at me, and now me and the cat. Today it’s all about how pretty the Mexican Red Tailed Hawks are as they float and circle outside in search of prey.

“Los halcones son hermosos, Bwana Mooner. Qu’ils cercle autour tellement eleve,” Squirt said dreamily as she watched the pretty hawks circle above.

“Sometimes I think I have a connection with them,” Squirt said. “Sometimes I think they are looking right at me.”

Anyway, I was talking to a big-box movie house and asking about do they have a copy of S-5, the cat is pretending to sleep, and Squirt continues to watch the hawks and prattle a constant update on their activities. I’m getting pissed because I can’t find even a VHS copy of Slaughterhouse-Five.

“Oh look. I think the big guy spots some prey,” Squirt tells the cat and me.

I looked out the window and saw that the largest of the hawks has separated from the pack and he seemed focused on something near the back of the house. I said, “Looks like he’s zeroed-in on something in the courtyard,” I then dial the next video store number.

A young-sounding female voice answers and when I opened my mouth to speak—BANG! The outside glass of my triple pane window explodes and all hell breaks loose in my office. In exactly one-half of one second the cat has shredded her way from my lap, said lap protected with a thick quilt covering, and up my not quilt-covered chest to my shoulders and head where she stopped.

In the same half second, Squirt has become Bark Woman. She’s barking and cussing at the majestic bird that sits, stunned and groggy, in the mulched flower bed below the window.

“Afr, arf, arf, arf, you mother fucker! Arf, arf, arf! Grrrrrrrrrrrrr!” And then, “Open this window and let me at him, Mooner. Arf, arf arf! I’ll rip his heart out! Arf, arf, grrrrrr!”

Now me, I found myself in somewhat of a pickle because I’ve got a ten-pound scaredie-cat perched on me. Honor has one of her back feet anchored in the flesh and fabric of my shirt collar on each side of my neck, and each set of her front claws is anchored in my scalp. She’s growling herself, and shaking with intense anger. The shaking is causing her claws to gradually sink deeper into both fabric and flesh.

“What tha fuck is goin’ on in here?” Somehow my Gram had managed to get from her wing in the house to my office door in seconds. “Sounded like a car wreck in here.”

The old gas bag surveyed the situation inside the room and starred giggling. “Look at chew, Mooner. You need ta find another way to attach yer hood ornamenter to yer skull. Yer gonna lose yer face if it falls off.” Gram giggled some more and said, “Now tell yer fucking dog to shut her yap an call the wind’a company.”

The hawk regained its senses and flew off, and I’ve got eight punctures in my shoulders and ten deeper wounds in my scalp. They burn as if the cat’s claws were poison tipped. I’ve got scratches from belly button-to neck up my front, and I’m iodine stained on the wounds and my fingers as well. I had to do my own nursing from fear that Gram’s ministrations would cause additional pain, and I’m not a skilled nurse.

Now, of course, I’m afraid to let the little dog and cat walk around the property without a human with them for fear that the hawk will make another attack. Thank goodness I’ve trained them to pee in the sink.

Which reminds me. Have you guys visited my store yet? Just go over there to your right at the Blog Roller and click on Mooner Merchandise Store. That’s where you will find all the neat things emblazoned with “Fuck Rick Perry”. I think my next like will be my “I Pee In Sinks” line. Would that be a great tee shirt to wear while dining at your favorite cafe? Or in the sitting room at the doctor’s office?

I promised to take the guys fishing and I’m taking Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry with us. My gay pig and ostrich are huge pains in the ass, but I’m thinking the big ostrich will intimidate the hawks into looking elsewhere for supper. One of those my bird is bigger than your bird dealies.

I’m ready to sit in the shade on the dock and sip a few icy-cold Carta Blanca beers. Manana, y’all.

Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, gayrights, Honor the cat, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Squatlo, Squirt | 3 Comments »

Dr. Marcus Bachmann? Mooner’s Gay Pig And Ostrich Drink Carta Blanca Beer

Saturday, July 16th, 2011

So. As if there didn’t already exist enough evidence that I am crazy, additional forensic science has emerged to further underscore the depths of my lunacies. It seems that I am destined to be crazy for the entire length and breadth of my time on this Earth.

I have spent most of my lifetime in constant psycho therapy and many months of that time was spent by me, months at a time, inside the padded-wall confinements of Shoal Creek Mental Hospital here in Austin, Texas. I have been incarcerated over to the loony bin for “observation” and “protection” and “aberrant behavior” and then this one time for “murder of a particularly maniacal nature”.

The murder indecent will must go undiscussed, as it is a central thematic story in my soon-to-be-published book, titled Full Rising Mooner. Which brings up something. I’m working with my Publisher to get the cover designed for the book and we need to have a phone conversation in order to talk through some things. The Publisher is a busy person, so we have been working with a moving target time to converse with each other.

We had a date and time set, said date and time when I would be at home in my office out to the ranch, so I asked to be called at the home phone number. Of course, the Publisher needed to reschedule and since my schedule is flexible, I agreed to a new time when I would be fishing out to the dock with my menagerie of animals, late yesterday afternoon.

And I, again of course, forgot to provide my cell phone number to provide access for the communication.

So, at the appointed time of the call setting, I somehow managed to get my animals quiet so I could enjoy an uninterrupted business call. How I managed this was to give each of them an entire Carta Blanca beer of their own. “If each of you will promise to shut up and not cut up while I’m on the telephone, I’ll let you have a personal bottle of beer,” was how I enlisted their quiet.

Squirt looked be dead in the eye and said to me, she said, “Was ist der Trick, Bwana Mooner? Qui etes-vous tenter de tromper?”

“There’s no trick, little lady. I’m not attempting to fool anybody. I just need you guys to be veeeeery quiet so I can do some business on the phone.” I’m finding that as I mature, I’m becoming a better, more patient parent. When my own actual kids were the age of this batch, I would have said something like, “OK, you little shits. If you don’t remain quiet while I’m on the phone– I’ll drown you and tell your mother you ran away.”

Have you ever seen a cat drink beer from a tall brown bottle? Honor the cat treats it like a big brown bird that requires 100% of her cat hunting skills to stalk, capture and torture before consuming. Hell, watching my motley crew drink Carta Blanca is a circus of giggles. Rush Limbaugh, hog that he is, grabs the bottle in his snotty snout and sucks it dry in one noisy gulp. Rick Perry struts around his bottle in circles and poses like a fucking peacock before upending it.

For the Squirt, she has been trained to drink only by the caps-full so she requires my assistance, often, to finish an entire beer. And fuck me running. Should that be cap-fulls, or maybe caps-fulls? When I first decided to become a man of papers, a literary writer and author, I made myself the promise that I would make the maximum efforts to insure that I accurately communicated with you guys.

Early in life, I was educated to the fact that communication is the responsibility of the communicator, not the communicatee. Communicatered? See what I mean? Right there is a fine example of what I’m talking about.

If you were to follow the classic example of modern communication theory, I would be the “communicator” and you guys would be the “receivers”. But to call you “receivers” would not properly express my true idea because I want you to actually experience in your thoughts what it is that I’m saying. I don’t seek for you to “receive” my words, I want you to fucking understand me.

In the effort to adequately communicate two paragraphs ago, I attempted to fill a gap in the English dictionary and make a new word to fit my needs. I first tried “communicatee” as that would seem to illustrate a yin/yang relationship to my role as “communicator”. However, my ADHD-addled brain quickly rejected communicatee as possibly inadequate in that particular instance because I wasn’t speaking to our relationship, but rather to the action of communication. So I tried “communicatered”, and I have to say that communicatered might be one of my worst word inventions to-date.

That sounds like some fucking political word-spinning asshole attempting to make a cut in social security benefits sound like a message from God.

Fucking right-wing Christian Republican shitballs.

Holy shit is my brain fritzed! I couldn’t rub two sticks together and make a fire if I led the horse to water. I need a beer.

I’ll stop while you can still follow my train of thought. I feel my communication skills are now getting derailed by the multiple racing thoughts in my skull. So, please allow me to say the one last thing that I know with absolute certainty that I can communicate with perfect clarity.

FUCK RICK PERRY!

Manana, y’all.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Honor the cat, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Squirt | No Comments »

Dr. Marcus Still Gay? Cats A Mystery

Thursday, July 14th, 2011

So. I don’t have much time today so I’m going to tie up a few loose ends in today’s bloggie dealie. First off, I have gotten some Google buddy contacts and I have no fucking idea what that is all about. It seems that Google is doing its impression of Face Book only new and improved.

Who gives a flying fuck?

Second, I somehow managed to start a shit storm yesterday when I said that, in my humble opinion, Dr. Marcus Bachmann is a closeted gay man. Yes, in case you didn’t tune in yesterday, I am of the educated opinion that Michele Bachmann’s hubby is homosexual.

To all of you fine right-wing Christian folks out there– the ones of you who said so many nice things to me over the last 24 hours– I have two things to say. The first, based upon observation, consultation and scientific evaluation, is that it is my OPINION that Dr. Marcus Bachmann is a self-hating gay man pretending to have been cured through prayer.

It seems that Dr. Marcus Bachmann likes to pretend often. He likes to obtain pretend degrees from pretend colleges and he likes to make real money while he pretends to “cure” other gay people of their gayness. He “plays” pretend doctor with his pretend degrees and acts like he some kind of authority.

The one role he doesn’t pretend to play is that of a giant, slimy asshole. He is, actually, a giant, slimy asshole.

I asked Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, my own closeted gays, what they thought of my opinion. The pig and ostrich had differing opinions on my opinion. Rick Perry agrees with me but Rush thinks I’m wrong. My gay pig says that Marcus and Michele Bachmann look a perfect couple like Ken and Barbie.

When I reminded him that as a couple, he is a giant pig and Rick Perry a tall, skinny and highly masculine fellow, he decided to rethink things. Looking at the Bachmanns standing together reminds me of Rick and Rush.

The second thing I have to say to you religious fuckballs is this, “Bite my ass!”

Next I want to update you re: my fascinating Twitter account. I have moved up and down again, and now have ended a week’s totals at a net of 23 Followers. That is a net loss of 3 Followers for the week. If I’m lucky I can be down to zero by this time in September.

OK, my last thing is to call out all of you chickens, you panty-waisted pussies who are too afraid to tell us about your first masturbation experience. So far only Squatlo and the Reckmonster have bellied up to the bar. So come on, it doesn’t hurt much. Tell us your story.

I need to scoot along now because I have a full day. We already picked the garden to take to the Food Bank, then Squirt and I need to go to the dentist, Honor the cat has a doctor’s appointment and then I’m taking them fishing as a reward for their acting like big girls.

And I did say I’m taking the cat to the doctor. I did not say to the vet. Cats are a mystery that I doubt I’ll ever solve. So drink Carta Blanca beer in a responsible way, and I’ll be back manana, y’all.

Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Honor the cat, Religion, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Squatlo, Squirt | 2 Comments »

MS Vista Sucks; Live Grasshoppers Make Good Fish Bait

Thursday, July 7th, 2011

So. How long has it been since I bitched about my computer’s Microsoft Vista operating system?

Well, that’s too fucking long.

I’m doing the acknowledgments and dedication stuff for my book with my editor, Justine Goldberg from over to Write By Night, and there’s a few additional items in the book part that we are attempting to get tightened-up for publication. But every time she sends me the corrected manuscript, what we professional authors respectfully call the “mss”, it looks like a class of Alabama ninth graders got hold of it when I open the mss on my Vista machine.

The page numbers are all screwy, margins and spacing is all messed up, and things corrected ten edits ago keep popping up. It’s a total fucking mess.

Wait, was that too harsh back there, the part about the Alabama schools students? Do you find that style of humor offensive? If so, either grow a sense of humor or go fuck yourself.

Of course, what with the way that Texas governor Little Rick “The Prick” Perry and our state legislature screwed our education system the last year or so, that particular joke will be turned on me. When Rick Perry gets all Texas schools dumbed-down to his level of mental acuity, Alabamians will be making Texas ninth grader jokes. Alabamanites? How about Alabamanis?

Whateverthefuck, we Texans seem headed to become the go-to state for education jokes. Just like my Vista system is the joke of computer operating systems.

This morning I was sitting here reviewing Justine’s latest edit comments. The Squirt had gotten me up at 4:30 am to feed her some breakfast, and that awakened the cat and the menagerie of heavyweight pets slumbering in my closet. I padded out to the kitchen and loaded a tray with Squirt’s breakfast and snacks for the rest of us, and brought them to my room. If I had taken my collection of mostly domesticated animals to the kitchen and awakened the house… well, that’s a terrible way to start a day. The sight of my Gram with less than a full night’s sleep is, simply put, terrifying.

Anyway, I was reading, or attempting to read, Justine’s work and I’m cussing and sputtering and throwing a fit. Squirt, Honor the cat, Rush Limbaugh and the ostrich Rick Perry have eaten their snackies and gone back to bed. I guess my stammering and cussing is disturbing them because they are all harumphing and rolling over and throwing covers like you do when someone is annoying your sleep.

I cursed and then banged my keyboard on the desk when I saw this one Vista blunder and I guess the Squirt had reached a limit with me.

“?Que’ cono ist lis mit dir? Vous reveillerles morts!” Squirt almost barked at me.

“I’m sorry, little lady, I guess I am noisy enough to wake the dead. It’s this Vista operating system giving me the shits again”

“Then drown it in gasoline and set a match to it,” she told me. “I need my beauty rest.”

Ugh.

I went back to the kitchen and fired up some coffee and when it was brewed, I took a big thermos mug and walked out to the garden. It was glorious. The sun was just squirting its first yellow rays of the new day through the trees that border our property and the robins were chasing grasshoppers. I love robins and hate grasshoppers.

I spent the better part of an hour cheering the robins and then decided to join them. I started chasing and catching the little varmints and stored them in my big, lidded thermos. I was almost giddy as I chased and imprisoned the flying rats. When I’d filled the mug I headed back to get the fishing equipment ready. Blue gill love them some live grasshoppers!

Somehow I know I should feel at least some small tingle of remorse for the pleasure I anticipated at feeding live grasshoppers to fish. Somehow my Baptist upbringing should have fertilized my mind to grow a better guilt reflex. But I just don’t give a shit. I’m just lucky I escaped from Baptist dogma at age fourteen.

Otherwise I might have ended up liking Governor Rick Perry.

Ick! I need to wash my mouth out with Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Honor the cat, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Squirt | 1 Comment »

Ciscos’ Huevos Rancheros And Carta Blanca Beer; Hoo Dogies

Thursday, June 23rd, 2011

So. Since it rained stuff has started to grow here in Central Texas. I guess we’ve been under drought conditions for so long our plants have decided they live in a desert. The entire area was brown and wilted as I drove across town in Monday afternoon’s 105-degree heat. Today, I’ve got my green Austin, Texas back. Bing, bang and boom– we’re green again.

The benefits of a Nitrogen-rich rain are visible everywhere, but no place more than in our big garden. Tall plants, like sweet corn and okra, were looking like old men– stooped and tired. They now stand like proud soldiers at full attention.

All of the fruits in the garden have soaked their fill and swollen to bursting. That includes all the melons, cukes, and squashies. I took the animals down early this morning to harvest for the Food Bank. Yesterday was our usual harvest day but it was too muddy. Rush Limbaugh would have made a huge mess if I’d let him slop in the waterlogged trenches.

After dropping the bushel baskets of food off, we stopped by Ciscos over on East Cesar Chavez and I got us all huevos rancheros for breakfast. We love huevos rancheros and Ciscos makes them mighty fine. OK, since I don’t take Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh to town as a routine practice, I got Squirt and Honor the cat a similar breakfast plate to my own.

We sat on the tailgate of the farm truck and ate our eggs with a single bottle of Carta Blanca beer. Any Mexican foodstuff goes better with Carta Blanca beer, and at any time of day. La cerveza es mas fina– Cerveza Carta Blanca.

This was Honor’s first plate of the runny-egged goodness that is huevos rancheros. She was a hoot as she poked the jiggly yolks, gently prodding until the first one broke. The single dollop of bright yolk that stuck to her paw was carefully examined with kitty eyes and nose, and then, very carefully, her pink tongue edged from her mouth to barely touch it.

Thirty seconds later her plate looked like it had been through the “Heavy Wash” cycle on the commercial dishwasher back to the ranch.

This will be a short bloggie dealie because to date, today has been just that uneventful. For some reason my ADHD and its little brother, the ADD, are in some sort of remission. I know they’ll be back and back soon. Manana, y’all.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Honor the cat, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Squirt | 5 Comments »

Rick Perry Almost Drowns; Mooner Takes One For The Team

Tuesday, June 21st, 2011

So. I couldn’t sleep last night and got out of bed to go to the computer to play poker. By the time I had cleared the crust from my eyes and got them focused on the monitor, I remembered that the fucking feds have shut down the poker sites to US players.

Preventing adult Americans from playing poker on the Internet is the single dumbest political act I’ve yet seen this year. OK, wait a minute because I just told a huge lie. Texas governor Rick Perry is the single dumbest political act I’ve seen in my entire life.

Overstatements aside, banning me from playing poker is really dumb. I’m over twenty-one, I pay taxes on my winnings and this is America for flaming fuck sakes! This, and because people keep “accidentally” shooting me, is why I don’t carry a gun. I’m afraid you’d find me more than willing to put myself out of miseries by popping a cap into right-wing religious fuckballs who push their brand of morality in my face. I have an intrinsic dislike for guns and I hate the loosey-goosey attitude of the gun rights bunch.

True, my main squeeze carries both a handgun and a US Government-issued electronic stunner device in the leather harness she wears to work. SAC Ellen strikes a fit figure when she’s all dressed for her work for Homeland Security. If I didn’t still smell like a skunk when I sweat, I’d be putting that stunner to good use. I needs me some sexing, or as Gram puts it, “Mooner, you need ta git ya some pong-tanger. Yer drivin’ me nutsie.”

Don’t you just love the word “poontang”? I wonder who invented that word?

I couldn’t sleep last night because we almost lost the gay ostrich when we went fishing yesterday. I had to give him mouth-to-mouth to save his life, and he beat me black and blue for my troubles.

We were fishing as usual, at least the Squirt, Honor the cat and me (myself?) were were fishing as usual, but we had the Father’s Day additions of Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry join us for the trip. The gay pig was bitching and moaning about how hot and tired he was before we even finished the walk to the fishing pier from the garden, where we had harvested some worms for bait.

He was pissed because I wouldn’t let him root around and ruin big patches of garden, and he was whining like the porked-up crybaby he is. Just like his namesake, the piggish radio pontificator, my giant hog brags about false accomplishments and whines about the successes of others. He also whines about every inconvenience he encounters. I’m so fed up with the fat, gay pig I’m ready to give him to Gram for sausage meat. If it weren’t for his lover, Rick Perry, I might just do it.

The first incident of fishing dysfunction came when I was baiting the hooks on the half-dozen cane poles we use. The 350-pound flightless bird got in close to see if the worms were screaming when I passed the hooks through them, and knocked the bait bucket on its side, spilling the worms on the wooden pier. As the little buggers wiggled and wriggled around, many of them slipped between the planks and dropped into the water.

In maybe a half-minute, the water was boiling beneath the dock as the fish fed on the earthworms. I wasn’t upset about this since I chum a little bait anyway. But when Rick Perry saw what was going on in the water, he knocked me off the little chair I use for fishing and dumped me on my ass. He wedged himself against and between the dock’s rails, bulbous body pressing into the opening and looking like a too-fat person with a too-tight belt.

His empty cantaloupe-sized head is swinging at the end of his long neck and he’s popping it underwater. I guess he thought that “fishing” was the endeavor of accidentally dropping worms into the water and then bobbing to grab the fish in your beak. He was fucking hilarious.

When the fish had eaten all the fallen worms, Rick Perry tugged and extracted himself from between the rails and sat on the pier with a thud. He must have taken a lot of water chasing fish because he sounded like someone dropped a giant water bladder. His eyes were spinning and he kept burping and swallowing. Rush Limbaugh snuggled to his side and nuzzled the big bird with his snout.

For the life of me I don’t know how I can say that Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry make a cute couple, but they do. A rude and porked-up shit machine and an empty-skulled bird brain, and cute as all get out as gay lovers.

Anyway, I got the baited hooks into the water and we started catching fish. The cat manages to get more than half our catch into the cooler without shredding them to sushi, and it’s Father’s Day and I’ve had a few beers already. The Squirt and I are laughing at Honor as she fights her instincts to drop the caught fish rather than claw it, when the pig pushes me in the back and grunts. I turned to see Rick Perry is all the way down and not breathing.

I’m quick and solid in the face of emergencies so I checked his pulse– weak, but there, and said, “Someone call 911.”

I straightened his long neck and checked Rick Perry’s airwaves. “Airway clear, I’m starting CPR.”

I like to say aloud what I’m doing in emergencies as it helps me to focus. With my ADHD my attempts at healing can take remarkable wrong turns if I don’t follow set procedures with verbal touchstones.

I placed my mouth over the end of his mouth and blew with all my might. It felt like I was attempting to inflate a rubber raft with a coffee straw. “This won’t work, guys. Help me roll him to the edge of the dock.”

We rolled the water-laden lump close to the edge and I draped his head and half of his neck over the side. “All right. I’m gonna sit on his belly and try to squeeze the water out of him.”

I did and it reminded me of when I used to play with Mother’s big rubber douche bag when I was a kid. Mother left it hanging in the shower and it absolutely fascinated me. One of these days I’ll tell you a story about when I used it this one Thanksgiving.

The water rushed out of the bird in torrents as I squeezed his belly. I was doing a little bounce and gently banging my butt on him to squeeze. We’d been at it for eleven bouncy squeezes when I heard a cough and felt Rick Perry start breathing under me. The he started moving, and as I started to get up and do something else, the giant fucking asshole came off the deck swinging his head like a mace.

Now, let me say this before I get back to finishing this story. When I stood to get off the big assed bird I didn’t know what else I was going to do to help him. But I sure as hell wasn’t prepared to need to defend myself from someone whose life I had just saved.

Rick Perry came off the the deck like a punch-drunk fighter. He managed to whack me on the arms four times, in the knees twice and he konked my head as the coup de gras. I awoke flat on my back in a heap with the Squirt licking my face.

As a father, it was heartwarming to see the looks of concern on all my pets’ faces. When my head cleared enough to walk home, we gathered mall our shit and headed out. I managed to make it through dinner before the aches of the ostrich head butts got to me. I went to bed early to sleep off the beating, but couldn’t get comfortable in any position to sleep. That’s why I got up to play poker.

Has anyone else taken a beating when attempting to assist another? It seems to happen to me often. Am I the only one?

Manana, y’all.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, gayrights, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig | 7 Comments »

Father’s Day Salute; Rick Perry Wields Empty Head As A Weapon

Sunday, June 19th, 2011

So. Happy Father’s Day to all of us fathers. I wish that sincerely in spite of the fact that I’m somewhat ambivalent about this kind of holiday. Valentine’s Day and Father’s Day and Grandparent’s Day… I get the sentiments but don’t get any personal sentimental values from them.

I do enjoy getting the calls and cards from my three human kids, each of whom live in other states. Those would be the children I’m not allowed to write about upon the threat of an extended stay over to Shoal Creek Loony Bin. Their mother, my ex-wife and psycho therapist, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, laid it out to me this way when presenting her not so veiled threat.

She said to me, she said, “Look, Mooner, you inappropriate asshole, our kids are the only people who are in your life through no choice of their own. The rest of us can only blame ourselves. Don’t write about them and embarrass them.”

Whenever I attempt any kind of counter argument she’ll simply say, “Then why did all three of them move out of the state?”

“Because you are such a bitch,” I always respond.

But she’s right and I know better. I’d leave town too if I’d witnessed my father’s arrest on TV. With his pants at his ankles and his brightly-colored ass hair shaved to look like a cartoon character. During a City Council Meeting. A dozen times.

Or maybe they moved because they grew tired of the full-body searches they endured to visit me over to Shoal Creek. I guess the joy of playing in a padded cell was outweighed by the invasive scans.

I’m thinking we need a new holiday, one to honor the people who put up with the most. I think we need a “Children’s Day” or we could call it “I Survived My Father Day.” I think we need a day to tell our kids how sorry we are for fucking up their lives and embarrassing so badly that they feel the need a couple thousand miles of separation.

But my kids love me and now I’ll shut my big yap about that taboo subject and tell you what has been planned for me by my adopted kids. Since Daddy and Grandpa are both long dead, I am the Johnson Family patriarch, a fact long lamented by both my mother and grandmother.

Gram doesn’t say much, but Mother constantly reminds me that Daddy was a better father than I was a son. It doesn’t hurt my feelings– I know she’s right. My father was a very good man.

Anyway, Squirt and Honor the cat, and the two homosexuals who hide in my closet, are taking me fishing for Father’s Day. Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh are getting pasty-looking from spending too much time indoors. My pet ostrich and hog need airing out, same as my closet.

Isn’t it funny the way your kids choose what to do for Father’s Day? If they were to take me to do exactly what I wish to be doing today, the cooler of Carta Blanca beer and old dad here would be dropped off over to SAC Ellen’s place for a day of sexing.

Instead, father and beer alike are headed to our pier to sit in the hundred-degree heat to fish. The joys of my Father’s Day will be watching these four misfits. From digging the fishing worms to the crazed antics that is this fish-catching circus, this will be a good day for me.

Hell, it already started when at breakfast, the Squirt told me, “Happy Father’s Day,” in twenty different languages. My favorite was the Filipino greeting of, “Aran masaya ama.” At least I think that was Filipino. I’ll ask the Reckmonster.

Anyway, I need to get going. Rick Perry is swinging his empty head around like a weapon and breaking things.

Happy Father’s Day! Manana, y’all.

Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, gayrights, Honor the cat, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Squirt | 4 Comments »

Smoked Tomato Camel Toe Contest; @Reckmonster, @Thundercat832 and @ADaftScot Compete

Tuesday, June 7th, 2011

So. I awoke at 3:34 am to the sounds of barnyard sex. At least I think the huffing and ass smacking and grunting were barnyard sex. I hope it was barnyard sex. With Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh I can’t always be sure. My gay pig and ostrich are noisy as lovers and likewise during their daily routines as mates.

I needed to ask them how they made that ass-smacking noise. The ostrich has neither hands to slap an ass nor an ass that would make slap sounds when slapped. His thick, dense feathers cover all of his muscular torso. Slap the giant hog anywhere except his head and feet and it sounds like a slapped ass. Him having only hooves at the end of stubby legs, and we all know that hooves are ill-fitted to ass slapping, caused me to want to ask how they made the ass-slapping noise.

I had to ask. I had to fucking ask.

While I approve of any sexual conjoining among consenting adults, as a heterosexual man, I find many aspects of gay men’s sexual practices icky. I find many aspects of man-on-man pig and ostrich sex disturbing.

After hearing an explanation on the hows of their ass slapping, they settled back into peaceful, snot-snoring slumber and I lay awake. My eyes were burning from spending the day tending my big smoker, by brain was burning with the sick enigma of knowing that I would be perfectly willing, UNDER THE RIGHT CIRCUMSTANCES, to sex Sarah Palin until she walked bow-legged. And my heart was burning with pent-up desire to sex the SACster until I walk bow-legged.

I had been dreaming when awakened by Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry having sex in my closet. It was another fucking camel toe dream, and a dumb one at that. In this dream I had a motorcycle and the camel toe contest was to see which one felt best when the lady sat behind me for a ride on the Harley. The ladies were each required to wear white cotton undies, the kind preferred by my fifth ex-wife Roshandra Washington-Johnson.

Roshandra looks just like Robin Quivers on the Howard Stern radio show, and just the thought of her rich, black skin in those white cotton undies makes my heart skip a beat. But enough of Roshandra here. She’s in the fucking book.

So, the lady would sit on the back of the bike and snuggle her camel toe tight to my back. Now look, don’t start yakking at me about just how impractical this would be. It was a fucking dream for shitsakes. My dream at that, and I really like camel toes. It’s sick, I fully acknowledge that as fact. But I love camel toes.

This particular contest, and all of my camel toe dreams seem to be contests, featured Sarah fucking Palin, Thundercat-32, Reckmonster and A Daft Scots Lass. The winner last night was the T-cat. Her pocket poochie was full and succulent. I find myself saying, “Robust,” even. T-cat was second to take the ride after Ms. Palin, and the Reckmonster was next up when my silly-assed closeted gay pets woke me. T-cat won by default, but her’s was a winner under any circumstances.

Something always prevents me from evaluating the Reckster’s toe. For some strange reason I have never seen the Reckmonster’s lady meat in any of my dreams. Maybe I better ask Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson about that one.

Now, as I tell you about this dream, I realize that tomato camel toes were in the dream too. You know how sometimes tomatoes grow in interesting shapes? Quite often they grow in the shape of a camel toe. But holy shit am I digressing the points I intended when I fired-up my PC.

Squatlo asked me about why I grill and smoke tomatoes. Here’s the deal. OK, first, I am a tomato fanatic, a tomato nut case of significant magnitudes. I love to grow them, eat them, cook them, look at them and even dream about them. I relish all things tomato and I have learned to prepare and use tomatoes in all known ways.

Some unknown as well. Like the time I experimented with tomato juice as an enema. All I’ll say is that it worked.

Squat, grilled tomatoes are good for salsa– add grilled tomatillos, onions and peppers plus un-grilled garlic. That one we can same as plain grilled tomatoes. Makes tasty sauces and soups.

Smoked tomatoes are always slow-smoked in whole and also halves. Place the skin side down on the halvesies. Smoke the whole tomatoes until the skin pops then take them off. This is what Gram uses to make her famous catchup. The halves are left on until almost dry, and they are used to make tomato paste. And snackies. Nothing like a bite of smoked tomato followed by a deep swig of icy-cold Carta Blanca beer. Sweet, chewey and smoky goodness in every bite.

Gram’s catchup is crazy good. Now I’m signing off to go make some crispy hash browns to eat with the smoky catchup. I’m drooling on my keyboard.

Manana, y’all.

Tags: A Daft Scots Lass, Reckmonster
Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, gayrights, Home Grown Tomatoes, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Sarah Palin, Squatlo, Squirt, Thundercat-32 | 4 Comments »

It’s A Crime To Let A Neighbor Go Hungry; Give To Your Local Food Bank

Friday, June 3rd, 2011

So. I have an action-packed Friday planned. We’re headed out in just a minute to go down to the garden to fill some bushel baskets with stuff to take to the Capitol Area Food Bank. I think that it is a crime to let a neighbor go hungry, and we grow extra stuff to give away. I also have a favored underpass over to Interstate 35 where we pass out stuff that can be eaten raw, or at room temp.

Don’t ever take homeless people leftover poultry.

While in the garden we plan to dig some fishing worms for a short trip to our lakeside dock. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are not making this excursion. We just managed to repair the damages from their gardening adventure earlier this week, and Gram has unloaded the rock salt from her twelve-gage and replaced it with double-ought buckshot.

“I’mma plug yer fuckin’ hog, Mooner, an make me a pigskin quilt. An keep yer fuckin’ gay giraffe outta my sight too. I hate that fuckin’ bird.”

I know, I know, Rick Perry is a gay ostrich, but you try to straighten out my Gram’s logic. Long neck = giraffe. At least she’s stopped saying “queer”. My Gram has never been prejudiced except for when she holds something in disfavor. She grew up saying queer rather than “fag” because fag has always been disrespectful. When Sister, my lesbian sister, calmly told Gram that queer has become derogatory in the same way as the word “Negro”, my crotchety old gasbag family matriarch said, “Nobody never told me afore. Why in tha fuck do words keep changin’ meanings?”

Why in the fuck indeed. But whyeverthefuck words meanings change over times, I think that you can often follow social changes by looking at how certain words evolve in a society’s speech. And here, the word Negro is a good example. When I was a boy my family used the word Negro rather than any of the other words in common use by Southerners for people with black skin. I picked up the N-word during my first week in First Grade over to the school house.

Came home that night and said something stupid about the black-skinned boy in my class. We had run races at recess that day and I made a honest mistake. I said, “That N***** kid Jack can really run fast.”

Have you ever tasted homemade lye soap? And Holy shit am I digressing. I don’t have time to do anything but tell you how busy I am. I told you about gardening and fishing already. The fishing will be without benefit of any icy-cold Carta Blanca beer. I don’t drink and drive. Then the food deliveries and a trip to the Doc-in-the-box if any of my homeless buddies needs immediate care. I have a doctor buddy runs one of those emergency center dealies that isn’t a hospital. I pay for any medications required and he doctors them for free.

Then, it’s off to the picture framing shop. Squirt and Honor the cat want me to frame their mug shots. I guess it’s something akin to “baby’s first shoes”. I’m thinking that just maybe I’m committing some bad parental supervision here, but they took terrific photos, except for the cat’s left profile, and I find myself excited as well.

We’ll hang them out to Mooners Compost Plant on the Wall of Honor in my personal office. Squirt wants to place them on either side of my certificate for “The Most Inappropriate Man In The World” award. It’s a pretty thing– thick parchment paper with an embossed gold seal. Seal has little blue ribbons hanging from underneath.

Anyway, we’ve got to scoot or I’ll forget to do something, get sidetracked and get into trouble. Manana, y’all.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Home Grown Tomatoes, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Squirt | 5 Comments »

The Birds And The Bees; Rick Perry And Rush Limbaugh Shed Light

Wednesday, June 1st, 2011

So. I hope everyone had a nice weekend and properly honored the memories of Memorial Day. We visited Grand Dad and Daddy’s graves in the family cemetery here and then went to see Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s mother’s remains over to Rememberence Gardens. My family patriarchs were both vets, and Sam’s mom, Marie, was a WASP during WWII. The Woman’s Airforce Service Pilots served the vital role to shuttle aircraft during the war and saved the male pilots for battle duties. The WASP’s were granted Medals of Honor year before last, an honor long over due.

Marie was one of my favorite people and I miss her mightily. I miss my father and grandfather too, but Marie was like a mother to me and a great friend too. My tear ducts are so drained, I might not cry for a week.

After our trip to honor our family’s vets, we drove down to the big cemetery in town to pay respects at the function there. When I was a kid, there would be thousands of people at that event. Yesterday’s event had hundreds. Another sad sign for modern times.

Then it was back home to cook and eat our traditional roasted goat BBQ. This year, in order to attempt family harmony, I did all of the outdoor cooking with the help of the animals, and Gram supervised the rest of the meal preparations inside in our big kitchen. My crew included Honor the cat, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, Dixie and the Squirt.

Each of my helpers had culinary assignments except for Dixie. When I asked her what she planned to do, she said to me, she said, “I plan to sit on my tired ass and watch this circus.”

Dixie is getting old, I know that. But she has been such a force in my life I am having trouble facing it. My faithful Golden Retriever has been my companion, translator, money maker, art director, and my moral compass for fifteen of her sixteen years. She’s winding down and I’m now dripping tears onto my keyboard. Maybe I have quick-recovery tear ducts.

Anyway, we were all cooking and drinking Carta Blanca beer and sharing the tasty guacamole dip that P-Cubed made. P-cubed is known as “The Guacamole Mama” around town. I can’t figure out what her secret ingredient is, but hers is the best smashed avocado dip in town. When SAC Ellen asked what it was this morning, Gram interrupted and said, “Who gives a shit, federal lady? Long as tha P-cuber brings it… it don’t matter.”

Crazy woman’s logic, but logical none the less.

Anyway, things are at the sit-and-drink-beer-and-tell-stories phase of our part of my part of meal prep, so we’re sitting with our beers and Squirt is interpreting Honor’s stories about living with Crazy Cat Woman. It’s some funny shit, but Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry keep interrupting with their icky petting. Have you ever seen a 500-pound pig and a 350-pound ostrich engage in sexual foreplay?

“What are they doing?” Honor asked through Squirt.

“Well, that, I think, is the pre-sex ritual between between a half-ton of homosexual barnyard animals.” Sometimes it’s difficult to know what to say about my gay pig and ostrich.

“Ist dass Vogel und Bienen, Bwana Mooner?” Squirt asked. “Por favor, Senor, diganos sobre las aves y las bees. Por favor, por favor por favor. Pretty please.”

Oh shit, she wants to know about the birds and bees. What do I do now?

“This might be the highlight of my year,” Dixie said. “Mooner, would you please refresh my beer while you think your way into this?”

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and I have three kids together. Three great human beings, in spite of my fathering, and three human beings I can’t speak of in my writings. That’s a promise made by me to their mother and them, and a promise I feel honor-bound to keep.

It’s also one of the promises that keeps me out of solitary confinement over to Shoal Creek Loony Hospital.

I had the birds-and-bees talk with each of my kids, the human ones, and managed to inflict minimal damages. However, as a full-disclosure kind of guy, some of the discussions were difficult. Like, for example, how do you discuss blow jobs with your daughter? Or how would you address the anus as a sexual organ with your kid? Just asking.

I mean look here, I’m not usually a squeamish guy, but when your twelve-year-old daughter, the apple of your eye, asks you, “Daddy, what are they talking about when they say, ‘Do you swallow?’”

I found my way through that jungle, and again, inflicted minimal damages to the psyches of my children. But this discussion is a horse of a different color. How do you describe/discuss sex with a cat a dog, a pig and an ostrich. When the hog and giant bird are already lovers?

OK, think this one through. Not just sex, gay sex. Not just gay sex, sex between different species. This love affair between Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry is, at least on the surface, wrong. But they seem made for each other.

Ugh. I don’t want to talk about this any more.

Manana, y’all.

Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer, gayrights, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Squirt | 3 Comments »

The Best Laid Plans; Rush Limbaugh And Rick Perry Spoil The Broth

Sunday, May 29th, 2011

So. We finished a big breakfast this morning, and our holiday weekend plans went into full swing. I say “into full swing” rather than “into motion” because, quite simply, it is a far more descriptive describer to say that since our motions are more back-and-forth than linear. I always attempt to accurately scribe events here to the bloggie. And, again, I say “try” rather than simply say, “I always scribe accurately.”

Nothing in my life happens with any linear motion, everything swings back-and-forth with the ebbs and flows of the many women in my life. I have so many examples of how their mood swings send me twisting like a bed sheet in a tornado, I don’t even know which to tell you.

These distinctions are gathered to the forefront of my ADHD-addled brain due to events that occurred starting with said big breakfast. The breakfast was big in several ways– the assembled breakfasters, both quantity and quality, the food from the perspective of both variety and quantity, and the events taking place at the gathering.

Allow me to provide clarity to give you a foundation for understanding. First, the attendees included: Gram, P-cubed, Mother, Aunt Hilda and her shrunken-head-in-mahogany-box– Woodrow, Squirt and Dixie, Honor the newly-named cat (formerly known as Eighty-three), Streaker Jones, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, SAC Ellen, Gnat (my trusty assistant), Gnat’s beau (an associate of the SACster), Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, and a one-pound live blue gill in a bucket of lake water.

The blue gill represents the strongest of his breed, the one-in-thirty we caught on yesterday’s fishing trip to survive the razor-sharp claws of my soon-to-not-be my cat. Aunt Hilda has taken it upon herself to blow air through a long straw into the bottom of the bucket to keep the water oxygenated, and she sucked instead of blew just the one time.

I think once would be enough for most anyone to get that lesson firmly fixed in their gray matter.

Streaker Jones brought us another gallon of the prized maple syrup he imports from this place that sits smack-dab on the US and Canadian border, so I made pecan waffles. Waffles are one of the near-perfect foods. You can cook almost anything into them, and the little grill pockets make perfect-sized cups to hold butter, syrup or whipped cream, and evenly distribute those condiments to each tasty bite.

I also cooked some bacon that I smoked with a glaze of the last maple syrup Streaker Jones brought, grilled flank steak ala Mexicana, eight dozen fried eggs, three loaves of seven grain toast (for the pig), one spelt muffin for Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, hash browns crisped in butter, sliced Merced tomatoes from the garden, coffee, Bloody Marys and, of course, Carta Blanca beer. And spicy homemade salsa.

We sat at the big bar top in my kitchen, the kitchen itself a separate wing we added maybe a dozen years ago. It’s 500 square feet features a commercial kitchen with walk-in friggie and freezer, huge pantry and attached cellar, big floor-to-ceiling window walls, with doors looking and leading out to the courtyard, and this bar that seats twenty comfortably.

What with the pig and ostrich seated, capacity is reduced to fourteen, so I had the cat sitting in my lap. I sat Gram at one end of the bar top and Rush and Ricky at the other, and I put Streaker Jones between them on one side and I sat across from him. That way we could intercede the most dangerous of the attacks mounted by Gram on my gay and closeted pets. Since I served grilled flank steaks, each diner had a sharp, serrated knife.

I’m a real stickler with knives. I think knives are to be respected, honored even. Knives should be kept honed to their sharpest and stored in cases or wooden blocks whenever not in use. And NEVER, EVER put a knife in the FUCKING DISHWASHER!

My opinions re: knives might be called an obsession. OK, my opinions on knives have been called an obsession, and also caused one of my divorces. Another story. Maybe my knife opinions are obsessions.

OK, fuck it. I’m obsessed with knives and I have very strong opinions thereto. Therefore, maybe. Shit, thereof?

Anyway, with a sharp knife within Gram’s reach, I felt it was prudent to keep sentries between her and my gay pig and ostrich. I’ve seen Gram butcher a hog.

Originally, my personal plans for the day included: a quick fishing trip with Squirt and Honor, a long and intimate relationship with icy-cold bottles of Carta Blanca beer, a relaxing afternoon at the BBQ pit cooking the cabrito that is our traditional Memorial Day weekend meal, and some serious sexing to cap off the day. Cabrito is goat, and I cook mine more like a roasted suckling pig than one of those Hawaiian steamed jobbies. I love crunchy food.

In order to get goat meat crunchy, I wrap it in caul fat. I love caul fat, you know, that fatty membrane that wraps animals’ stomaches. I learned to use it from a Sicilian woman years ago, and have seen it often on cooking shows. Like The Iron Chef. I love the Iron Chef. It reminds me of everyday cooking around here.

You can’t cook a goat in his own skin or else your finished product tastes like burned homeless mens’ sneakers, and I’m digressing the shit out of all of us. Not that the story about my having burned a box of sneakers I was taking to the homeless shelter isn’t interesting. It’s inappropriate for this posting.

What I’m attempting to say is that my day has already gone to shit. Gram made it clear that Rush and Rick were to stay at my side all day or else we’d have some specialty meats for our holiday feastings. So I gathered up the mini dog, kitty, 360-pound ostrich, 500-pound pig, a bucket and pitch fork, and off we went to dig worms for fishing.

Streaker Jones said, “I’mma go too. Be inner-estin’”

Dixie, SAC Ellen and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson agreed, so they gathered some lawn chairs and followed us out to the garden for the worm gathering. When I chose the spot for digging, the group of observers set their chairs at the end of the two long rows of tomatoes. I started digging with my pitch fork, turning over the rich soil and exposing the worms to be gathered by Squirt and Honor.

Watching me expose the damp earth must have sparked some primal instinct from deep inside Rush Limbaugh’s hog brain. He snorted a half-dozen times and started rooting up everything in sight. I had a hundred tomato plants laying on their sides before I could stop him. I kept whacking his ass with the back of the fork, to no avail. Only when I confronted him with the business end did he stop.

Now I’m all sweaty and panting from chasing the hog and I can’t find the ostrich. I asked the observers, “Where’s Rick Perry?” and all I got was four fingers and a retriever’s nose pointing towards the cantaloupe patch.

The first near-100-degree days has brought the grasshoppers to the garden. Did you know that grasshoppers are an ostrich’s favorite food? Me either until this morning’s calamity recap and evaluation. Under intense questioning, Rick Perry admitted that when he sees a grasshopper, all fifty of his brain cells focus on nothing but the grasshopper.

Must be the same phenomena as suffered by his namesake, Texas governor Little Prick Perry, upon looking at a money man for a conservative political PAC.

So I’m goading my pet hog with the pitchfork, Squirt is chasing the ostrich as he slams through the garden snapping at grasshoppers, and the group of seated observers are laughing their asses off. I’m yelling and cussing my ass off when the reverie is interrupted by a, “BOOM!” Then a five-second pause and, “BOOM!” again.

Ever been pelted with rock salt that was hand-loaded into twelve-gage shotgun shells by a crazy old woman?

I’m just glad that I had a few rows of short corn plants between me and the trigger-happy old woman when she sparked-off the loads. The ostrich was caught terrorizing swimmers over on Lake Travis. The water is so low from the drought that Rick Perry has access to much of the lake, and the silly ostrich loves to primp and posture for any gathering.

Another shared trait with the governor.

Anyway, I’m just now getting the fishing trip restarted and Gnat has reset my schedule for me. The worst part of the new timings for today’s events is that dinner is moved back an hour, which delays the start of my planned sexing. I just hope that I can keep from fucking something up so bad the sexing gets canceled again.

Manana, y’all.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, gayrights, Home Grown Tomatoes, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Squirt | 1 Comment »

Honor Honor’s Our Vets; Cat Names Self

Thursday, May 26th, 2011

So. As this week winds down and races headlong into the holiday weekend, I have a few observations and a little news. For those of you who are sticklers for the details, also the grammar police out there whom I haven’t already chased away, I say this. “Yes, it is too possible for the week to wind down while racing headlong.”

Don’t go all English teacher on my ass when it’s your misunderstanding of my intentions at fault. Like a 100-meter footrace, it’s the last ten meters that’s run the fastest. Same way with cheap wind-up toys– that last second of operation is almost frenzied when compared to the rest.

Now, if we were talking watches, different story, because with watches, a cheap watch frenzies near the end of a wind while an expensive watch slows as a winding matures. At least that would be my personal observations. My first watch was a hand-me-down given to me by my late grandfather on my sixth birthday. It was a cheap pocket watch given to him when he “graduated” from the Hopehouse Home for Abandoned Boys at age seventeen.

“They give each of us a watch when they kicked us out. Kicked my rosy red ass out and into the Marines. Fucking Marines kicked my rosy red ass right over to France. Fucking Germans tried to kick my rosy red ass all to hell.” Grandad never did talk about his ass, always his rosy red ass.

Of course, the rest of the above-mentioned rant would always include, “I’d chose to spent the rest of my life in them fucking trenches if I’d knowed what that woman was gonna do to me.”

“That woman” would be Gram, and “them fucking trenches” would be the French battle lines in WWI. Grandad always called WWI “the big one”. After spending most of my life in the heat of Gram’s furnace, I can almost understand my grandfather’s sentiment.

The face of my first watch was already heavily worn when gifted to me. The hour hand was placed on top of the minute hand, upside down in my opinion, and the minute hand lightly dragged as it wound it’s way through each six-hours’ time. All but the tops or sides of each Roman numeral were worn off, and all but one letter of the watchmaker’s name had disappeared. There was a light etched circle in the cheap tin face where the hand had circled thousands of times. The remaining letter of the maker’s name, an A, gave no real clue to the watch smith’s identity.

I’d wind that watch carefully, just as Grandad instructed me. “Don’t twist it too fast, Mooner, and don’t wind it too tight.” When I had trouble with the “too tight” part, he said to me, he said, “Treat it like a loose tooth that you want wiggle but don’t want to pull.”

Anyway, whenever that old watch would wind down, it would spend but fifteen minutes moving the last hour. It would wind down four times in any twenty-four-hour period. “Ain’t for keeping good time, Mooner, it’s just for show.”

My current watch, an Omega Rail Master I’ve had for many years, is a self-winder that slowly winds down after I remove it from my wrist. It has an extra-large dial to match my thick wrist, and it is a simple timepiece that I love. Fucking watch is a part of me.

Now I’m tearing-up over my fucking watch. My soon-to-be- my dog and soon-to-not-be my cat brought me to tears earlier, and I’ve been tearing-up since. I think if you set a bowl of popcorn in front of me I’d well up like a baby. I love popcorn, but holy fuckballs, enough already.

As you all know, my buddy and hopefully future-future spousal material, The Reckmonster, has had a rough time. Several of the veterans she monitors for a federal agency have committed suicide recently and she’s taken it hard. I share the Reck’s unhappiness over the lack of concern shown by our government, and much of our general populace, over the care of our returning vets.

Reck has written several stories about the recent tragedies over to her place at Rantings of the Reckmonster. That’s http://www.michellelcsw.blogspot.com/ on your bloggie dial. Pay her a visit to see what I mean. When you aren’t crying, you’ll laugh your asses off.

Her stories basically demonstrate that the brave men and women who have so honored our country with their service, are returning home to no honors. We are treating them like the expended shells of war rather than warriors. Pathetic.

I have been reading Reck’s stories to the little cat and dog, Squirt and Eighty-three, and they surprised me this morning with an announcement. I was sitting to the foot of my bed with Rush Limbaugh the pig and the ostrich Rick Perry at my feet, while the cat and dog were conferring in hushed tones at the head of the bed. I was trying to get the gay lovers to come out of my closet for maybe the hundredth time.

As usual, they were crying and snivel-snotting and telling me how sorry they are for inconveniencing me, but we made no real progress, again for the hundredth time. As usual, I had slimy pig snot and acrid ostrich tears staining my clothes. After that crying jag diminished, the diminutive puppy named Squirt brought the little cat to sit by my side.

“Bwana Mooner,” the Squirt started, “hat die Katze etwas a’ vous dire.”

“OK, Squirt. What does Eighty-three want to tell me?”

The little dog and cat spoke to each other in animated whispers. “Elle vent l’honneus Senorita Reckmonster and le veterans by naming herself Honor. Ehre, Honneur, Onior, Heshima, if you will.”

I sat in stunned, still silence and the tears started to slip down my face. I started boo-hooing and the two small animals jumped into my lap to comfort me. “It’s OK, Monsieur Mooner. It’s OK,” Squirt consoled.

“Oh, little lady, these are tears of joy and sadness too. I’m so proud of you guys I could … something. I don’t know what, I’m just so proud.”

So I’ve been a tad weepy since. I am, however, proud of my parenting skills. I might be crazy but I’m a decent father in spite of it.

Now I need to load the cooler with Carta Blanca beers so we can head out. I promised Honor and Squirt that I would take them to anti-anti-abortion protest over to the Planned Parenthood offices. Catholic Anti-Abortion Lady has been over there and I promised Honor a treat.

Manana, y’all.

Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Squirt | 4 Comments »

@Reckmonster Screws Up Mooner’s Sex

Monday, May 16th, 2011

So. I just checked Twitter and I’m back down to 26 Followers. I don’t know why, but this Twitter phenomenon bewilders me. Fascinates me as well. Over the last three days, my Follower list is a plus nine and minus ten, which brings me from 27 back to 26.

Maybe I need to talk to Streaker Jones about it. He’s smart enough to figure anything out. I just need to find the logic to convince him it’s worth thinking about. Might need to find that logic for myself.

Anyway, my ADHD has been on the fritz and I’ve been fucking things up right and left. I served under-cooked grilled chicken at supper, left the door to Gram’s mushroom pantry unlocked, and I accidentally mentioned another woman’s name during sex with SAC Ellen.

Since I got food poisoning from chicken down to Florida last week, my own nose saved the family from making them all sick. My mental lapse with my grandmother’s hallucinogenic mushroom farming activities went unpunished as I caught Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry as they were about to sneak inside. My pig and ostrich are gluttons for Gram’s potions. My Gram is ready to roast my favorite barnyard animals on a spit.

Calling SAC Ellen “Reckmonster” was, however, an error with consequences. “That’s it, Mooner,” SAC Ellen told me. “Get off me so I can get dressed.”

“It was an honest mistake,” I tried. “I’ve so much on my mind, what with my book and catching up on my bloggie reading and all of that other shit.”

“Mooner, I put up with a great deal to have a relationship with you. But I won’t tolerate your lack of concentration during sex. I said get off me.”

I tried one last tactic to save the night. “Want me to suck on your toes?” She loves me to suck on her toes. Not my favorite thing to do, but I was willing to give one for the team. Her answer was to roll me off of her on the bed and flip me onto the floor.

“Ooomph,” was all I got out as my back hit the floor. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because you don’t listen. Now take me home.”

I listened to that, and when I got back to the ranch was when I caught Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry sneaking into Gram’s mushroom parlor. Which reminds me. Whenever I say, “FUCK RICK PERRY,” I am referring to the fuckball that is our governor and not my pet ostrich. That’s not to say that I don’t say it and mean the 350-pound gay bird, but rather I’ll specify when I’m speaking of the bird.

And that reminds me to tell you about Eighty-three the cat and the alligator. We were in Florida and watching the news, and the story about this one alligator biting the leg of an alligator rustler was on the TV. The little cat mewed something and when I asked Squirt what she said, Squirt told me, “She said she’s not afraid of a fucking alligator.”

“OK,” I started, “first off, tell that little shit to stop cussing so goddamn much. It makes me look like a bad parent. And second, tell her we can go down to the pond and let her see an alligator up close. Maybe give her a fucking reality check.”

I’m big on reality checks. When your brain is constantly processing a score of differing thoughts all at the same time, checking in with reality is a necessary endeavor. Like right now, for instance. I’m maybe three hours from finishing my book yet I’m sitting here blogging my ass off and thinking about fishing.

I promised the miniature dog and adolescent cat I’d take them fishing yesterday, and didn’t. Then, I told them we’d go today to make up for that.

Ugh. Reality can suck. Need Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Squirt | 4 Comments »

Vacation Preparations, A Johnson Family Enterprise

Thursday, May 5th, 2011

So. I’m busy getting ready for my trip for vacation and a conundrum popped up right in my face. Who do I take with me? I have managed to collect quite a menagerie of inappropriate animals and they all want to go on vacation with me.

Usually, that’s not such a big deal because I usually drive when vacationing in the contiguous forty-eight. But this trip is too short to drive 4,000 miles round trip, so I was flying. As recently as a year ago, even taking my favorite animals wasn’t burdensome. Dixie has always been a good flier, as long as I seat her in the First Class cabin, and Squirt is happy doing most anything in my company. Except for Dixie’s smart mouth, she is fun on a trip, and the Squirt is such a trip that she is always fun.

When I planned for this year’s short vacation, I included Squirt but no other animals. Plans were made several months ago when my life was far more simple. Simpler? I think things were simpler. But last night we had a big gathering at dinner and Dixie decided to grace me with her presence.

“Well, well and well again,” I said, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your appearance at tonight’s meager family repost?” I hadn’t seen my ungrateful Golden Retriever for several weeks. She had told me she retired from my employment and had grown tired of me.

“Oh, I just stopped by to visit with the ladies of the manor, and they invited me to stay for dinner.”

Bitch. Dixie can be such a bitch.

I was staring hard at her face, searching for anything to give me traction for a smart comeback, when I noticed that her muzzle hair has gone to total gray, and her face seems to be thin, bony. I realized that Dixie has gotten old and I started tearing up. Big, hot tears seemed to jump from my eyes as the realization that age had finally caught up with the most wonderful dog who ever lived.

OK, stop it Mooner. Now is not the time for that.

This is a vacation story, and I was about to tell you that my plans to take the Squirt with me on a short trip. When Dixie heard about the trip she started bitching, and then all hell broke loose. So now, and due to familial devotions, the passenger list has grown to include: me (myself?), Squirt, Dixie, Eighty-three, Rush Limbaugh the pig, the ostrich Rick Perry, Gram and her best buddy P-cubed, SAC Ellen and Streaker Jones.

I just made arrangements to hire a tour bus with two drivers to haul this bunch on our trip, and Mother has taken the assignment to stock the coffers with food and beverage for the trip. Two drivers so we can drive straight through, and Mother because she insisted. When she offered the help, I asked her, “Why are you doing that, Mother, we can handle it.”

“I’m so glad to be rid of your grandmother I’d do most anything to help her out the door. Do you know she brought home some old man from a retirement facility?”

“I heard something about that, Mother.” You must be patient with Mother. Her brand of martyrdom needs simmer time to properly age. Would that be martyrism?

I waited a few beats before saying, “Was there something especially wrong with Gram bedding an old geezer? You seem stressed.”

After a few more beats, “Well, Mooner, did you know that poor man had to bring his own nurse and oxygen tanks?” Two, three and four, “What if he’d died while Gram had him chained to the wall?”

I started to say something that would sound supportive to a martyr when Mother found the words to support herself. “I’ll be miserable here all by myself, but cold loneliness is far better than the worry that your grandmother is going to sex some poor man to death in the bedroom just down the hall from my own.”

Ugh. Sounds like the passenger list just grew by one old geezer and attending nurse. I need a Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

Tags: Dixie- Dog of Wonder
Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Squirt | No Comments »

Name That Cat; A Scratchy Old Record

Tuesday, May 3rd, 2011

So. I’m flummoxed with the news that Osama bin Laden is dead. Or that Usama bin Ladin is dead. However the hell you spell it, that lousy fucker is dead. I’m glad, no doubt about it, but I’m perplexed at how I feel about it.

I’m too busy to think about it, so let’s talk about other stuff. First, a check on my Twitter account finds me back down to 24 Followers. That’s would mean that over the last week six new people have signed up to follow me, and seven have pushed the “Un-follow” button. I remain dazed and confused, and these actions add to both.

I’m Following 65 Twitter accounts. Most are literary in nature, part of my efforts to learn more about publishing. Since punching the Follow button on the lit people almost a year ago, I have only added a handful of accounts, and all of the new ones are fellow bloggers I chose to follow.

Nobody ever Tweets about me so I’m unsure why I’m even on Twitter. Maybe things will happen there after my book is out.

Second, I have a cat in my life, and for the first time in my life. Having never been around a cat for anything other than brief periods of time, I have found myself totally unprepared for cat fatherhood. OK, since this is to be Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s cat, I’m actually more like a step father-in-law. But the good doctor won’t accept the fucking cat, as full payment of our agreement for Squirt to be my actual puppy, until I train said fucking cat.

Have you ever tried to train a cat? Have you ever tried to train a fucking cat who spent its first nine months living with a crazy cat lady in Cat Lady Prison? Prison life is not good socialization training.

There is one bright spot from my cat training endeavors. I called the Research Department over to If You Can’t Smoke It, Wear It and asked Billy to start thinking about making a hemp cloth that is cat scratch resistant. Eighty-three has shredded a half-dozen shirts, two pairs of shorts and Gram’s fire engine red thong bikini in her short stay. She’ll be hiding in the closet with my gay pig and his ostrich lover if she get hold of more of Gram’s prized outfits.

Speaking of Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, said pig and ostrich, I want to say, “Fuck Texas Governor Rick ‘Education Is A Terrible Thing To Learn’ Perry.” The idiocies that are Rick Perry are a terrible burden on my state.

Third, or maybe this should be second-and-a-half, we have got to rename the cat. I’ve never named a cat and it has turned out to be a difficult task. My first idea was to name her Stinky, which is what she was when we first got adopted by her. But now she smells pretty good, and thank God she likes to take a shower.

She showers with the Squirt and me each morning as a part of her training. I use the time under the water spray to bond with her and as part of teaching her to pee in the sink. In less than a week I’ve got her peeing in the shower, Squirt providing the instructions. Squirt pees almost like a male dog, raising one back leg as she urinates. But she raises it forward, not the hike backward that a boy dog does.

Squirt is a seriously cute little shit.

“Squat when you pee, Squirt, like a regular girl dog,” I tried to tell her. “I read where cats squat, and she needs to know she’s a cat.”

“Hey, big boy, I don’t tell you how to pee,” Squirt said, “so leave me to this training.”

Of course, she’s right, I do muddle in the business of others. And now Eighty-three pees like a male dog, except she lifts her back leg forwards.

I’ve only tried to get her to pee in the sink the one time. Disaster. Everything was fine– she was squatting at the edge of the sink and ready to roll. I had the bright idea to hold a hand mirror to her backside so she could see what was up. That would be the specific moment that the fifth shirt was shredded. The first time a cat looks in a mirror should not be looking at its own ass draped over the edge of a sink.

But I need help with this name dealie. I’ve got no frame of reference, no understanding of cats. I thought to name her Carta Blanca, but she told Squirt that she’s a Siamese, not a Mexican. Since what was Siam is now Thailand, I thought that maybe Pad Thai would fit.

“How about we call you Pad Thai?” I suggested. Stupid fucking cat spit at me and shredded my shirt. I guess food and drink names are not her plate of tacos, or her cup of tea.

She’s got many ill-humored bad habits that set my teeth on edge. But she makes up for it when she purrs. Melts my heart when she does that kneading thingie and purrs. She sits on my chest beside the Squirt, massaging my chest with her front paws, purring like a machine. Very calming.

Maybe we can do a contest here to the bloggie. Name the cat and get a free autographed copy of my soon-to-be-published book, Full Rising Mooner.

Which reminds me. I will be out of touch from this Saturday until next Saturday. Heading down to Florida to visit family. I hate fucking Florida, but I love my family. Manana, y’all.

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

Cat Scratch Fever; WTF Kind Of Name Is Eighty-three?

Monday, May 2nd, 2011

So. To catch you up on things, Squirt and I were abducted by a cat who participated in a massive escape from Cat Lady Prison, located over to East 51^st Street. One of about one hundred fleeing feline inmates who fled the unbearable conditions, the little Siamese, named Eighty-three, jumped into the open window of my classic GTO and hid for her escape.

Somehow the cat lady, warden of Cat Lady Prison, had managed to know that Eighty-three had taken off with us and called the cops.

“You got a cat in there sir? We had a report that a man matching your description just stole a cat from over on East 51^st Street,” were the first words the Deputy Sheriff said when he walked up to my window.

Eighty-three was sitting in my lap at the time, so even if I wanted to lie I was caught red-handed. Have you ever wondered where that expression “caught red-handed” came from? My best guess is that someone stole a chicken from a pot and their hands were red and scalded from the water. That or it’s a Billy Shakespeare dealie and it refers to bloody hands. Not that it makes a shit in the bigger scheme of things, but I was just wondering.

Like for instance, who was the first person to say, “What the fuck?” and why did they say it, you know what was their meaning. I remember when I said what the fuck the first time and I also remember the five swats the utterance brought from the assistant principal back to junior high. We were in Mrs. Browningwell’s class and that old Baptist gasbag said something stupid, and…

Anyway, the cat in my lap bristled at the officer’s words– back arched, hair standing up like she’d seen a ghost, and I felt each of the twenty pinpricks made by her claws as she anchored herself on my thighs.

I said, “Officer, I didn’t steal this cat. She stowed away to escape Cat Lady Prison.”

“This isn’t the first time that funny looking cat with no tail has pulled this stunt. It ain’t right a cat’s got no tail…” the deputy stopped mid-sentence, lifted his sunglasses and peered in at my face. “Oh for the love of God. You’re Mooner Johnson, aren’t you?”

“Why yes indeed, that’s my name. The cat in my lap says she’s called Eighty-three, and that cute little lump over there is the Squirt. You want my autograph?” I guess I’m gaining fame in law enforcement circles. “Just don’t Taser me until I call my girlfriend. She’ll want to be there to bail me out.”

Of course she’ll be pissed at having to leave work again, but pleased with her rewards. Every time I get Tasered I get a woodie to beat all get-out.

“I might shoot you, Mr. Johnson, but I won’t Taser you. I heard the stories about trying to get you into a straight jacket after shocking you. I want no part of that.”

It’s difficult to fit a 6”4” man into a straight jacket just for starters. His possessing a rock-hard stiffy adds layers of difficulty to the task.

“Look,” he said, “just hand the cat to me and I’ll return it to its owner.” With that said he reached into the window for the cat. Major fucking error in judgment.

Eighty-three hissed and spit when the officer’s hands approached her, and when he grabbed at her all hell broke loose. In a blur of cat fur and claws, a cacophony of spits and hisses and cat growls, and an, “Aiiiiiiii,” from the deputy, I witnessed the four-second shredding of a sheriff’s uniform. By the time he managed to extract his arms from the car, the sleeves of his shirt were tattered shreds of deep brown wool.

“Sonofabitch!” was all he could say.

“Holy shit, did you see that?” was the Squirt’s response.

After I got over the shock and surprise, I started laughing. Couldn’t help it. And, of course, my giggles started the Squirt. She and I laugh like little girls sometimes. We can be most inappropriate, like when Gram spilled gravy on her date’s lap and she starts cleaning it off at the table. I guess it was contagious because soon Eighty-three was laughing as well.

At least I think she was laughing. If a cat laugh sounds like a mix of hiccups, purrs and snorts, then the smelly little feline was laughing right along with us.

When I managed to get my giggles under control, I realized that the deputy was gone from my window. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw him in his car. I stuck my head out the window to get a better look and that’s when he gave me that “shoo, go away” thingie with his hand. Made the gesture, repeatedly and with high energy. The shredded sleeve of his shirt looked like Hula skirt.

That particular moment is when my ADHD decided to seize control of events.

“Holy shit you stink; how you bathe a cat; what do we feed you; I hope Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson like imported cats; I need sex; will Eighty-three get along with Gram; I’m not cleaning a fucking cat box; do cats shed; I bet sardine shit make a terrible mess; can cat’s swim– what if cats can’t swim…” The jumbled thoughts spilled out of my mouth.

“Squirt. Ask Eighty-three if she can swim. And ask can she pee in the sink. If she can pee in the sink it will solve a bunch of problems for me.”

The puppy and kitty cat spoke in whispered tones. “She says she can learn to do anything, that as long as she feels respected and appreciated, she won’t any trouble at all.”

Ugh. That was the worst thing I could have heard. Every woman in my life has said those same words to me. I somehow manage to live my life in the attempt to show respect and demonstrate my gratitude to those women and all I get in return are giant loads of crap. The Squirt is the only woman currently in my life who doesn’t hassle my ass.

“Tell her respect is a two-way street, Squirt. Tell her she’s entering a world filled with strong, bitchy women.”

Squirt cocked her head and stared at me. “Qui estes-vous appeler une chienne, Senor Mooner. Are you calling ME a bitch?”

“Oh for shit sakes, of course not. Look, we need to get out of here and back to the ranch. Eighty-three needs a bath and I need a cold Carta Blanca beer.”

The cat stiffened in my lap again and said something to Squirt.

“She said if you think she’s taking a bath you better rethink things. She says cats don’t take bathes, they clean themselves, and thank you.”

Ugh, and ugh again. The bitchiness begins.

“Well,” I told them, “tell little miss stink bomb to get in the floor board at your feet so she’s safe. And tell her to get busy with her self-cleaning routine as we drive.”

I decided to give the cat a chance to do it herself. If not, I’d bathe her when we got home. Then I started ADHD’ing again. “What the fuck kind of name is Eighty-three; we need to rename you; I need sex; how do you bathe a fucking cat; will Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh get along with the cat; it isn’t natural for a cat to not have a tail; wouldn’t it be nice to have a fresh-plucked tomato from the garden with my beer…”

Manana, y’all.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Home Grown Tomatoes, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Squirt | No Comments »

Don Pierre The Pirateer Pays A Visit; Tomato Dreams

Sunday, April 10th, 2011

So. I was deep in slumber last night and dreaming one of my recurring-theme dreams. This is one of my super-Technicolor jobbies with a cast and crew of thousands. These dreams are pirate fantasies and I am always playing the lead role as Don Pierre the Pirateer.

Swear to God.

I’m always dressed in fashion that would make Johnny Depp’s pirate character look butch. The ruffled, blouse-shirt I wear is white cotton and loaded with lace and lacy frills. I wear the tail out and over the top of my black leather pantaloons, and on my feet I’ve got heeled leather boots that further elevate my 6’4” frame.

All of my thick hair is black in this dream and it’s foppishly long on my head, and tied back in a lush ponytail with a gold beaded thong. I’m adorned with gold head-to-toe: rings, bracelets, earrings in rows hanging from multiple piercings, my giant felt pirate captain hat has a thick braided gold band, and chains of gold fashion my belt and adorn my boots.

My dense, curly black chest hair, showing from neck to mid stomach in the open front of my blouse, helps complete a mighty studly picture in black contrasted on white.

Each time I have this dream, the beginning is random– acts of pirating always, but sometimes attacking an English galleon to steal it’s booty, or ransacking some castle of its treasures. Or ransacking fair maidens of their treasures.

But every one of these dreams ends the same. Don Pierre stands on the balcony of his mansion that sits at the top of the main street in a harbor town. He has an unobstructed view down the crowded street and between the two-story buildings that line the cobblestones on both sides. Maidens in period dress are stuffed on the second floor balconies of the buildings, leaning over the rail and spilling ample bosoms in bright sunlight.

There is a Don Pierre the Pirateer song and it plays in my dream like a movie sound track. I have been having this dream for at least thirty years and the music is always the same. It is great music filled with brass and violins, and even though I’ve dreamed it hundreds of times, I can’t sing a note of it when awake. I can tell you that it is an ode to the man and uses his name multiple times.

At the end of this dream, Don Pierre, me, swishes out onto his balcony, removes his hat with a flourish, and makes an exaggerated bow to the frenzied crowd. He then spreads his arms wide in a sharing gesture, shuts his eyes tight and lifts his face to the sun, and is promptly awakened with a start by some silly fucking thing, every fucking time.

Last night the dream ruining awakening occurred at 3 am when Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry had a lover’s spat. My gay pig and ostrich were fighting because Rushie had hogged all of the homegrown tomatoes I served them for dinner and little Ricky’s feelings were hurt. The ostrich was boo-hooing like a little girl who had her pigtails yanked, and the silly hog started laughing at him.

Ever heard a 500-pound pig laugh?

I jumped from bed and threw the door open. “Shut the fuck up, you two. You just ruined another Don Pierre the Pirateer dream for me. And stop whining, Rick, I’ve got plenty of tomatoes and will have them for months to come.”

That seemed to salve the giant bird’s bruised feelings so I shut the door on my closeted gay pets, and lay back down. I started thinking, an always dangerous endeavor, and behind my shut eyes I saw vine-ripened homegrown tomatoes in a big Indian basket, and Rush Limbaugh the pig, both sitting around my kitchen counter. I got up out of bed, dressed in shorts and tee shirt, and padded out to the kitchen.

It’s 6 am now, and I just finished my third BLT sandwich and fourth Carta Blanca beer of this new Sunday. Streaker Jones makes this smoked bacon and ham, and sausage, and I fried a few pounds when I got up. I ate a pound on my sammies, and the rest awaits the women of the house. For tomatoes, I had purple heirloom, early girl and yellow grapes– one sammie each.

I’ll got coffee brewing so I could switch from beer before it’s too late, walked out and got the paper from its box at the road, and prepared for my first bitching-out of the day. Life is pretty fucking grand.

Manana, y’all.

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

Somebody Stop Me; Originality In Short Supplies

Thursday, March 24th, 2011

So. One of the recurring themes in my psycho therapy sessions is my inability to know when to stop. This weakness in my personality manifests itself in several aspects of stopping understandings. I think it’s all about my ADHD, but Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson tells me it’s as much about mu obsessive compulsivenesses as it is the AD and HD.

Like, say when I’m drinking Carta Blanca beer while I’m writing here to my bloggie and I wake up in the middle of the night face-down in a pool of sleepy drool at my desk. That’s a clear case of the ADHD keeping me writing until I pass out.

Then there is the aspect of not knowing when to stop that is closely aligned to today’s bloggie posting. That’s the inability to stop reprinting stuff from the past. This reprint will explain much to my new readers and it might bore longtime readers. I’m torn about reprinting today’s posting, but not enough to stop me.

If I wasn’t so well balanced from the mental perspectives, I’d be batshit crazy. But my coping skills make me more of a mellow crazy, and….

Who am I fucking kidding? I’m as loony as a sex-crazed ten-peckered Billy goat. So fuck it. Here, again from June 2010, is:

“Rush Limbaugh, the Pig, Comes Out of the Closet”

I’m waiting for the rain to stop so I can crank up the big grill and prepare the food for our big coming out party for Rush Limbaugh the pig. We have quite a crowd, what with all the immediate and extended family, an even half dozen of my ex-wives including Roshandra and her new beau, and Harry from over to Sprouts with his fiancée, Patty Pritchitt, and the Sheriff and his wife.

Roshandra brought this local politician as her date and I am reserving judgment until the end of the night. I can say in advance that I like his politics but I remain unsure as to his motive to date my ex. Patty is the camel toe lady out to Sprouts from awhile back and I really like her. She and Harry are a strange but fun couple what with him devout Catholic and her Wiccan.

Streaker Jones brought Sunny, the TV reporter and my ex-lover, who has the honorable distinction of being a person whose distinction I can’t distinguish for you. The reason I can’t tell you about what distinguishes Sunny from the rest of the women gathered here to the ranch is because my fancy pants Editorator, the one for my soon-to-be-published book, is also here.

When I told her I was going to bloggerate until the rain stopped she said to me, she says, “Look here Mooner Einstein Johnson. If you spoil one more secret from the book by writing in your blog I’m going to have Dr. Sam I. Am commit you again. You need to extinguish your distinguishments and establish some dignities.”

Then before I could snappily retort, she snapped, “Einstein my rosy red ass. Your Gram is right about that one. And establish some priorities as well. Nobody is reading your blog anyway, otherwise you would be getting more comments.”

“Bullshit,” my first snappy retort of the day. “I know with absolute certainty that I have many daily readers to the bloggie.” Then, when she looked at me like I’m crazy I gave her a sloppy raspberry, “Pfflluughhbbttt!” An appropriate second snappy retort to follow the first.

“Mooner,” she told me with not just a little scorn in her voice, “You are fucking clueless, you giant moronic shit-for-brains asshole.”

Now she’s got that “searching for words” look that intelligent people get when they are frustrated. I saw the opening and took it. “Ooo, listen to the fancy-assed professional word smith using all of those nasty words when there are so many better words to use for proper communication. How can you tell me to clean up my act with that trash-filled maw glued on your face.” Snappy retort number three, and one of my best.

She’s always telling me that I cuss too much in my writing and that curse words are the tools of lazy writers and only belong in quality prose strictly for emphasis. When she first told me this I said to her, I said, “No shit little Missy Edito-fucking-rator. I only fucking use fucking cuss words for fucking emphasis!”

Of course, later I realized that I also use cuss words to portray an act, like shitting, and as an endearment like when I say that Squirt is a cute little shitbird. Speaking of the Squirt, she is here with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and has offered to help Dixie interpolate for Rush Limbaugh the pig.

Squirt wiggled up to me and did this adorable thing she does whenever she first sees me. She comes right to my feet and then throws herself flat to the ground with her head resting on her front paws. Then she’ll watch me with expectant eyes, whipping her little tail in a happy wag. She won’t speak a word until I address her, but she literally vibrates with excitement until I do.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite little shitbird. Besides your entire carcass, what’s shaking Squirt?”

Taking her cue, Squirt sits up like a bunny rabbit onto her back haunches and almost exclaims, “Gooten morgan Senor Mooner. Ein essen here to assist Hier Limbaugh mitten der oink snurt snuffloosh die gruber from el closet.”

She is so fucking cute when she mixes her syntax and scrambles my synapses. “Thanks for coming Squirt. I know that the Rushster will appreciate your support. Just remember that he only speaks piggie and a limited dialect at that.”

Then I thought to add, “And be sure you blow your nose before speaking too much Porcine. That’s why pigs’ noses are always snotty.”

Did you guys know that’s why a pig always has a snotty nose? Their entire language is snorted and squealed through their noses. Makes me wonder about anteaters.

Patty and Gram are sitting to a corner of the kitchen talking about magic spells and stuff. Since Patty is a Wiccan and Gram’s an old witch, they seem to be getting along. Gram seems to think she can charge more for her potions if she can give them a little boost by casting a spell on each bottle.

I heard her tell Patty, Gram says, “How do I tell tha differnce a tween a good spell anna bad un?”

“Well Gram,” Patty patiently replied, “You know what the spell is used for when you learn the spell. Good spells may be used for evil purposes and bad spells might be used for a good reason.”

Uh oh, Houston we have a problem. Now me- I knew what my Gram was going to say back to Patty without even thinking, but Patty is just newly exposed to the 90-pound vial of nitroglycerin that is my Gram.

Gram says, “Who gives a shit Patty. Spells is as spells does. Now answer my fuckin question an spill tha beans.”

I’m just glad that Patty is kind of heart and long of fuse. The last person to put a hex on my Gram cast this spell that my Gram would have sex with all the criminals down to the jail. Actually the hex word was “rape” and not sex, but you get my drift.

The Sunday after this lady put the hex on Gram I got a call from Sheriff Wozniac. “Mooner get down here right now and I mean pronto. Your Gram has managed to lock herself into the west wing of my jail and she’s abducted a full dozen inmates and got then handcuffed to their cots.”

Then he said, “I’ve never heard so many grown men crying Mooner. And these are hard men.”

Maybe that’s what Patty meant about knowing your spells. Is it a bad spell if you hex some old gasbag into doing what she most wants to do?

Wait a minute. Did I tell you about the ostrich yet? You know how city-dwelling assholes like to drive to the country and dump their unwanted pets out the car. Well, some country-dwellers do the same except they drive from their place already out in the country to a country place in another county.

Because our ranch is located near to multiple intersections of various major county arterial roads, we get more than our share of dumped animals. We get dumped people as well, but that’s another whole can of worms.

Maybe I could have saved word count by simply saying the ranch is on a busy street. Bottom line is that somebody got tired of feeding and caring for their six-foot tall, 126-pound can’t fly, but can run like a greyhound, bird. Cute shitbird except for the beady eyes and maybe a too surly attitude.

Anyway, last week Gram is out to the big garden and encounters this ostrich and she named him/she/it Rick Perry on account that it hides its head from the truth and then uses the same thick skull like a mace, you know that studded metal ball on the end of a chain that knights swing to slug things. That’s how an ostrich attacks- with his thick, numbed skull. Swings it like a mace.

We learned about the thick skull macing bit when Gram tried to sex the ostrich. Wait now, I don’t mean Gram tried to have sex with it, but rather tried to determine if it was male or female.

“I was partin tha tail feathers on that rascal to see iffn it had any danglies and next thing I know I’m flat on my back and ol Rick Perry was swingin its head like one of them bozo dealies like them Lithuanian cowboys do down ta South America.”

Have to love my Gram, but I am digressing like a sumbitch. My ADHD has been a touch fritzie today so maybe I need a beer.

Oh look, it’s stopped raining so I better get along. But don’t start bitching at me because you’re still getting 1,530 words by the time I stop. That’s almost five quality bloggie postings.

Now, go crack your own frosty cold Carta Blanca beer and toast to Rush Limbaugh for coming out of the closet.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Squirt | No Comments »

Tomato Trials Tres-deaux

Wednesday, March 23rd, 2011

So. I’m finally getting to the point with this last installment of my Barnes and Nobles story. Reading this again reminded me of how angry I am at my state legislature for cutting, make that slashing the budget for mental health care.

Our silly fucking politicians think that mental illness problems get better when you ignore them. They stick their heads up their asses and pretend everything will be all right if programs to provide medications and treatment are eliminated.

I have never thought that I actually hate anyone. Seriously. I somehow feel sorry for the man who raped me when I was a kid, and I even forgive the crazy man that murdered my other grandmother. My nice, grandmotherly grandma was brutally stabbed and bludgeoned to death by a crazy man and I forgive him completely.

He knew not what he did.

But the so-called Christian legislators are committing unforgivable sins in my eyes and I think I am starting to feel the ugly tendrils of hate creeping into my consciousness. They should know better. Looks like I’ve got a new story line for therapy.

Anyway, please enjoy this final installment of the B&N caper. From June 2010, I present”

“Will Rush Limbaugh (The Pig) Come Out Of The Closet?”

It’s Friday folks and time to clean-up a few loose ends. I’ll start by finishing the part about when I was over to the Barnes and Nobles and this one woman started a big scene. I know I broke my promise to finish yesterday but you just need to get over that. I’m doing the best I can with limited time and resources.

Besides, I’m not charging you yet and I think I have the right to disappoint you until you’re paying customers. If you are a Republican or a Baptist and that’s not acceptable to you, go fuck yourself.

As you recall, I was researching for Dixie in the kids section and the kids all started misbehaving and this one severely obsessive/compulsive woman had this book with the mug shots and criminal histories of all child molesters reported to be living in the area.

I think the woman is bi-polar, like Bi-polar Bob over to Shoal Creek loony bin. It’s all ups and downs with Bob and I was sensing some of the same from this lady. Mental health professionals call the two extremes Manic, the upsies part, and Depressive, which is definitely the downers. These extreme mood swings typically last days and longer as the pendulum swings back and forth.

Not for this lady though, no siree Bob. This gal could go from sweet neighbor lady to the Devil’s right hand man in what seemed to me to be two seconds. Maybe less.

When she comes up to Bert Massey, he’s the head of security for the Arboretum, and holds a picture of Clovis Williams up to my face, the lady was all triumphant smiles and confidence. However, when Bert points out that said Clovis is nearly a foot shorter than me, and that I show no evidence of ever having a Popeye tattoo on my forearm, she went ballistic.

“He only looks six feet four inches tall,” she yells angrily. “It says right on the bulletin that Clovis Williams uses disguises.” Then she starts stabbing at me with the pen she’s holding. “Gotta be body putty or something stretching him out.”

Body putty?

After maybe a dozen pokes I took the pen away from her.

“Don’t you dare touch me mister. I know your not you, you’re Clovis Williams.” Now spittle is flying from her mouth so I know she’s off her medications. Bi-polar medications give you the dry mouth something fierce.

It would take seventeen properly medicated bi-polar patients to lick a stamp.

This I know to be a fact from this one time when I was locked up over to Shoal Creek. But, my ADHD is digressing us. Let me just say this about that. The new no-lick sticky stamps are one of those, “Why didn’t I think of that?” kind of dealies.

So. She’s being restrained by mall cops now and she starts staring at my shoes with her just arrived crazy eyes almost spinning in circles. If you know a bi-polar person you know those eyes. She says, “Check his shoes for elevators,” and then she starts snapping with her teeth and kicking and writhing around trying to get at me.

Now, let me take a breath here and explain something to you. I’m not that crazy, like this lady, but I am crazy. Having spent many months locked away to the loony bin myself, I have a unique and experienced perspective on crazy folks. I always try to err to the side of compassion anytime I encounter one of what Dr. Sam I. Am calls, “Your people, Mooner.”

So I tell Bert, I say, “It’s OK Bert. You can let her go. She just wants you to listen to her. Crazy people don’t often feel well heard. I can handle this.” This is something I am sure about.

“OK Mooner, if you’re sure about this.”

I said, “I’m sure,” and he said, “OK,” and his guys let her loose.

She just stood there crazy-eying me for a minute, looking me up and down at the same time. It was like she had lizard eyes– you know where they kind of pop out and can move independently? Then both eyes latch on to the hemp tote bag that serves as my portable tomato kitchen and she says, “What’s in the bag buster?”

“Just my stuff,” I told her. “Not your business.”

I mean really, this was not her business.

Her eyes started that lizard dealie again, and then she says, “Make him open that tote bag Sheriff. He’s got kiddie porn inside.”

Now with her eyes doing that independent action she was looking at Bert and me at the same time, he and I answer at the same time. “I’ve/he’s got no warrant,” the I’ve from Bert and the he’s from me.

And then, again together, “And I’m/he’s not the Sheriff.”

“I don’t care whose who’s or what’s your problem, I’m looking inside that tote bag.” And with that, she grabs my tote by a strap and gives it a yank.

She was stronger than she looked so as I defended myself and the integrity of my private property, I yanked back and maybe just a little too hard. I pulled her clean off her feet, her still latched to my bag, and she smashed into me with my tomato-filled tote between us. I felt my precious reds get squished from the impact and felt a few squirt as vine ripened tomatoes will do when exposed to significant pressure.

When the lady pulled away from me still trying to steal my tote, her pretty white blouse was covered in deep red goo. Blood colored goo because of the mini plum bias to the varieties I was carrying that day.

The woman felt the wet through her blouse and when she wiped her hand across her chest and looked at the gatherings on her fingers, she screamed and said, “He stabbed me, somebody call 911!” and promptly fainted like an empty flour sack to the carpeted floor.

I opened my mouth to say, “It’s OK, it’s just tomato goo,” but all I got out was the “It’s.”

ZZZZZZZZZZZZAAAAAAAPPPP!!!

I love the smell of ozone and fried synapses in the morning.

One of the silly mall cops got excited and blasted me with his tazer. I came to in the back office area of the store with Bert looking over me as I lay on the floor with my head in the lady’s lap. Bert’s just shaking his head as I open my eyes and says, “Can you focus Mooner?”

“Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow,” is all I can muster. “Oh wow,” is all I can ever muster when I first come to after getting tazed. “Take my cell phone and hit #1 on the speed dial. Tell the woman who answers that I’ve been hit with a stun gun and I’ll meet her at the La Quinta near her office in thirty minutes.” That would be the SAC Ellen. She won’t pass on this opportunity.

Now the crazy lady speaks up. “I’m so sorry Mr. Johnson, I had no idea it was you.” Then she eyed the boner that is the major attraction in the aftermath of all of my stunnings. “Would you like me to take you home and fix you a drink?” And then she whispered in my ear, “I’m not wearing any underwear– want a little peak?”

What a nice offer. “That is a very nice offer, Miss, but I’m spoken for.”

The crazy eyes came back and she started getting surly again when the manager walked in.

He surveyed the scene for a bit and then said, “OK Bert. I’ll take this nice lady out the front way and you take Mooner out the back and put him directly into his car. You, Mooner, will drive away and stay away.”

He helped the lady to her feet and as he walked her out he said to me, he says, “You are one disruptive asshole Mooner Johnson. Please stay away from my store.” And then after a beat he pleaded, “Please.”

“Stop whimpering Stanley, I got what I need for now. Just call me when my Jeff Hwang poker book comes in.”

“Someone will meet you at Sprouts to deliver it to you. I’ll let Harry know when it gets here.”

Harry is the manager over to Sprouts and my buddy. And I just checked the word counter and we’re at 1,600-plus words.

Fuckballs.

The 400-word limit is basically one double-spaced page with 12 point type. I guess I do four or more pages with each posting so I’m giving you an entire week’s worth of postings for the price of one.

What a bargain. But I do need to get back to the ranch and spend some time with Rush Limbaugh the pig. He’s been in the closet and I’m trying to talk him into coming out. Hiding in the closet is never a good idea especially when everyone knows that you are in there and why.

I asked Dixie to translate for me and she says that Rushie said, “Tell Mooner that Gram will kill me if I come out of the closet. Gram just doesn’t understand me.” Dixie speaks pig.

Actually, Dixie speaks the Southern United States Porcine dialect, which is our version of the original Chinese piggy speak. But like Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. I’m gonna Louie Louie that fuckin pig if he furts my ass agin.”

I hope Gram means she’ll Hawaiian luau Rush Limbaugh if he sticks his snout up her butt– you know, roast him in a hot rock BBQ pit.

I told Dixie to tell Rush that Gram will be hurt and maybe angry at first but she will eventually get over it. Then I said to her, I said, “Dixie, tell him I’ll gather a support group and grill some ribs and sausage and make it a coming out of the closet party for him.” That hog does love his pork ribs and links.

Streaker Jones said he’ll come and SAC Ellen has said that she’ll introduce him and make a nice speech in support of his decision to come out of the closet.

It is a terrible waste of your life to live it cowering in the closet. I just hope that Rush Limbaugh can muster the strength to come all the way out.

I just hit 1,750 words for shitsakes. I need a Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Home Grown Tomatoes, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Squatlo | 1 Comment »

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Don Pierre The Pirateer Pays A Visit; Tomato Dreams

Somebody Stop Me; Originality In Short Supplies

Tomato Trials Tres-deaux

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