Archive for the ‘Sarah Palin’ Category

Dissociative Identiy Disorder Creates Problems; Mooner Loses Camel Toe Dream To Mental Boarder

Wednesday, September 14th, 2011


So. After performing another community service yesterday, fully disclosing to you—and fully exposing more of the inner-workings of my fevered brain—I find myself in quite the quandary. I exposed another part of my mental maladies to you only because it was what I SHOULD do. I didn’t tell you about the other man who resides inside my skull for personal enhancements, rather, I exposed that sordid part of me because I felt it was the right thing to do.

Why does life punish us for willingly doing the right thing? How come I didn’t have a life of roses and honey for at least one fucking day as a reward for good behaviors?

Why is life so very fucking mean?

Don Legacy, my personal Dissociative Identity for which I’m considered Disordered, has been but a very small part of me ever since I saved him from a terrible drugged drowning when I was a boy. I pulled him from the deepest part of our creek out of a sense of doing the right thing, and even then with some trepidations. I didn’t want to get caught and I didn’t save him for personal gains. But I knew he was more than just my “imaginary” friend. (So that everyone understands how fucked up I am, I just self-edited that last sentence to avoid the punctuation quandary I have with non-quotes placed inside quotation marks. I first typed “imaginary friend”[.]. So as to avoid doing the “[.]” dealie, my personal sign of protest to the grammar police for allowing such a confusing fucking rule, I changed it. But I feel somehow less a man for having done it. I sacrificed my integrity as an author to avoid an uncomfortable moment. Ugh.)

Even at that young age I knew Don Legacy was more than imaginary. He was tangible. But not tangible in the ways that most crazy people see their real “imaginary” friends. Wait. Maybe I should have said that crazy people’s imaginary friends are real people to them and that isn’t how I view Don Legacy. I see him as a real person only as far as some stuff goes. Like he has a brain—my brain—which is a partial brain usually and a near-complete when I allow him to use it.

How fucking confusing is this? Let me try again. My form of ADHD is the one where a person, me, has many simultaneous lines of thoughts going on at the same time. Usually not the fevered, racing thoughts of bi-polarized or schizophrenic persons, but multiple, random and mostly intelligible, and distinct thoughts each fighting for attention.

Don Legacy is one of those thought streams. He’s always there, mostly unheard except as a feint echo, and occasionally he’ll burst through and take control of the frontal lobes. He lives his own life separate from mine and until yesterday, he stayed closeted from the world until I brought him out.

Now, I fear I’ve unleashed the beast. Last night I had another of my wonderful camel toe contest dreams. Most of the usual contestants were there—Sarah Palin, Dr. Marcus and Michele Bachmann, Oprah, Queen Elizabeth, Kathy Griffin and Chelsea Handler—and each was showing spectacular camel toes. I’m always the judge in these contests. Sometimes I’m judging which is best displayed by clothing, sometimes with jewelry and bling, sometimes I judge for shape and contours.

But it is always me judging. Until last night when Don Legacy had the dream. It was so fucking weird, guys. Like an out-of-body experience.

I might be more messed up than I thought. I need to get this Jack back in his box. SAC Ellen called me from Omaha, Nebraska last night to tell me she was concerned with my latest revelation. Why is Homeland Security worried about Nebraska enough to send my sweetie there for meetings? What in hell a terrorist would want to blow up in Nebraska is a conceptual problem for me.

“We have hard intelligence that a terrorist cell of three was smuggled across the Canadian border to blow up cows. All farmers with herds of more than ten cows need to be on the lookout for suspicious persons.”

Did you know that the plural of cows is “kine”[?] I know it’s considered archaic and all of that, but I like the word kine. I also like the word vagina. I mean I like vagina and vaginas when they are attached to a woman, but I also like the actual word. And whyinthefuck is Microsoft Word giving me the squiggly red line dealie on the word vaginas? What the hell would you call two or more vagina(s)? Vagini? Nope. How about vaginos? Uh-unh.

I like the word vagina. It’s one of those words that fits what it is. Like stop! And fuck and ostrich. And kine.

Holy-fucking ugh! I am a seriously fucked-up vagina-loving crazy man. I need some extra psycho therapy sessions. And I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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@Reckmonster Inspires Camel Toe Dream; Mooner’s Trains Derail

Wednesday, July 20th, 2011


So. I was going to tell you the name of the third installee of my Blog Roller today but something has interrupted the trains of thoughts in the switch yards that is my brain circuitry. And look at that shit… I can’t get one full sentence out before the grammar teacher who resides inside my skull is reproaching me.

First, maybe that should have been “installeded”, or possibly “installerated” Blog Roller designee. Second, my trains of thoughts and mental circuit boards are tough to specify. I say “trainS” and “thoughtS” and “yardS” on purpose. The plurals are required in my cases. If you have my form of ADHD you have an inkling of understanding as to what goes on in the toxic swill swirling in the cauldron that is my skull.

If you do not suffer from ADHD, or its little sister ADD, then you haven’t got a fucking clue what goes on inside my head. Everybody knows people who pretend to have ADHD– people who use ADHD as an excuse to cover for laziness or inattention. Those of us who truly suffer the slings and arrows of our ailment would like to crush the fakers’ balls in a vise. Or maybe remove their tonsils through their giant smelly assholes.

Which reminds me that I still have my tonsils. Proudly, I’m the only living Johnson family member to have made it with his tonsils intact. Old Doc Ashburn tried to take them from me numerous times when I was younger. Tried every trick in the book to get me to sit still for him to butcher me. And that– me saying Doc Ashburn wanted to butcher me– reminds me that my given name at birth was “Butcher”.

That’s right, my actual name is Butcher Einstein Johnson. I won’t tell you the story because it is contained in my soon-to-be-published book, Full Rising Mooner. What I will say about that is this: what I will say is, “What the fuck?”

Really, whatinthefuck is going on when a bunch of hillbillies name a kid a name like that? People make fun of me all the time for my having the moniker “Mooner”. When I tell them my actual name they all shake their heads and say, “Oh… Sorry.”

Anyway, I have multiple trains of thoughts, some racing down their tracks like a Japanese bullet train, some dragging along like a thousand-car coal train with a single tired engine, and the balance are commuter trains that make frequent stops and change schedules with the same frequencies.

The main method I employ to control these thoughts can best be described as switching yards, like you always see in action films, where some guy escapes capture by running between tracks and trains. In my brain I have more than one switch yard. My brain contains separate yards for trains traveling as first line thoughts, mid line thoughts, obsessive thoughts and then pesky thoughts.

Often, a single train will derail and I’ll lose focus for a moment. Sometimes trains get improperly switched in a yard and I’ll lose focus and say something stupid. Occasionally, however, the switch yard controller mechanism in my brain falls asleep at the switch all my trains derail or crash into each other. That event is what I call “brain fritz”.

Remember in the old BBC TV series Monty Python, when the John Cleese professor character would say, “My brain hurts,”?

That, dear readers, is brain fritz for me. My brain hurts. It’s not a headache in the classic sense and it isn’t brain freeze like with ice cream. It is the combination of those two sensations, then add some confusions and delusions, and then subtract the pain.

Holy fucking shit what a digression I’ve got here. The origination point of this posting was to tell you that I got the fritz brain last night and that caused me to have another funky dream. Since I wrote about the Reckmonster yesterday, she was in it.

In this dream I was eating at the Lubys Cafeteria over to Mopac at US 183 here in Austin. I was inside their building to start and it was a giant place, and full of people in long lines. We served ourselves, so I had big spoon and was helping myself to a taste of whatever I saw that spiked interest.

I ate most of a bowl of tapioca pudding, half a bowl of oatmeal and spoonfuls of a bunch of other stuff. I rounded a big turn in the food line, and there, on the right, was a dazzling assortment of camel toes on ice. Displayed like seafood at the fish market, every toe was perched on the ice and surrounded with herbal adornments to best demonstrate the attributes of each.

Little signs told of their origins. They said “Sarah Palin Camel Toe” and “Reckmonster Camel Toe” and “Queen Elizabeth Camel Toe” and Dr. Marcus Bachmann Camel Toe” and so on. I thought I had died and gone to heaven in this dream.

I won’t tell you from which camel toes displayed I spooned my samples, and neither will I tell you precisely how that worked. What I will say is that I awoke with a rock-hard dream woody, which I washed clean with a hearty lathering with Ivory Soap, and images of the Reckmonster.

And now Reck is going to be pissed at me and I’ll get an ass chewing from her for discussing her “business” in this forum. But who gives a shit anyway. That dream makes it all worthwhile.

So drink Carta Blanca beer and come back manana, y’all.

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Not A Kate Middleton Sarah Palin Kathy Griffin Chelsea Handler or Queen Elizabeth Camel Toe Story

Monday, June 27th, 2011


So. I have got to stop looking at the statistics-gathering devices attached to my bloggie. As I do every night before laying me (myself?) down to to sleep, I logged-on to my Admin dealie to the bloggie to see what’s up on Mooner I-Land. That’s when I check comments (always), see where my visitors live (usually), and look at top searches and top views (rarely).

When I first opened this book on the I-net, I looked at all of my statistical shit multiple times per day. In the beginning, my visitor counts read “Zero” and my visitor locations said “Nowhere.” It took quite a while for me to be found by anybody, which was no surprise to me, but once I was found– I was found.

What found me was that first bloggie posting about camel toes. You know, the one when I was over to the Sprouts Farmers’ Market and the lady smuggled her camel into the store beneath tight Lycra workout shorts. My mouth waters every time I think of those moments.

Which reminds me. Go over to Squatlo Rant at and check the posting he did last week called “Japanese Bagelheads”. It’s a story about how you use saline solution to make temporary bulges on your face. Squat has a bunch of pics to show how it works and I, of course, started wondering why not use the method to plump-up naturally deflated camel toes.

Then I, again of course, started to think of the business opportunities and created a concept for a chain of salons we’d call “Plump Da Hump”, or maybe “Pooch-Up Your Pachyderm”. We could offer services to add pocket meat volumes to both sexes– it’s almost like a Public Service kind of thingie.

We could pump-up poor Renee Zellweger to look like she’s packing the same poochies that Chelsea Handler’s camel toe so proudly displays. We could even name all of our services after the level of plumping and, holy shit I’ve had another idea– we can also do be-jeweling or whateverthefuck you call those colored adornments. And henna tattoos too!

OK, what about this. The Chealsea Handler Camel Toe would be a medium plump with a bull’s eye be-jeweled around the targeted area. Then, the Kathy Griffin Camel Tow would be slightly fuller on the one side and we’d be-jewel arrows pointing to the toe and then place the words “Suck It” above the arrows and just at the top of the bikini line.

We could do a Kate Middleton Camel Toe where we be-jewel a crown over a tastefully engorged pubic mound. That one would be a huge seller around the entire fucking globe.

Oh, and we could do waxing and dying too, you know, provide a broad base of year-round services. We could do holiday specials and dress a lady’s nether regions to look like a Christmas package with bows and cards that have the “To: and From:” dealies as additional-charge add-ons. We could serve Carta Blanca beer and wine and Margaritas as complimentary refreshments.

And we could have a skincare line of products. And everything would be organic and as green oriented as possible.

The men’s product line could possibly be as extensive as the womens’. My philosophical inspiration for the men’s line is that African tribal culture that does adornments of their penises, the Beja. The Beja are a nomadic bunch who adorn their peckers for both beauty and pleasure.

Holy shit, could that be where they got the name for be-jeweling, from the Beja’s? If so, they better be paying a royalty. I hate when people steal a person’s idea and don’t pay for it.

Doing male pecker enhancements is an idea that’s been stewing in the cauldron of my brain for many years. I, Mooner Johnson, have had such a male enhancement since childhood when, as the result of an accident, my pecker was mangled and mauled and…

Can’t talk about my accidental pecker adornment since that story is in the fucking book, and holy shit has my ADHD digressed us all over the fucking place.

What I started to say is that last night I read my bloggie statistical info only to rediscover that the main searches used to find me, second only to searches for “Mooner Johnson”, were those for “camel toes.” Why I wanted to tell you that bit of drivel is, therefore, to additionally say that each time I discover that info I have a dream about camel toes, which I then tell you, and thereforemore, the telling to you restarts and rejuvenates the camel toe search bias.

I’m unsure if this is a Catch-22 dealie or one of those circle jerks. Either way, I read the stats and then dream a camel toe dream then write a camel toe story and then read the stats, and so on. It’s no fucking wonder I’m nuts.

But imagine this, if you will, for I find a small measure of joy in it. There’s this sixteen-year-old sitting in his tiny closet-sized room in Mongolia, or some fucking place. He’s got his special sock, all clean and fluffed with Downey fabric softener, at his side. The family is asleep so he fires up his laptop and punches in “Sarah Palin camel toe” in hopes of obtaining images that will inspire him to a steamy climax.

And up pops my site! Hoo-yah!

Drink Carta Blanca beer and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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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.

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Sex With Sarah Palin; A $50K Personal Appearance Fee Away?

Monday, June 6th, 2011


So. The early summer tomato harvest is finished and the big barn is brimming-over with the luscious red orbs. Efforts started early this morning moved from harvesting to processing. I’ll be in charge of grilling and smoking and Gram heads-up the sun drying team. Streaker Jones came at six am to help Gram and her crew to load up for the trip to his mushroom plant.

Everyone except Gram wears a hood for the trip. Streaker Jones is powerfully protective of the exact location of his psychedelic mushroom operations.

I’ll be smoking and grilling here to the ranch. I use a variety of woods, which I both blend and use separately, to smoke and grill tomatoes. I like mesquite for grilling. It has a flavor so strong and a fire so hot that I find it inappropriate for actual smoking. It can be too strong and make the food taste like nothing but mesquite smoke. If I wanted a smoked tomato that tasted like mesquite smoke I can always lick a mesquite briquette.

I also use oak, pecan, apple, peach and cherry wood. The oak and pecan are in big chunks of trunks and major branches. But the fruit woods are mostly smaller lengths of smaller branches and used in concert with oak or pecan. The Squirt wanted to be my main assistant for tomato smoking, so I assigned her the initial task of fetching the fruit wood sticks from the wood shed and stacking them by the smokers.

The shed sits maybe forty yards from the smokers, and I need a full cord of fruit woods for this year’s smoking. The miniature dog is thirty minutes into her job and already bitching about it.

“Holy shit, Bwana Mooner. C’est beaucoup de fucking bois.”

“Yea,” I told her, “that is a lot of wood. But you standing here bitching at me won’t get it moved.” Saying that embarrassed me. I sounded just like my Gram.

“Sie klang wie Gram, Senor Culo Agujero,” the soon-to-be-my dog said to me.

“I’m sorry, Squirt. I can be an asshole sometimes.” I hate it when I engage the same parental tools as my elders used on me. I stooped to pick her up and planted a big kiss right between her eyes. Her short fur is soft and sweet-smelling after our shower this morning.

Have I told you that Squirt and Honor the cat take showers with me now? We’re a fucking shower-taking sideshow. I’m teaching them to sing in the shower and our current song is the old Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys hit, Waitress Oh Waitress, Come Sit On My Face.

Their favorite line is, “Eatin’ ain’t cheating, it sure ain’t no disgrace.” Mine too.

But here’s the thing. With Sarah Palin touring the country and saying stupid shit the last week, I had another camel toe dream with her in it. It was Sarah fucking Palin, The Daft Scots Lass and The Reckmonster in this one. The four of us were in the shower together with Squirt and the cat.

The Reckmonster made a joke by saying, “Look here, we’ve got four pussies, a dog and a giant asshole taking a shower together. Who needs the giant fucking asshole?” And they kicked me out of my own shower.

In the dream, I padded from the bathroom to lay on my bed, still dripping wet from my shower. I was there with my eyes closed and feeling sorry for myself, lamenting the loss of joy I was to have from soaping the three women into a lather. Then I felt someone snuggle into bed with me. Whoever it was sidled up beside me and began the prelims for a blow job. I didn’t open my eyes to see which lady it was because, quite honestly, given the proper circumstances I would have sex with any of them.

My order of preferences would be the Reck, the Scots Lass and then the brain dead Republican shitball. I don’t really know the Scottie except for reading her stuff over the last week, but I can tell that she’s my kind of woman. The Reckmonster can turn me on with a simple, “What the fuck?”

Sarah Palin is an elephant in a different room.

I’m ashamed to say that I would have sex with her. I have already spent maybe a hundred hours of therapy working on the problem. Translated into meaningful terms, my willingness to bang Sarah Palin is already a $20,000 problem. Hell, for a $50,000 personal appearance fee she’d likely come to the ranch and blow me.

Maybe not. That might be wishful thinking. Would I be breaking any laws to ask her? I guess my main concern would be violating the Mann Act. I could go to Arizona to mail my request since she’s in Arizona now. Seems she has an affection for the A states. But wait. Is the violation of the Mann Act if the request to break a law crosses state lines of if the act itself crosses state lines? Need to call Jeff, my attorney.

And the Scots Lass lives in South Africa, but grew up in Scotland. I’ve been married to an African woman, but not a white African woman, and not a South Africa inhabitant. I must be wondering about that stuff since she was in this dream. I find her charming and sexy as all get-out. But don’t go climbing all over my ass. Go first to the Daft Scots Lass’ site at and read some of her stuff. Then judge my affections.

OK, and I know she’s a married mother and quite happy and all of that. I’d still, under all of the right circumstances, sex her up. Just saying.

I’m seriously fucked up. But I’m loved and I have an ample supple of icy cold Carta Blanca beer to get me through today’s grilling and smoking.

Manana, y’all.

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Kate Middleton Joins Moonettes; Sarah Palin Camel Toe Wins

Wednesday, December 22nd, 2010


So. Prince Willie is getting himself a mooner. That’s right, Kate Middleton is a certified, documented mooner.

Cheerio, Prince William. Cheer-i-o!

I’ve long been concerned that any offspring of Prince Chuck would be too dumb to shuck the stogy ways and antiquated social graces of England’s royalty, and actually display some human traits. Too dumb, or maybe too scared to stand up to the Queen and have a real life.

Speaking of the Queen, I was planning to bitch about the other Queen today but Kate Middleton stole my heart away. I was winding up to take another swing at His Royal Highness Pope Benedict, Queen of all Catholics. The Popester and his brain-dead advisors have managed to shit in the manger right here at Christmastime and I’m mad as hell about it.

But let’s be serious for a minute. The future Queen of England is a mooner for shitsakes. Kate likes to flash her ass in public! Or would she like to flash her ass in private? The English confuse the ever-loving-shit right out of me with their Public Schools being private, and their Private Schools being public. The origins of that confusion must lie in the whole royalty business. When you add the extra layer of Your Highnesses on top of a near-democratic government, weird shit is bound to happen.

Like Prince Charles.

In case you missed the story, as university students, young Katie and her mates would routinely poke their naked bottoms out the dorm windows in proud display. Said displays were made for the entertainment of both themselves and the boy student observers. Contests were held by the viewers to determine which bared arse matched which comely coed.

As an expert on the subject, I can confidently say that I would score high grades on those tests. I didn’t see any reporting about the observers and their observations, or their scores, and that makes me wonder about the voracity of the initial reports. I wondered if it really happened.

When I questioned whether the reports of Kate’s mooning were accurate at breakfast this morning, Gram says to me, she said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner? Prince Walter’s gittin hisself a fine little lady. An she’s got good teeth.”

Gram’s right. I think Kate Middleton would have made a good fit for me at about my ex number four, or maybe number six. Those was my skinny, model-type ex-wife periods, and Katie would have made a fine match. She might also have been richer than me and be paying me alimony and buying my house.

But I’m starting to digress. What I wanted to tell you is about the dream I had last night after hearing this story. The dream hit me after I was awakened by Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry at 2:30 am. My pig and ostrich have been in this nasty lovers’ spat about Christmas gifts. Rick Perry told Rush that he felt they should be fiscally responsible adult Texans and not buy expensive, unneeded gifts for each other this Christmas.

Rushie reluctantly agreed, and had me return the cashmere cardigan– with its matching beret and scarf, a nice bottle of wine, and a pair of velvet-lined leg shackles he had purchased as his gifts for the Rick. Personally, I think the giant bird would look splendid dressed in the high quality wool garments. I had envisioned the two of them coming out of the closet as a couple this Christmas. Those two dressed in their finest, we would toast them with glasses of the tasty wine Rush bought Rick

I was unsettled, however, thinking about the shackles.

Anyway, nobody bothered to tell Squirt that the boys were having a no gifts Xmas, and when Rush Limbaugh asked her where she and I were going yesterday afternoon, she told him.

“Senor Mooner e moi es going to la biblioteca primavera, and then to le Body Oil Store,” the Squirt told him.

Well, that was all it took to start a war because the Body Oil Store is Rush’s favorite and he figured out that Ricky was cheating on him with a gift. I was startled awake at 2:30 last night as the two of them fought it out in my closet. Rush was quite pissed and accused his lover of being a Republican go-back-on-his-word liar like his namesake.

I try to stay neutral with them, but Rush Limbaugh was spot on with this assessment. I got them separated and settled back down, and I managed to get to sleep. That’s when I had this dream. I was up to New York to be in this big Broadway production called, “Mooner and the Moonettes Present: Camel Toes and Moon Shows, a Christmas Extravaganza.”

Other than myself, the cast consisted of all my regular dream girls– Kath Griffin, Sarah Palin, Chelsea Handler, Oprah Winfrey, Sandra Bullock, Hilary Clinton and Renee Zelwigger. Kate Middleton and a dozen of her classmates filled out the cast, and they were the Moonettes.

We had one skit where there was a set that was just like the window set dealie on the old TV show, Laugh In. You remember, the Rowan and Martin show that had Goldie Hawn, and Henry Gibson and the rest. I saw a picture of Goldie a few weeks back where she was splashing her camel toe and I must say, Goldie’s holding her own.

Instead of having cast members open their window and tell a joke, we would either flash a moon as we open the window flaps, or display a tastefully-decorated camel toe. There were elves with those air cannon dealies firing tee shirts to audience members making correct guesses as to who’s toe or butt was poking out the window.

In telling you this dream story I just got a terrible feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. I had my choice of one each camel toe owner and butt flasher to take home with me after the show. I chose Kate Middleton, of course, since this was a KM dream.

But my choice of camel toe owners disturbs me. So I wouldn’t hurt any of my regulars’ feelings, I played that eeenie-meanie-minie-moe game to choose my camel toe girl. I kept going with that “My mother told me to…” business until I landed on Sarah Palin.

I actually selected Sarah Palin over my other ladies.

That makes me a sick fucker. A really sick fucker. I would have sex with Sarah Palin if I weren’t in a committed relationship, and I could tape her mouth shut. Then again, I’d bet she’s got a randy mouth on her when she’s all sexed up. She and Kate Middleton would make a hell of a bed full of women. I’d dress Kate as a reindeer and Sarah as a hunter.

My god would you listen to me. I need a special therapy session and a Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

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Rick Perry and Sarah Palin Combine Intellect; Failed Effort To Make Half A Brain.

Thursday, November 11th, 2010


So. I thought I was done with abortion-influenced bloggie postings for awhile, but once again my thoughts aren’t worth a shit. Actually, had I known that Heroic Media was having another confab, this one up to Dallas, I might have avoided my latest ant-anti-abortion arrest here in town.

The asshole known as Texas Governor Rick Perry and his main string puller, Sarah “Just Call Me Lobotomized” Palin, were again speakers at a Heroic Media rally. Before I go any further, or farther either one, let me say this”

“Fuck Rick Perry and Sarah Palin too!”

Heroic Media are the fine Christian right-wing religious Republican fuckballs who bring us those sweet commercials about how all pregnant girls/women are better off with adoption than abortion. Sweet sentiments and OK with me if they would simply stop when they plaster their message in the media.

However, since they are fuckballs, they have determined that womens’ abortion rights are Heroic Media’s to take away. These gatherings are one of their methods to contribute to the politicians evil enough to support them. Like little Ricky and Sarah Poo. Pay big speaker fees and avoid all of that Tom Delay aggravation.

I’m warning you guys again. Rick and Sarah are running for the oval office and I’m sick about it. Together, these two have a combined IQ of maybe fifty, so together they are almost as smart as GW Bush.

Which reminds me. Colleen Lindsey Tweeted that Bushie needs to do something for our returning Vets. My suggestion, OK my latest suggestion, is for GW to donate all of the proceeds from his book sales to our proud Veterans.

Anyway, my ADHD is on the fritz and I can’t stay focused on anything. I forgot that Squirt was grounded until Friday at midnight, so I stopped by and picked her up for lunch. We were sitting outside Guerros Taco Bar down on South Congress having some queso and chips and salsa, and secretly sharing a Carta Blanca beer.

And don’t go getting pissy on me about feeding beer to the ten-pound language trainee. She gets maybe a half-thimble full from each bottle and I swill the rest. She simply refuses to eat Mexican food without Carta Blanca, and I’m with her on that. “Me gusta cerveza Carta Blanca con mi comida especiale de Mexicana, Senor Mooner.”

I was wondering why she didn’t tell me that in half a dozen languages, when these two nice ladies approached our outside table and remarked about my cute little poochie, and asked to take a picture of us together. In spite of the fact that I hate the word “poochie”, Squirt and I struck a pose with our fresh beer.

The ladies took a couple cell phone photos, and started laughing as they walked away. Five minutes later I’m still wondering what was so funny when my cell starts ringing. “Hello.” I answered.

“You sonofabitch. Do you even know what day it is?”

“Oh, Hi Sammie,” I answered. “It’s a beautiful Thursday afternoon, and the Squirt and I are having a blast.”

“Jesus, Mooner, but you are hopeless. Did you forget that she’s grounded?”


“One of my patients sent me a photo of the two of you drinking beer together in the middle of the day. For shit sakes, Mooner, do you ever think before you fuck up?”

I could tell my ex-wife and psycho therapist was pretty pissed that I took her dog on this outing, so I was careful with my answer. “I think I do.”

This gets me the sound of deep breathing and deeper sighs. “Oh fuck it. Have her home before ten tonight,” and she slammed the phone in my ear.

“Good news, Squirt, we’re free for the day. How about we go by and try to apologize to the Catholic Abortion Protest Lady. I’ve got my bull horn in the car, so we can talk to her from down the block.”

Restraining Order says we have to keep 250 feet away from her person, but we can make this work. Manana, y’all.

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#NPRBOOKS On Pretty Boy Rick Perry: Freedom Takes A Hit

Friday, November 5th, 2010


So. I had been feeling better about the results of Tuesday’s elections. I was getting over the fact that in Texas, more voting adults think that religious dogma is a more important political policy factor than is freedom. Or common sense, or fairness, or even simple human kindness.

I was getting over the feeling that maybe I need to sell everything I own and move to Oregon, when I saw a Tweet by NPR that caught my eye. “Texas governor Rick Perry fed up!” it said. Since I have such a hard on for Pretty Boy Ricky, I couldn’t resist clicking to -a huge mistake.

I made the mistake of reading the posted article about Perry’s new book and his feelings about freedom. Now me, the word freedom has but one true definition, and that definition is that an individual has the right to choose for himself. But Ricky has a different idea.

See, Texas Governor Rick Perry wants the freedom to choose for us Texans. He wants to choose to apply the religious dogma that he, and his his right wing Christian supporters, consider to be more important than actual freedom.

Rick Perry wants the freedom to deny homosexuals the same rights that good Christian folks get to enjoy. He wants to keep Texans from playing Texas Hold’Em poker. He wants to persecute the unwashed mass of immigrant workers that fuel the Texas job growth he so proudly advertises.

This braindead fuckball wants to provide our school children with an education taken straight from the Southern Baptist Convention’s Vacation Bible School Workbook. “Darwin?” they say. “Nope, it’s six days’ work and a day of rest!”

Rick Perry is more concerned about promoting the fantasy aspects of the Christian religion than he is about actual freedom.

Mark my words folks. Rick Perry will soon be standing side-by-side with that other mental giant of the Religious Right, Sarah Palin. They are clones of each other and sadly, hold a combined IQ that might break 100 quotient points.

But they are pretty, and they are willing to take any stand that moves them ahead. The one thing they are smart enough to do is memorize platitudes. Like idiot savants, these two pretty faces can spew that silly crap faster than a goose can shit bacon grease.


I’m sad for my state and I’m really sad for America. Texas just voted Rick Perry to another term, and America voted just enough support for Palin’s insanity to give it legs.

Ugh, again..

I say” “Fuck Rick Perry and Sarah Palin too!”

It’s 4 o’clock in the morning and already I need a cold Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

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A Sad Day For America; A Really Sad Day For Texas

Wednesday, November 3rd, 2010


So. This is a very sad day for our country. The Short-Attention-Span-Theater that is America’s voting registered voters has once again turned its brain-dead ears to the rhetoric of the religious right.

Biased, prejudiced and untruthful rhetoric is the cornerstone, and bedrock, of religious fanatics of any kind. Today’s political spin doctors from all parties twist and stretch information in clever ways to influence people. My opinion is that the reason spin doctors are so successful is because your basic American is too lazy to study issues for themselves.

It’s far easier to get the facts from Rush Limbaugh than it is to read the New York Times. It’s far easier to take the words of the talking head pundits at Fox News than it is to talk to people actually involved in an issue, and listen to their words.

My opinion is that the spin doctor’s fabrications are ripping the fabric of American freedom.

Freedom is a thought-based institution. Acquiring freedom requires reasoning, unselfish motivations and struggle. Keeping freedom requires factual knowledge, communication and limitations on self-serving interest groups.

Spin doctoring is not a new phenomenon. Most Americans were not alive when the first modern era, mass-media spin doctor grabbed control of an otherwise intelligent people. That man, Adolph Hitler, was a master manipulator using bias, prejudice and untruthful rhetoric to gain control of a free nation.

The Germany of the 1930’s was in a depression- many Germans were without jobs, business was stagnant and the economy was in a terrible state with Government debt and taxes at all-time highs. Racial tensions were high, Christian religious leaders castigated all non-Christians and called their beliefs evil. Homosexuality was outlawed and homosexuals were punished.

Adolf Hitler, spin doctor, shredded the rich fabric of German culture and rewove the tattered remains into his mighty Reich. Hitler turned German against German, and brother against brother, by twisting truth as justified through the filter of right wing Christian dogma.

Adolf Hitler stole freedom from the German people one speech, one election at a time. His inflammatory rhetoric pushed honest, kind people to do unspeakable things. Using fear tactics and twisted logic, Hitler stole the German peoples’ freedom in the name of Christianity.

Today’s America has many similarities to 1930’s Germany. Many Americans are out of work, business is stagnant and our economy is a mess with Government debt and taxes at an all-time high. Racial tensions persist in spite of the gains made, Christian leaders proclaim that American needs to be ruled by Christian belief systems and claim that Muslims are evil.

Homosexuals are denied the basic rights that every free American citizen should have, and punished for not being the expected norm.

And here we stand America, the day after. The day after Sarah Palin influenced the structure of our Congress. The day after the angry religious right pushed their candidates into office. The day after Texas Governor Rick Perry was reelected.

The day after my State School Board District elected a person who declared that her Christian dogma would rule her choices in the defeat of a woman who declared that her choices would be made to the educational benefits of our State’s children’s education.

It’s a sad, sad day for America. And a terribly sad day for Texas.

Fuck Rick Perry.

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Celebrity Camel Toe Mystery Dim Sum and Other Tasty Delights

Tuesday, October 26th, 2010


So. Monday night’s dinner was my medical enforced last supper, part of preparations for Wednesday’s second medical procedure on my already abused butt. I love food and I love to eat, so this meal was important.

Menu selection should have been easy. I’ve been such a shit to everyone lately, bitching and complaining about my problems, I figured nobody would want to cook for me and I could just fix what I wanted.

As usual, I read things wrong. When I got back from walking Rush Limbaugh, Rick Perry, the Squirt and my bruised ego yesterday afternoon, I secreted the pig and ostrich back into the closet, and Squirt and I sat on my bed to discuss dinner plans.

Squirt was lying on her back on the bed in the same pose as when she sits like a bunny to speak, except lying on her back. I asked her what she would like for dinner and after a bit of thinking, she got an embarrassed look on her face and whispered, “Je voudrais profiter de fleish von nguruwe, bwana Mooner.”

We both snuck a look at my closet to be certain the door was tightly shut.

I whispered back, “We can bacon wrap some quail and grill it with the last of that sausage Scott gave us. Would that satisfy your pork cravings?”

Now her tail starts its mad wagging and she says, “Oh si, Senor Mooner. Oui, oui, oui.”

“You’re a funny little shit, Squirt. But remember, pork’s not good for you, so you only get a couple small tastes.”

We headed to the kitchen to start our dinner plans expecting to find it empty. Instead, Mother and Gram were there and neck deep in food preparations.

“We planned a surprise for you Mooner honey,” my mother beamed. “I’m roasting a pork shoulder and Gram is making Chinese side dishes.”

I felt tears start at the corners of my eyes. “I’ve been such a pain in the ass I figured you guys would leave me to my miseries. This is so sweet.” Then I added, “I don’t deserve this.”

“Yer right about that shitbird,” snipped my Gram. She’s doing something with a stack of egg roll wrappers, three cutting boards of chopped and diced foodstuffs, about a dozen bottles and jars of condiments, and a hammer.

I walked over to wrap my arms around her. “I’ve been a little out of sorts. Thanks for understanding.”

Gram shrugged off my hug and said, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner. I been wantin ta cook up some a this damn soon shit fer quite awhile. Now git out tha way.”

I kissed the top of her pointy head. “I think it’s dim sum, Gram. The Chinese call it dim sum.”

She glared and pointed the 12-inch chef’s knife in her hand at my chest. “Then that makes it all tha more propriated fer yer dinner. Dim sum fer a dim wit.” Then she laughed at me.

“You aren’t that funny old woman,” but said laughing. “What’s the hammer for?”

Mother jumped in before Gram could answer. “You don’t want to know, sweetie.”

I decided I didn’t.

The dinner was terrific- Mother’s pork roast with a spicy wild plum sauce, and than a smörgåsbord of Gram’s dim sum. The little packages were tasty, and quite interesting. One was a long, thin strip of fried dough, filled with mystery meat. This one I attached to the hammer, and didn’t ask its filling’s origins.

But this one was a dough package masterpiece- delicately shaped bundles with a familiar shape.

“Them’s my interpolation of one a them giraffe knuckle thingies you been dreamin’ about, Mooner.” Gram held one up to admire. “Had trouble decidin’ what ta fill em with, so’s I used calf balls and chicken butt meat.”

They were tasty as well. And suggestive. I had another celebrity camel toe dream last night, no doubt the result of Gram’s suggestive dim sum. I was sitting in a chair at Wolfgang Puck’s place out to Los Angeles. The chair was quite comfortable, but seemingly too short for the table. My eyes were at a level only a foot above the white linen tablecloth.

“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Johnson,” Wolfgang Puck told me. “This is my special camel toe dim sum mystery sampler table. Tonight I’ve prepared you a little moose knuckle du jour of Chelsea Handler, Sarah Palin, Kathy Griffin, Oprah, Demi Moore, Hilary Clinton and Lindsay Lohan.”

“Oh, goody.” I clapped in delight.

“The mystery is that you must do your sampling while blindfolded and then take a test. There’s no charge when you guess right.” Wolfie sounded like Bob Barker.

“What happens if I guess wrong?” Even in a dream this seemed an appropriate question, but all I got in reply was a wicked laugh.

I was right on all but two. I mixed up Mrs. Clinton with Sarah Palin- a likely mortal mistake outside my dream world. Here, it only cost me $125.00 each for the mistake.

And Wolfgang even bought a case of Carta Blanca beer for me. It was a special night. I asked for seconds of Chelsea and Kathy, but just as they arrived back to my table I was awakened by the symphony of snores rattling from my closet.

“Today is going to be a great day!” I exclaimed. I had decided that today was to be great, my gracious act for Monday’s blessings.

I walked to my bathroom to brush my teeth and start my daily routine. Then I noticed it was pitch black outside and checked the time. The bright red digital numbers of my alarm clock read 2:49 am.

“Fuckballs!” was all I could get out.

Manana, y’all.

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Sarah Palin Flashes Wang; George Takei Says Oh My!

Tuesday, October 5th, 2010


So. I had another memorable dream last night, another camel toe dream. Another celebrity camel toe dream where I’m a judge at a contest.

This one was unusual in that the contestants were both women born as women, and women by choice of lifestyle. Of the naturally born women, we had Sarah Palin, Chelsea Handler, Kathy Griffin and Oprah- you know my usual lineup in these dreams. Newcomers included Cher, Kim the Atlanta housewife and Lindsay Lohan.

The remaining contestants were lifestyle by choice girls, none of whom are known to me. For some reason this dream was not populated with any local drag queens, a fact that needs to be discussed in depth at my next psycho therapy session.

Squirt was the emcee for the show, a show in itself.

“Karibu kila mtu… Willcommen ein und alles. It’s so good to see all of you aqui en la Oficina General de la Armadillo del Mundo.”

Me, I was thinking that maybe it should have been, “la Oficina Central del Mundo de la Armadillo,” but like Gram says, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Folks all knowed she was talkin bout tha Armadilla World.”

I remember the first time I attended a concert there. It was Bette Midler, the Divine Miss M. She was there with The Harlettes, and Barry Manilow was her piano player. I love her early albums and that was a great concert. Of course, the Armadillo World Headquarters was torn down years ago.

Fucking progress.

After Squirt welcomed everyone and introduced we judges, she announced the swimsuit competition. “Cuminciamo festeggiamenti di stasera with the Badenzug Wettbewerb.”

George Takei and I are the judges and I think appropriately so. I’m drinking Carta Blanca beer and George is sipping from a glass of blood-colored wine. All of the contestants are working the runway and striking poses to best display their pocket meat. But George and I are too involved in our discussion over what guidelines to use for judging to be doing any judging.

“Look, Mooner,” George starts. “I have a problem giving equal credit for a wang toe as I do the true camel toe.”

“I don’t see why,” I responded. “A toe is a toe, if you ask me.”

“But the boys have a chance to manipulate things in ways the girls do not.”

I tried to figure what George meant, so I asked. “What do you mean, George?”

“Well, Mooner.”

Let me stop here and say that when George says my name, it tingles my danglies. That rich, round robust sound of his voice is very sexy.

“Well, Mooner, a man can arrange his things in multiple ways. Manipulate his package presentation, if you will.” He said “manipulate” and “well” like they were the most important words in the English language.

So, I fumbled around in my pants, and using my pecker as a centerline, wedged my balls into a camel toe shape. When I pulled my white hemp fabric undies tight in the front, George said, “Oh my!”

I think that I am in dream love with George Takei. We don’t ever have dream sex or anything ribald, but I always have the sense of deep affection for him.

Anyway, after looking at my experimental camel toe, I bow to George and we decide to give the women a 17% point premium to square the curve.

We have an uneventful contest through the preliminaries and choose our finalists. Squirt announces that Sarah Palin and Chelsea Handler will rep the naturals, and that Paula Softstone will represent manipulated-meat.

I didn’t want to let Palin into the finals based upon principle alone, but George convinced me otherwise. “Be a bigger man, Mooner. It’s got some cottage cheese, but it’s still a honey.”

Then Sarah and Chelsea start fighting, like they always do in my dreams, ripping at each others’ clothing. Chelsea grabs Palin by her bikini bottom and tugs it off.

“Boing!” was the sound, and “Gasp!!!” was the crowd reaction. Turns out that the manipulated meat faction had two representatives.

“Oh my!” George said. Then he laughed that hilarious chuckle of his. “She’s got quite a wang!”

That’s when I woke up, so I can’t tell you who won.

Manana, y’all.

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Is That Jury Hung, Or What (Part 4)

Monday, June 28th, 2010

When Oprah talks about ,“A-ha moments,” I am now required to wonder precisely what she means. When I told you in the last posting that I had one of those moments, I meant that I had an “A…HA!!!” moment, sort of a “Shazam!!!” jobbie. Or even more like, “A-ha, I caught you, you rotten bastard!” You know, like it’s a big deal. I thought those moments were really big mental awakenings with at least one stunning aspect.

Then last night when I got home to the ranch, and Streaker Jones and my Gram were watching a Tivo’d episode of the Oprah Show, the lady on the show was talking about her, “aaaaaa-haaaaa,” moment. This woman’s A-ha moment was more like a, “Hmmm maybe I’m starting to have an inkling of an idea of what’s what.” If I was to write down in English what she said and then I wanted to punctuate her emotions, the last thing I would choose to use is an explanation point, like this- !.

I wonder why the English language has no punctuation mark that equals the opposite of the explanation point. If I was to design one it would be like this- ~ , you know the little squiggle dealie that you put over a senor to make it a Spanish Seen-your.

My efforts to design this mark would be to mimic the sound that a deflated balloon makes as the last little bit of air escapes when you let one fly through the air. The first escaping air would be an ! , and that last little bit would be the ~ . The definition of my new mark would be: “Punctuation from Mooner Johnson, who stole it from the Spanish: 1. Indicating dullness, flatness or disappointment; 2. The most mild surprise possible; 3. The opposite of an exclamation point.”

What I think I’m actually trying to say is that this lady’s idea of an A-ha moment was something quite different from mine. Hers was akin to how it feels when one raindrop splatters on your windshield and you say, “A-ha, I think it might rain.”

My A-ha moment was more like that time Streaker Jones and I went skiing up to Colorado and I tripped and fell into the icy lake. An “Ah-fucking-ha!!!” moment. My God the water was cold and the A-ha part was knowing I would drown.

When I asked Gram what she thought about this A-ha situation she said to me, she says, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Eye-has is as Eye-has does. I cain’t see a differnce one.”

Efforts to correct my Gram’s grammar are always futile. But is she funny, or what?

Anyway, so here is what my A-ha moment was. I was in the courtroom for jury duty last week, admonished simply for being me, and sitting in the witness stand that served as my dunce’s chair so his Honor could keep a watchful eye on me. What with my ADHD getting all fritzy on me, my head was spinning with dozens of thoughts. I had talked my way out of getting jailed because everyone was so hungry. (Read the last several bloggie postings if you are lost.)

“Look everyone, just give me thirty more minutes and I’ll let you go home.” This was almost a plea from the Judge.

I was listening to the Prosecutor and defense attorney spin the truths of the process to suit their needs and I heard the prospective jurors answer questions, and question back. Now, it was 2:30 in the afternoon after an 8:30 am start, and we had been given only two each twenty-minute breaks. But no food time.

Some of the additional thoughts swirling through my brain at the moment were: several different two Sarah Palin questions and lines of thought; trying to memorize the sequence to replace the battery to my cell phone; how many freckles were on the cumulative faces in the room- I counted sixty-three on this one woman’s face before she stared me down and I lost count; who was the dead body in this murder trial; did Gram catch this one particular squirrel that has been terrorizing my tomato plants; if Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry will ever come out of the closet; various and assorted other thoughts.

My brain was fighting with itself in vain effort to keep the activities in the courtroom to a sharper focus than all the other thoughts. I kept struggling with all of these thoughts but lost focus on the courtroom drama, and my brain started swirling.

Then everything came into sharp focus and my A-ha moment came.

“A-ha!!” I exclaimed. “I am innocent by reason of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, your Honor.” I thought another second and followed with, “IRADHD, Billy. I’m gonna be famous.”

Jeff, my attorney, had me bailed out of jail by 9:30 but he was so pissed that he made me take the bus back to my car. The bus schedule features far fewer buses late at night, so when I finally got to my last stop it was 11:15. I walked across the street to my car, which wasn’t there.

Towed it was, and mightily pissed was I.

Luckily it’s summer and I had my portable tomato kitchen with me. Since I wasn’t going to be driving, I popped the top on my chilly Carta Blanca beer and sat down on the concrete base of the big light to where my car had been parked. As a karmic reminder of my idiocy, when sitting I banged my head on the sharp edge of the metal sign attached to the light post.


Blinking with banged-head pain I looked up to read the sign. “Towing Strictly Enforced- Illegally Parked Cars WILL BE TOWED!

Fucking sign.

This is when I think to call home to get a ride, so I reach into my hemp cloth tote and retrieve my cell phone. When it won’t power-up I start getting pissed about that and then remember that the battery is out of it. So now I’m searching through all the stuff in my tote for the battery when I feel something warm and sticky run into my eyes.

I’ve got the cell phone in my one hand with the other buried deep in the bowels of my tote. I’m sitting directly under my big light source so I have to turn in a contorted kind of twist to keep the tote out of the deep shadows so I can see inside, and now I have blood running into my eyes and it’s starting to drip off my nose and onto the tote, my legs and even the ground.

You know how head wounds can bleed. Fucking sign.

I’m starting to get pissed because I can’t find the fucking battery and cars are driving through the parking lot and I don’t pay any attention to anything because I’m focused on getting my cell phone operative. Maybe a few frustrating minutes pass and I say to my self, I say, “What the fuck, I haven’t eaten since breakfast, I’m gonna have myself a tomato and finish my beer.”

So. I put the phone away and grab a big purple heirloom tomato, sea salt and pepper, and my big carving knife from my bag and prepare to chow down. I slice a fat slab the tasty homegrown heirloom, get it seasoned and pop it into my mouth. As I swallow the last bits of finely-chewed skin, I wipe the blood from my face with the back of my knife holding hand and then I raise the bottle for another long pull of Carta Blanca.

“Don’t move, Sir. Put down your weapon and stick your hands up.” Instructions from a bull-horned voice and now a spotlight in my eyes.

“Oh leave me the fuck alone, Deputy. I’m just having a little lunch and minding my own business.”

Have you ever noticed just how conflicting the instructions given by peace officers can be? “Don’t move,” are always the first words out of their mouth and they are always followed by some instruction that specifically requires motion.

“Besides,” I instructed. “You have given me impossible rules to follow, so I choose to not play your childish game.”

I slug some more beer and begin operating on my tomato for another slice of that tastiness.

“I said drop the weapon, Sir!”

“When I’m finished and not a second before,” I told him.

I’m starting to think to myself that maybe my bloody face might be a mitigating circumstance in this interchange, and that’s when I hear that electronic whirring sound, noise that is deeply imprinted on my very senses- the sound of a tazer checking its charge in preparation for a discharge.

“Oh for shit sakes don’t tazer me,” was all I got out.


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More Jury Woes; Squirt Helps Mooner (Part 3)

Sunday, June 27th, 2010

So. Before I attempt to finish telling you about my jury duty dealie I want to discuss this thing that happened to me this afternoon. I was over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house babysitting Squirt for a few hours and working with her on her English.

Dixie is teaching her to talk using this system that teaches multiple languages at the same time. When immersed into a pool of five human, three barnyard animal, four plant and the basic spoor languages, a student learns to sink, or swim, quickly. Since the Squirt seems to have grasped the basic ideology of verbal communication and has not drown in her teacher’s word pool, Dixie wanted me to work with her on speaking English exclusively.

Me, I think that the best way to learn the nuance of any language is through its pop music. To help Squirt catch on to English, we watched HBO on TV. HBO is running and re-running this special called the Thirtieth Anniversary of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Now I want to be the first to say that the name is way too long, but the show was appropriately named. The list of acts performing read like a who’s who from popular music.

I won’t go into all of it because that isn’t the subject of this bloggie posting, but I must tell you about this deja-vu dealie that happened to me. Simon and Garfunkel walked out on stage and started singing, and I flashed to this time I lived with my buddy Lloyd up to Lubbock. It was 1968 and the summer after the big tornado ripped through Lubbock and lay waste to big patches of town.

Lloyd, who wants to be called Curtis now- his actual first name, had a nifty new stereo and all of the Simon and Garfunkel records. I could hear the music from his room through two closed doors as I lay in my bed at night.

When S&G sang, “Hello Darkness my old friend,” on the HBO special, my mind flashed to that summer and tears welled in my eyes by the bucket full. I didn’t actually cry, like boo-hoo, but I silently cried through the rest of their set in the same fashion I do when I hear Andrea Bocelli sing Time To Say Goodbye.

When the Italian tenor sings that song, I cry over the loss of my father and Dr. Sam I. Am’s mother, Marie- the two people I most miss from my life. I think of them often and wish I had spent more time with them before they died. The tears and dense sense of loss hits me two notes into that song and those emotions crescendo with the music and then fade just as quickly with the song’s finish. It wasn’t that way in the early aftermath of their deaths as I would be morose for days at a time. Now I go from OK to bucket-of-tears-and-emotions and back to OK in the time it takes to sing a song.

I don’t get morose anymore, in part because my remembrances are as much the joy of my memories as the deep losses. When the song ends, I always take a deep breath and feel as if I was visited by those two favored spirits. I have learned to embrace these emotion-filled happenstances when before I dreaded them.

For shit sakes I’m tearing up now.

Anyway, as for the tears shed today for Bridge Over Troubled Water and the other S&G hits, I can only guess at the root cause for my emotions and tell you that I fear I am spending too much time looking back at my life with regrets. Or maybe guilts. In my entire life I have never intentionally tried to harm anybody, except when they fully deserved it, but I have caused considerable harm none the less. Sometimes I hurt people when my intentions are to bring them joy.

I have these moments more and more often now and Dr. Sam I. Am tells me that it is a sign of my impending maturity. “When you truly accept the responsibility for your actions, which can only happen after you realize the impact those actions had on others, you can then actually feel the pain that you have caused. Once you can actually feel the other’s pain, that experience Mooner, is the hard evidence of growth.” A Pause, and, “Maturity will come when you can manage to discontinue hurting by accident.”

She looked right into my eyes and said, “You have left quite a swath of destruction in your path Mooner, but always in an almost childlike innocence. You are the most responsible man I have ever met and I think you are making remarkable progress. But you remain mostly clueless.”

Then she finished with a kiss to my cheek and said, “Did I tell you I have increased my hourly rate to $175.00 per hour?”

Maybe that exchange can help you understand my love/hate relationship with my psycho therapy.

Squirt has that sixth sense that good dogs have and felt whatever it was that bothered me as Paul and Art sang. She jumped into my lap with her front paws on my chest as I sat in front of Sammy’s big TV. She looked right into my teary hazel eyes with her little brown ones, and she teared-up as well. Then she snuggled onto my chest, pushed her head under my chin and nuzzled my neck.

Silently the two of us soaked the front of my shirt as the music played. Her itty bitty puppy breath was like a salve on my neck as we listened to the sounds of my youth.

As quickly as this moment began, it ended when the next act took the stage. Aretha Franklin is a special lady but for whatever reason her finger doesn’t grip the trigger to my emotions. I took a deep breath, kissed Squirt on the top of her adorable head and told her, “OK you little shitbird, tell me what you want for dinner using only the English language.”

She backed up to where she was sitting in my lap, cocked her head sideways and thought. She brought her now dry eyes to mine and said, “I do like lechuga e your homegrown tomatoes, Monsieur Mooner. Me gusta roasted goat as well.”

“Good job Squirt! That’s only three languages and all are homo sapiens,” I praised.

Which reminds me of something else. I have finally found someone who loves their homegrown tomatoes with the same lustiness as do I. Her name is Renee Studebaker and she is the garden writer for the Austin American Statesman. You can read about her at where you can see what she writes about the local gardening scene.

However, since there was not a single reference to either sea salt or Carta Blanca beer in any of Renee’s writings, it is obvious that her obsession remains second tier to the lunacy that is me. At one time I was on the group that got the newspaper to start focusing on local gardening issues rather than reprinting stuff from Atlanta’s paper. But that is very old news and a bigger story than this space allows.

OK, where did we leave off with the jury dealie? I think I was daydreaming this debate over whom I would choose to have sex with, if I was forced to choose between the Sarah Palin lookalike or the actual Sarah Palin. The Judge awakened me with his question of, “What did you just say Mister Johnson?” to which I replied, “I said don’t fight over me girls, there’s plenty Mooner to go around.”

The entire courtroom found this funny and now people started turning their phones on and snapping pictures of the festivities for Facebook and Twitter.

“Oh for the sake of Mother Justice Mooner, do you even know how to behave yourself?”

I figured this might have been one of those rhetorical dealies so I just sat there wondering if I was spending the night with my rosy red ass in his jail.

“Answer me Mooner. Are you always so inappropriate?”

“Must be, your Honor. According to US News and World Report, the most inappropriate in the entire world. They did a poll and I won. Got the certificate to prove it.” It hangs in a place of honor out to Mooners Compost Plant right next to my Environmental Excellence Award- another story I might tell you guys, just not here.

“Alright Mooner, you come up here and sit in the witness chair so I can keep an eye on you.”

I told him, “Wow Billy, this will be just like when we were back to grade school.”

“That’s right Mooner. Except that Mrs. Browningwell didn’t have the power to put you on death row and I do. Now sit still and do not open your mouth until I ask you a question.”

His Honor turned the festivities back into the hands of the lawyers and I did fine for what seemed like an hour, until I looked at my watch. “Holy shit, it’s 2:30. I must be starved.”

“Mooner, that’s it. I am remanding you into custody. Bailiff, find a cozy cell and pitch Mister Johnson’s rosy red ass right on in it.”

“But look at the time, Billy,” I admonished him, “You are starving these poor people to death.”

And this would be where I had one of those “A-ha!” moments that Oprah Winfrey talks about so much. But I have hit the bloggie word count wall one more once with this jury story.

Look and listen because I am going to impart some real wisdom to you guys. As soon as you get a chance, perform the following sequence of events:

  1. Pop the top on a frosty cold bottle of Carta Blanca beer and take a slug.
  2. Cut two 3/8ths-inch thick slabs of the best tomato you can find; season it with sea salt and black pepper, both coarsely ground; cut those into quarters and arrange them on a small, chilled plate.
  3. While still in the kitchen, eat one of the little quarter-slices slowly enjoying the many flavors that burst into your mouth at first, and then savor the flavor of the skin as you chew on those skeletal remains.
  4. Take another slug of your beer, again savored, then head to whatever room houses your music system.
  5. Decide who you miss in your life the most- living or dead, and play the music you most associate with that person.
  6. Cry, feel sorry for your loss and then grateful for what you did have when that person was still around.
  7. Cancel your next psycho therapy session and send me a check for 10% of whatever your therapist charges for a visit.

I am told that the act of paying for therapy is a large determinant of that therapy’s success. If you won’t pay me, at least make a comment to display your appreciation and enhance your therapy.

Bon appetit!

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Are Two Sarah Palins Too Many?- Jury Still Out (Part 2)

Friday, June 25th, 2010

OK, let’s continue our discussion of my jury duty experiences. When we left off, I had avoided potential conflict at the X-ray stand, the numbered paddle problem had been exposed and I had already been admonished by the Judge simply for being there.

And that would be when my phone started ringing. “Oh for crap sakes Mooner, turn your phone off.”

“Sorry, your honor,” I muttered. “It’s a new one and I can’t quite figure it out.”

“I told him at least twice your Honor.” This fussily said by the jury rustling fuss budget.

I fumbled with the off button and put the offending electronics back into my pocket. This phone distraction got me off the hook and the Judge says, “Next.”

Number 26 stands with his raised number 25 paddle and says, “I’m number 26, your honor and my name is…”

“Oh for shit sakes Mooner, will you trade paddles with that man so I can get on with this?”

“Objection your Honor,” this from the Prosecutor. “This man, number 25, has intentionally disrupted the record. He held a number 26 paddle while representing himself to be number 25. I move to strike his testimony and arrest Mister Johnson for mal intent.”

I’m thinking to myself, I thought, “Mal intent. What the fuck is mal intent?”

Maybe I should try to stop thinking to myself because the judge says, “Mooner, stop cursing in my courtroom and let me handle this or I’ll pitch your rosy red ass into my jail. I have experience with that, don’t I Mister Johnson.” That last part was statement not question.

Then he said, “Objection overruled Mister Prosecutor- irrelevant. He means well but trouble sticks to Mooner like ticks on a deer’s belly.” He added, “Now let’s move on.”

We traded paddles and the judge went all the way through the rest of the numbers without incident. The judge starts back in on his speech about how jury duty requires you to be honest and answer questions under oath and that he can pitch your rosy red ass into his jail if you tell lies. I know that this threat lacks any actual teeth because so many people tell so many obvious lies and their rosy red asses do not go to jail.

Me, it’s not my lies that get me locked up. It’s always the circumstance. And circumstantial evidence.

Anyway, the Judge is about five minutes into his speech again when my fucking phone goes off. Again. “I am so sorry Billy- I mean your Honor. It’s a new phone and I can’t figure it out yet.”

“Bailiff, would you please remove the battery from Mooner’s phone for him?”

He did, but under my watchful eye to insure I could figure how to put it back later. And we get back to the silliness that the judge has to go through as part of the voir dire jury selection process. Those silly words basically mean “truth telling” in French, and it is used to see if potential jurors might be prejudiced either for, or against, a particular party in a legal action.

Why are most French words so silly sounding? I think if I was French I would feel compelled to wear frilly dresses and speak my French with a snotty nose and phlegm-clogged throat.

Again, prejudice has no place in a courtroom. Except, of course, for the attorneys on both sides of the isle- prosecution and defense alike. With the exception of my guy Jeff, I think I might hate all lawyers. I say might only because I haven’t met all the lawyers.

I bring the bias part up now because bias raised its ugly head right at this point. “Your Honor, I wish to approach the bench.” That would be the Prosecutor.

“OK,” from the Judge.

A snippy announcement, “I would like to call number 25 to the bench for a conference.”

The judge says to me, he says, “It’s show time Mooner but I am warning you. If you drop your pants and wave your ass in my courtroom I’m authorizing the Sheriff Deputies to shoot it.” He then turned to the two armed men watching over things and told them, “If this man waves his bare ass at me, I want you to shoot to kill.”

Everyone laughed but me as I walked to the podium known as the bench. The prosecutor starts in on me right away, “Allow me to cut to the chase Mister Johnson. You have been arrested and charged with murder more than once, right?”

What the fuck is this all about?

“What the fuck is this all about?” I waited a beat and he replied, “Just answer the question.”

Now me, I have already been sworn in and promised to tell the truth, which does not require a promise from me, but I know I need to be careful what I say and sometimes the truth can hurt.

“I plead the Fifth.” Take that asswipe.

“Your Honor, will you instruct him to answer.”

“Answer him Mooner.”

From me, “The Fifth.”

“Did you know that this is a murder case?” The Prosecutor.

From me, “I do now- hell everybody knows now. Did he kill anybody I know?”

“Lower your voice, sir. Now, can you tell me why you should be allowed to participate in a murder trial when you hold the District Attorney, my boss, in such low regards?” He says this and folds his arms in that “got you” posture small-minded men use.

“Just because your boss is a brain dead Republican right wing religious fuckwad doesn’t mean I can’t render fair judgment for another man who is assumed to be innocent.”

He was looking at me with this stupid look on his weaselly face so I added, “Maybe I mean presumed innocent.”

Then my ADHD started this fritz dealie it does when I get angry and I had dozens of thoughts spinning in my head all at once. “Hold on just a minute and let me sort out my thoughts,” I told them.

After some short period of time the snotty Prosecutor blinked and said, “Come on Mister Johnson you are giving the wheels of justice a flat tire.” And then he turned and snickered for the audience.

“I have an idea Mister Assistant District Attorney,” I said.

“And that would be?” he inquired.

“You go fuck yourself because I plead the Fifth.”

Normally, this is where I would lower my pants to half mast and display my tastefully-coiffed butt hair, currently plucked and dyed to say, “Happy Birthday USA,” in red, white and blue. Like I told you the other week, SAC Ellen and I are taking the dogs, Dixie and Squirt, and meeting some folks out to Marfa for July Fourth. I’m going to march in their parade and the dogs are going to pull me in a wagon. This particular parade route is too long for me to waddle backwards with my head between my knees, so I’ll be pulled in the wagon this time.

I love parades.

I left SAC Ellen in charge of our accommodations for this trip and you would think we were planing a trip around the world. I have never heard so much conversation and cogitation required to book three rooms for three nights in west Texas.

“It’s Marfa and Fort Davis for shit sakes,” I said this one time after she had spent several hours on the phone with various hospitality people. “You grill those poor people like you think they smuggled a weapon of mass destruction into your territory.”

I think maybe my attitude cost me a sexless night but I always stand up for the little guy.

And I am digressing. Basically, the Prosecutor did not want me on this jury but the defense did. So this Assistant District Attorney is trying to grill my ass in front a courtroom full of nice people and the defense attorney is doing nothing to stop him. The Judge, of course, takes a neutral stand because that is his job and he harbors at least a slight bias towards me hisownself.

I won’t bore you with all the details of the discussion, but the Prosecutor’s argument was basically this. “How can you, Mister Johnson, provide an unbiased ruling in this case when you have been accused and acquitted of so many crimes, including murder?”

My answer, “I can do that by setting my bias aside and factoring your case against the accused tempered with the defense presented by this other lawyer. And since I have a very clear understanding of what, ‘beyond a reasonable doubt means,’ I will, thereunder, render fair and impartial judgment.”

“But you are biased by your experience, Sir,” was all he managed to get out.

“Well fucking duh. Of course I am,” my clever response. “Is it not that lifelong experience coupled with my promise to be fair and just that qualifies me to be a juror?”

Now the Judge is paying attention. “Stop preaching and go sit down Mooner. The Prosecution deserves you for poking his stick in your cage.”

When I took a deep breath to continue my sermon, the Judge stopped me cold. “I said sit!”

I sat. I got several pats on the back and “Atta boys” from my fellow prospective jurors- rewards for a job well done. I started thinking about things not courtroom related and the next thing I know, I’m debating that, if I absolutely had to choose, whether I would rather have sex with the Sarah Palin lookalike from down to the security station or would I choose the actual Sarah Palin.

Would I prefer a 300 pound-plus local girl with a cartoon of the Alamo and my autograph on her ass and who looks like the politician, or would I instead be more desirous of the actual lunatic right-wing religious fuckball with nice skin and who seems to maybe have a dirty side?

See this is a debate because I would have sex with either of them if I liked them because I do not judge books by their covers. Which reminds me that I need to get the cover designed for my book. I have been letting that slip and need to get it on schedule.

Anyway, it seems that my not paying attention to the live action and thinking about having sex with the two Sarah Palins had turned into a dream in which the two Sarahs were fighting over who got to have sex with me. I was at the point in my dream where I say to the girls, “You don’t need to fight over me girls, there’s plenty of Mooner to go around.”

I hear a voice that says, “What did you just say?” to which I repeated the part about not fighting over me.

That’s when everything unraveled on me. But I better stop right here before I offend the blog word count police again.

Let’s all have a cold Carta Blanca beer and a slab of homegrown tomato. More later.

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Mooner Signs Sarah Palin’s Ass; Lookalike’s Husband Angry (Part 1)

Wednesday, June 23rd, 2010

Sometimes I think my life is this fictional story whose author is this lunatic fuckball who’s got no boundaries, has multiple personalities and a deep-fried brain. I called Dr. Sam I. Am for a little phone psycho therapy last night and when I told her this theory she said to me, she says, “That is remarkable insight for a lunatic fuckball whose deep-fried brain knows no limits and is void of appropriate thought from any of his aspects. You are showing progress and I am a psychotherapy miracle worker.”


She also went on to say, “Look Mooner. You are crazy and that’s OK in my book. Just be grateful that you remain, for the most part, functional.” And then she started laughing.

When I asked her what was so funny she says, “The functional part.”

See what I mean- bitch.

If you keep up here to bloggie central you know I was scheduled to jury duty starting yesterday morning. You also know that I am the most unlikely candidate for the title “Juror” as you are likely to find. Think about it.

Ten ex-wives will keep me out of any domestic dispute; I have never been convicted of a single felony yet I have been arrested and incarcerated more than a few times. Wait, yet is a bad choice of words in my case and I don’t mean I have yet to be convicted, like they just haven’t been able to pin a murder on me that I was guilty of committing. I was using yet to mean however.

As for civil cases, I have been involved in so many of those nasty things and involving so many issues, it is nearly impossible to find a civil issue that I have not had as part of a lawsuit of my own. You can’t chose a civil issue that is outside my courtroom experience. In fact, my attorney Jeff has won the “Texas Most Diversified Lawyer Award” nineteen years straight.

Streaker Jones, my family and I are Jeff’s only clients.

Now look, I would love to serve on a jury because I think that I reason better and clearer than 99% of the total pool of prospective jurors who want to serve on a jury, plus I have seen what can happen when all the decent folks opt out. The litigants, the criminally accused and we the People all deserve the best minds you can find and the least biased as well. Jury bias can cause terrible trial outcomes.

Think OJ Simpson, and I rest my case your Honor.

Many, if not most, qualified prospects simply do not feel that jury service is important enough to endure the time and effort to serve. And anybody with an IQ of like 67 or higher can get out of jury duty if they choose. In fact, most of those brighter people seem to do just that.

To each of those people I say this. Imagine yourself on trial for murdering a man that you accidentally killed in self defense. Imagine that this dead guy was a Deacon to his Baptist Church and a State Delegate to the Republican Convention.

Now, imagine that the only people from your jury pool pull who can’t weasel out from serving are Baptist conservative Republicans with an average IQ of maybe 58 quotient points.


Then if you think about the simple fact that you have spent maybe forty years of your wasted life bitching about the Baptists and their hand puppets the Republicans, maybe you can start to formulate my argument that you should embrace jury duty and try to get others to do the same.

Like yesterday, for example. I got up at 4:30 am to get dressed and ready and I drove over to the shopping center there to US 183 and Anderson Mill. That’s the one the Capitol Metro website told me to go to if I wanted to start from my place way out to the boonies and arrive to the courthouse in time. Ignoring the “We Enforce Towing” sign because the bus stop is located on the grounds of the center, I parked and got out. My bus arrived within a minute of its scheduled time and got me to my transfer stop just in front of my express bus to downtown. I want to state here that the buses were clean, the drivers helpful and the timing good.

After a short walk from where I debarked the bus, I got to the courthouse in time to have a party at the security checkpoint. Because I have several metal objects embedded in my skin, I am the party at the x-ray booth. Many people recognized me and I even gave an autograph to this woman who looked just like Sarah Palin except maybe for the extra 200 pounds she was packing.

This is going to be a two-part story, I can tell right now. And remember that I rode the bus because they have no available parking spaces for potential jurors, only actual chosen jurors, and the City tows overdrawn parking meters.

When I signed the nice woman’s Lilly-white left butt cheek I noticed that there was no evidence of underwear and of course, I commented. Her little toothless redneck husband, who had been quite supportive of me having my hands all over her giant ass to draw a picture of the Alamo and sign my name with a Sharpie, became a surly little toothless redneck shitwad when I asked about was I just not seeing the underwear, or was there no underwear to see. Since this woman’s ass was big enough to conceal a meth lab, I thought my question appropriate.

Actually, it was her answer maybe that sparked the Mister’s surliness. In answer to my question the nice lady said to me, she says, “Here Mr. Johnson, take a peeky-poo fur yer-sef.” And she sprightly yanked her jeans to her knees.

Now me, I’m thinking to myself that it has taken some jean lowering practice for this nice lady to get the 12 yards of tightly-packed denim that skins her ass to her knees before I can blink. Her husband, and again this is just what I think, is not blaming me for this particular jeans lowering event. Instead, I think he is blaming me for her already acquired expertise at lowering said jeans.

“So yer tha one ain’t cha Mooner,” he said with tobacco stained spittle spritzing from the gaps between his remaining teeth. “Don’t know iffn I want ta shoot ya er kiss ya.”

Luckily we were scheduled on different floors or I maybe would have had a problem there. Then I get to my floor and endure the seventh grade spring dance that is getting 70 prospective jurors identified and into their appropriately numbered seats. We were all getting identified and assigned numbers by the fussy man in charge.

“Single file Indian Style,” said this guy in charge of jury rustling. “And make sure your phones are turned off.” And then, “O-f-f,” he spelled for us.

Now me, as a quarter American Indian blood owner, I turned my new phone off and took no offense to the Indian style dealie because I think political correctness is oppressive. Never understood why that phrase has such common usage anyway, but I’m not offended. However, the man with the tomahawk nose and long braids two doors down from me held a differing view.

“I’m not moving until you take that back,” he said. It was taken back, with political correctness, so we moved into the courtroom to take our places.

I was number 25, and my day started going to shit as I reached my assigned middle isle seat, expecting to find my plastic paddle marked with a number 25. “This has number 26 on it and I’m number 25. This is out of order.” I’m quick to point out problems because I think the earlier you identify a problem- the easier the solution.

“If you are number 25, sit where the plastic paddle number 25 is located, it is not that difficult.” Not quite a scold from the rustler.

“Fine,” I said as I sat on the opposite isle seat number 26 with plastic paddle number 25.

“I thought I said for you to sit at your number Mister 25. Are you going to be a problem here Mister 25?” A few seconds of agitated jury rustler foot tapping and then, “Move it Mister 25 or you’ll be in contempt of court. I asked are you going to be a problem, now answer me.”

Calmly I answered. “Not so long as you pull your head out of your ass and decide where you want me to sit.”

That’s when I get this “Harumph” noise that my first grade teacher used to get her students all in our seats for an assembly to the auditorium. He grabs me by my arm, gently but firmly, and says as he points to each seat, “22, 23, 24, and then 25, Mister 25. It doesn’t go 22, 23, 24,” now he swings his hand dramatically to point across the isle, “and then 26, now does it?”

And I said, “Not when I count sir. I usually get to eleven and need to start over.”

I am a funny guy.

So he glares and places me in my correct seat next to number 24 but my little plastic paddle still says 26. Now, after this three minute distraction Mister 26 takes his seat, the one that is his correct seat, and he raises the number 25 paddle in the air in front of his face. I decided I liked him right away because he says nothing- he just sits with this big grin on his face.

Now, the Judge starts his speech and part of his introduction to the jury process is to introduce yourselves starting with number one. “Stand up, hold up your paddle for the Court Reporter to see,” starts Judgie Poo, “And say your number and state your name.”

Of course all goes well from numbers one through 24 when I stand with my paddle held high and say, “I’m number 25 your honor, and as you know, I’m Butcher Einstein, known as Mooner, Johnson.”

“Oh for Christ sakes Mooner,” his honor almost swears. “Whose campfire did I piss in to deserve having you in my courtroom?”

OK, let’s stop here and have a cold Carta Blanca beer. This jury thingie is a long story.


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Will Rush Limbaugh the Pig Break His Addiction to Hallucinogenic Drugs?

Wednesday, June 9th, 2010

So. Yesterday when we left off I was attempting to tell you the story of when I went to the Barnes and Nobles Bookstore to do research for Dixie’s children’s book. I was deep into it when Dr. Sam I. Am killed the time on me.

My own time was killed because my watch quit, and since Scott the watch guy is in Colorado fishing, time continues to stand still for me. I like to know precisely what time it is and that need has no specific origins. I know it’s kind of silly, but knowing the time to-the-second is important to me.

Anyway, by the time I got back to Dr. Mean Britches’ office for my afternoon therapy session, I had bigger problems than hashing over events that are now ten days old. It seems that Rush Limbaugh the pig had figured how to open the combination lock on Grams potion pantry out to the ranch and overdosed himself on Gram’s hallucinogenic concoctions.

The pantry is in the barn and sits over the top of Gram’s main mushroom cellar. She grows the mushrooms that serve as the foundation of all her potions down below and then she brews the finished products in the pantry. It seems that Rush Limbaugh has developed quite a sweet tooth for sour cherry juice, one of the many carriers and flavorings Gram uses in her blends.

Dixie tells me that Rush told her he blacked out standing at the back door to the kitchen while he waited for Beetle Bob to throw him some scraps from breakfast. Next thing he knew Gram was firing at him with her double-barreled twelve gage as he ran from the big garden. Beetle Bob is one of Mother’s charges and a paranoid schizophrenic of serious proportions.

“Iffn I ever catch him I’m gonna shoot yur fuckin hog Mooner Einstein Johnson. I walk inta my pantry ta git some bottles a my new church lady potion ta take over ta tha sociable an yur pig has gone an tore tha whole place to hell an back,” this from an irate Gram.

And then, “Einstein my rosy red ass. Only a mormon ud be dumb enuff ta let a pig run loose to a working ranch.”

“That would be moron Gram,” I told her. “Mormons are religious folks like the Baptists.”

“Who gives a shit Mooner. Morons is as Mormons does.”

Maybe I could have said that better but I’m unsure.

“Lemme say it this way Mooner. Don’t mind yur snot nosed hog havin a little cherry water. He just needs ta ask,” she instructed me.” And then, “But he got all halli-juicinated and rooted up my en-tire okree patch.”

“You got tha name a that pig right onna furst try Mooner. Ignorant fat pig what’s addictolated ta high quality medications and cain’t keep is snotty fuckin nose outta a lady’s bidness has gotta be named Rush Limbaugh.”

Then she finished with, “An if he furts my ass agin, I’m shootin you!”

“Look Gram,” I tried to say, “For starters I tried to tell you not to even start dosing that hog. Every time he gets a snoot full he gets to be a hand full of trouble. And he only sticks his nose up your ass because he likes you.”

To maybe end the conversation I said, “If he didn’t like you he’d eat your clothes hanging off the line like he was doing when he first got here.” My Gram still hangs her clothes on a line to dry in the sun.

Wait a minute, my ADHD is fritzing the bejesus right out of me. I was meaning to tell you what happened over to the Barnes and Nobles and I keep getting side tracked. But have you ever seen a 650 pound pig when he’s got a couple gallons of magic mushroom tea under his belt?

I wonder what his hallucinations are about. Does he envision pens full of pretty little piggies in frilly dresses that melt into pink puddles with frilly dresses or does he maybe hallucinate to the meaner side of things.

I don’t think I actually hallucinate any more since I’ve been on my Gram’s potions since my first breath. But even if I did, how could I differentiate my imaginations from my drug-fueled imaginings? Think about it.

I’ve been married and divorced ten times; my grandmother drives a 550-horse power Ferrari around town like she owns the roads; I have been arrested at least a hundred times for everything from jay-walking out to California to murder here to home. I have been incarcerated against my will at least a dozen times over to the Shoal Creek Loonie Bin and have by now spent almost two years time over there. My dog talks to and back-at me and now she is teaching the Squirt to do the same, and I have a significant case of the ADHD. The ADHD puts multiple thoughts in my head at the same time- some real and some imagined, and that is very confusing.

OK, wait again. All of my thoughts are real but some of the thoughts are of imaginary things rather than real ones. What I’m talking about is sort of like how some of your dreams are about things that happen in your real, awake life and some are not.

Which reminds me. I had this dream last night and it was from the celebrity camel toe series of dreams I was having with some regularity. The stimulus for this dream must have been having watched the Kathy Griffin special there to Bravo TV. Kathy talks about this Oprah TV show where Oprah is wearing these real tight jeans that give her a camel toe that, as Kathy put it, “You could saddle-up and ride.”

She was also saying, “Shitballs and fuckballs,” often, and Gram wanted to put a hit out on her for stealing from me. “I lik Kathy Mooner, but she shouldn’t be stealin yur words thatta way. Maybe I should call tha man up ta Dallas and send him a tainer.”

Maybe I should interpolate for you. Gram thinks Kathy, or Kathy’s people, have been reading my blogger dealie and using some of my stuff in her act and that would be a terrible enough offense to call the hit man up to Dallas and give him a retainer in case Kathy doesn’t stop. That would be the same hit man who is holding a $250,000 retainer to insure that I don’t marry Gnat. The whole family likes Gnat too much for her to fall prey to my matrimonial machinations.

Me, I’d be happy just to meet Miss Griffin. Ive seen her numerous times when she comes to town for her shows and I like her. Watch her reality TV show and specials as well. Which is what led to me having this new dream.

So. In this dream I’m stranded at the border between Mexico and Arizona. I’m stranded because I don’t have my passport and I’m stuck straddling the big new fence they built- one leg dangling over each country with my shorts stuck in the bob wire that caps the fence.

On the Mexican side below me stands Oprah and Kathy Griffin and on the other side stands Sarah Palin and Renee Zellweger. Each woman is enticing me to jump to her side of the fence by wagging her camel toe at me. They somehow seem to know that I am both a major admirer of and an experienced judge of, camel toes. Especially those of the celebrity varieties.

Now look, I am not proud of the bulk of this dream but I feel compelled to tell you, so here goes. On the Mexican side, Oprah shows me the camel toe that Kathy mentioned in her TV special and I am mightily impressed. Kathy is impressed as well because she tells me, she says, “Look Mooner, I withdraw from this competition because Miss Winfrey’s far out classes mine.

This is when I realize that Chelsea Handler is straddling the fence with me and she is attempting to distract me from my task. She’s in this leotard and tights and she’s tugging the fabric to emphasize her toe and I must admit, it is massively impressive. I reached out and ran my index finger along the raised fabric edges and Chelsea squirmed and giggled.

But I am a man of honor and I run a fair contest so I removed my finger from Chelsea’s ridges and began my inspection of the American crotch meats on the Arizona side of the border. I examined Renee first and I swear to you I couldn’t see a thing. That poor girl was so skinny she couldn’t have mustered a visible camel toe with a vice and a pair of needle nosed pliers.

“I’m sorry Renee,” I told her. “You need to go eat something before I can even rate you.”

Renee starts crying and snuffle-snotting like women with hurt feelings do, and Chelsea is laughing. “Don’t worry Mooner, I’m not laughing at her,” she informed me. “I’m laughing at the look of disappointment on your face.”

Then she said, “Just like a man. You get four Class A camel toes to choose and it’s the fifth one that gets away with your heart.”

“Not true, Chelse,” I replied. I call her Chelse in my dreams. “I’m just feeling sorry for her.”

And that’s when Sarah pipes up and says, “I haven’t got all day Mooner so look at what I made for you. I call it “You can see Russia from the porch on my coochie.” With that Sarah Palin whipped her cute little skirt from her waist with a flourish.

I woke up this morning with the taste of down feathers in my mouth and was craving borscht soup. I had chewed a hole in my pillow, which explains the feathers, and Sarah let me rock in the chair on her porch- speaking to the cold beet soup.

I’m not apologizing to you for my sexual dreams about Mrs. Palin anymore. They’re dreams for shit sakes.

But, as I sit here writing about this to you I am thinking the following things all at the same time:

  1. Will Rush Limbaugh the pig kick his drug habit?
  2. Have I convinced Gram to leave Kathy Griffin alone?
  3. Will I ever be allowed back into a Barnes and Nobles Bookstore?
  4. Is Chelsea Handler as tender in person as in my dream?
  5. Am I communicating with my audience?
  6. Does anybody give a shit if not?
  7. Will the Carta Blanca Beer folks ever send me a case of beer for my being their biggest fan?
  8. Did I remember to take the bag of groceries with the whole Sockeye salmon I got on sale from Sprouts out of the trunk of my car?
  9. Would I have actual sex with Sarah Palin and would it be as good as in my dreams?
  10. Other stuff and things.

See what I mean about the whole hallucinations dealie? Which one of those thoughts is not normal to you?

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