Archive for the ‘Sprouts Farmers Market’ Category

Unexpected Unfeterednesses; Pope Still A Prick

Friday, February 8th, 2013

 

So. Have you missed me as much as I’ve missed you? I had to take an unplanned travel sabbatical back to Texas for awhile to settle some business issues and I haven’t had the time to write to you.

OK, I just lied. I likely could have found the time to write, I simply chose to do other shit. Like sleep.

Unplanned sabbaticals are difficult times for me, what with the ADHD and all, because planning and organization are the keys to my abilities to control my mental facilities, and faculties as well. Said another way, should I think of my brain as my computer facility and my thoughts as my program faculties, unplanned events are like that Trojan Horse Virus that invaded my Word Press bloggie control systems awhile back.

One minute I’m standing at the checkout counter at the Sprouts over to the Arboretum in Austin, Texas, with a basket full of ripe avocados, onions, jalapeños and cilantro, and the next minute I’m sitting in the back seat of Deputy Sheriff Delroy Armstrong’s black-and-white 2009 Ford police cruiser.

Have you ever been held for further actions in the back of a four-year-old police car? Imagine the ambiance of the mens’ room at Chuck’s Chug-A-Lug—located three blocks off Bourbon Street down to New Orleans—the early Wednesday morning after Fat Tuesday. Take that sensory fodder and pack it into an institutional vinyl bag, toast the bag in hot Texas sun for two weeks, then open the bag. Let the opened bag sun-bake for another week and then clean it with institutional bathroom scrub, re-bake sunnyside up, and then use the vinyl to upholster the back seat of a Travis County Sheriff’s car.

It was a good thing that I allowed for some extra ripening time for the avocados. Deputy Delroy “Can I Take the First Whack at ‘Em” Armstrong is a badged member of law enforcement with whom I’ve numerously encountered previously. At our first meeting, Delroy wanted to, and here I’ll give you my best quoted memory of Delroy’s actual words, “Let me cuff this here Hippy an’ take ‘im out back, Sheriff Wozniak. Beat a little sense inta his thick skull.”

Anyway, I’m back to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe with no obvious damage other than the thick, black bruises on my wrists and the knot on my head just above the hairline where my skull “accidentally” banged the door frame of a 2009 Ford Crown Vicky.

When finally eaten by the crew ranch side there to Austin, it was a rich and creamy guacamole, and a perfect condiment for the slow-grilled goat I cooked while visiting. Gram patted-out fresh corn tortillas and Aunt Hilda made the beans and salad. The Squirt made me keep my window cracked on the drive home as Aunt Hilda’s tasty frijoles give me the gas.

Eye-watering, gag reflex farts. Farts I love to loosen into the tight, sealed confines of an old GTO doing 75 MPH between Abilene and Lubbock, Texas, at 10 am the morning after.

For those minds inquiring, I didn’t visit Mother while there, and nobody is sick—unless, of course you count the assholes who broke in and stole all of Sister and Anna the Amazon’s stuff. That’s the reason for my unplanned visit. The girls were on an anniversary trip down to Mexico when the robbery occurred, and they called to ask me to look into things for them.

If you’d buy my stupid fucking book, you might find the hidden reasons why these two lovebirds would choose Mexico for an anniversary trip, and I’d earn a couple bucks I could donate to the Food Bank. Then again, you can be a tightwad asshole and remain in the dark.

Maybe you’re a right-wing Christian Republican Tea Party shithead, in which case you can kiss my rosey-red ass and then go fuck yourself.

Anyway, I’m still too busy to write, but I am back to Santa Fe. I’m re-pissed at the Holy Roman Catholic Church, the Boy Scouts, and Wal-Fucking-Mart.

OK, stop. Can you be re-pissed at something whereat your being pissed was a preexisting condition having been exacerbated upon receiving new pissing-off inputs?

Fuck Walmart, fuck the Pope, fuck the BSA, and I’ll be back manana, y’all.

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Suicide Prevention Redo

Monday, March 21st, 2011

So.  I’m busy with more book madness today and I can’t budget time for a new posting. Since I managed to make many friends jealous with yesterday’s homegrown tomato story, I figured, “Why not another?”
 As you can see from the opening remarks, computer problems are a constant in my life.  Here from June 5, 2011, I give you the command performance of:

 Suicide Prevention Technique; Mooner Saves Jumper

 Hoo-Yaa!!! I just met with my web expert, Dustin, and I am major league pumped. He is going to fix my many I-net problems and help me get things designed and pretty as well.
 He’s the man who told me about 99designs to do the logo contest. If you have been to the contest site the winner is Number 211 and the designer is SteveO. The contest drew logos from almost 40 designers and I looked at like 250 different designs.
 Several friends in advertising have chewed my ass out for going to 99designs because it bastardizes the process and you can’t get the highest quality. “All you will get are amateurs and stoners giving you designs,” was how one put it.
 But after the success of my 99designs adventure, I agree with Gram on this one. As she would say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. They’re all locos ta me!” And then she added, “Crazy artists ever one of em.”
 I started to tell her, “It’s logos, Gram, with a ‘g’,” but why bother. Every time I’m ready to choke the life out of that old bat she saves herself by lighting up my life with the same mouth that has brought me most of my life’s miseries.
  I am very excited about the logo decision as well as all of the stuff that Dustin is doing here to the webber and bloggie. He’s doing layouts and sliders and clickies and all of that technical shit that would drive me to drink if I was responsible for them. Fact is the thinking about it has caused me to crack open the first icy Carta Blanca of the day.
 If I was one of those suicide intervention officers for the police, I would always carry a cooler filled with Carta Blanca beer on ice along with my portable tomato kitchen stocked with some  of my  homegrown tomatoes. If the tomatoes are out of season, I’d substitute a bowl of fresh smashed guacamole, fiery-hot salsa and a bag of good corn chips- like the store branded ones from Sprouts.
 Then when I perched myself on the window ledge with the potential leaper, I’d give him a thin slice of vine-ripened heirloom with just a touch too much salt and pepper. Let him sit with that for maybe two minutes and get his salivary glands into action. Then I would pull a Carta Blanca from the cooler and make a big deal out of stripping the ice and icy water from the bottle, and I’d wipe the moisture from my hand on my shorts.
 Of course the police would require me to wear a uniform or slacks, but they will work as a coaster as well as shorts. Then I’d say to the guy, I’d say, “Man this is thirsty work.”  I’d make another big production out of opening the bottle.
 Grampa, that would be my Gram’s long suffering and glad to be dead husband, gave me my first bottle key when I turned eighteen. Made of thick stainless steel, it bears the deep, obviously hand-stamped logo and catch phrase of my Grampa’s second favorite beer.
 “Hamms- From The Land Of Sky Blue Waters, Hamms The Beer Refreshes!” are the words and the picture logo is of a happy, dancing bear. The sharp end used for punching the nifty triangular-shaped hole to the top of a metal beer can has long outlived its original purpose, but the pop top end is still going strong after thousands of uses.
 The etchings show the polished and worn evidence of my many uses, and all of my pants have small worn spots or even holes to prove that I carry this treasure with me at all times.
 So, after letting my charge sit with a mouth-full of over-salted tomato slobber, I would fumble with the antique church key and miss opening the bottle on the first few tries. Then, when I do get the cap pried off, I’ll let it flip off and over the side of the building.
 “Holy shit,” I’d tell my jumper. “That’s a long way down!”
 Then, I’d raise the bottle to my lips, but stop just short of my mouth and say, “Oh man, have I got terrible manners. Would you like to have this one?”
 Of course he would and he reaches for the frosty bottle. I’d let him enjoy that first amazing swallow and when he shuts his eyes in pleasure, I’d zap him with the stun gun I have hidden in the waist band of my pants and pull him backward into the building to safety. I’d sit on his chest and finish his beer while waiting for backup.
 Maybe I should trademark this move and sell it to the police. I would do training seminars and get the police to volunteer to play the part of the jumper. I’d get to taze their shaggy asses and get them to pay me to do it. Major win/win kinda dealie.
 All this beer and tomato talk has got me itching. I’ve got this giant Early Girl in my portable tomato kitchen today. Must weigh-in at a full pound. It’s one of those flat, fat jobbies that we get early in the season here to Austin. Today’s olive oil of choice is from Tuscany, sea salt by way of the Sea of Japan, and I’m going to use cayenne pepper on this baby.
 Who is yo daddy? Manana, y’all.

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The Cockroach Solution; First Amendment Yin Yang

Saturday, August 21st, 2010

 

So. I’m cruising over to the Sprouts there to the Arboretum, and I’m clicking through radio stations because Howard Stern is reruns on Friday and I heard all his shows this week. I punch AM 590 and get Rush Limbaugh’s voice saying, “And aren’t we glad we have the Internet so we can get the real news!”

Are you fucking kidding me?

Wasn’t it not so long ago when Old Hog Jowls was bitching about I-net news? He was complaining about how Internet reporters have no moral compass, nor are they accountable for the truth. Am I crazy?

OK, of course I’m crazy. Let me rephrase, “Am I imagining that Rushie has taken both sides of another fence?”

I find it repugnant that many of these so-called pundits consistently twist every story and circumstance to suit their ideologies for starters. But the real American Tragedy to me is that their followers seem ignorant of the ruse. And it isn’t just the right-wing religious fuckballs doing all the ruse’ing. We’ve got ourselves some rusers of the liberal bent as well, also fuckballs, and listed on the Mooner Johnson Fuckball Roll Call.

It isn’t what you believe that buggerates the ever-loving-shit out of me. It’s how you conduct yourself.

After I switched around some more, I heard some other numb-nuts talking about how our President is a Muslim and a foreign-born Muslim at that. Again, are you fucking kidding me? Get yourself a grip to reality for shitsakes.

Before the Presidential election, anti-Obama forces spent very significant economic and research assets to dig that dirt, and plant their seeds of anger. All of this, “He’s a Muslim and not American born nonsense,” is just that. Turns out to be sterile dirt and sterile seeds both.

But when do these guys ever let a little truth get in the way of their ruses? Maybe that should be rusi, or possibly russess.

Americans’ right to free speech, maybe our most important right, is a huge benefit that carries an opposite, and equally large negative. That balance is ignorance and blind faith. When the followers of a free speaker are too dumb to see lies, or so devoted as to ignore them, Rush Limbaugh is born.

Yin, and yang- a terrible thing to waste.

Which reminds me. I spotted a cockroach in a cardboard box when I went to my office this morning. We don’t have many bugs out to Mooners Compost Plant because of all the bats. Seeing the roach, thinking about the bats and thinking about this poker player named Jerry Yang reminded me that Colleen Lindsay is having trouble with palmetto bugs. You know- tree roaches, the big suckers. She needs to get some of our Mexican Free-tail bats from down to the Congress Avenue Bridge. Those guys will snatch the air clean of any insect. And they’re real cuties.

Anyway, I need to prepare for going incommunicado again, so this will be my last posting for a few days.

Manana de la manana de la manana de la manana and so forth until next weekend, y’all.

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Go Daddy Intimidates Mooner More Chelsea Handler Camel Toe Fights Sarah Palin

Wednesday, July 14th, 2010

OK. We were discussing the word count police and my recent bloggie evaluations from Go Daddy when I so rudely left you yesterday. They basically told me to see what keywords you guys hit the hardest and design all of my content around that. And a bunch of other nonsense.

So….. that means everything I write must be about: Chelsea Handler, Kathy Griffin, Sarah Palin, Oprah Winfrey, Rush Limbaugh, pig, Rick Perry, ostrich, including their camel toes, sex, sex dreams, coming out parties, Carta Blanca Beer, plus Mooner’s homegrown tomatoes.

Notice I did all of that without putting any stop words in it.

Everything else is a waste, according to those fuckballs at Go Daddy. Actually, I like Go Daddy and have had frequent and quite lurid dreams about Danica Patrick. She reminds me of SAC Ellen in her solid sexual energy. Except the SACster is much taller and lighter in the hair and longer legs.

Then there would be the whole badge and gun thingie.

I had this one dream when we were to West Texas that night after we watched the Marfa Lights. In this dream, I was playing a game like Whack-A-Mole except that it was camel toes and the whacker was my tastefully dressed pecker. Sarah Palin kept cheating- she was grabbing the whacker and trying to make contact. I’m not a cheater at anything, so I kept asking her to let go of my whacker and to please just push her pocket meat to the mole hill assigned to her.

The ladies were all positioned behind the big game board in the manner of that old TV show Hollywood Squares. Each woman stood behind the game board that had a mole hill for her to proudly display her camel toe. I was in a harness and hanging from a bungy cord so I could bounce around and try to whack a toe to the surprise of the women. But like I say, Sarah Palin kept poking her arm through her mole hole to grab the whacker.

I was quite impressed with her hand strength. I guess pulling the trigger of a gun is an isometric hand strength exercise.

Anyway, Kathy and Chelsea get pissed because Kathy likes to win everything, and Chelsea has the hots for me. I’m older than Chelsea and I’m crazy to boot, so that makes me precisely her cup of tea. So, Kathy is bitching at Sarah Palin and Chelsea is seething at her and the next thing I know, it’s a cat fight. Chelsea attacks Sarah and Kathy somehow gets in the middle and the three of them are all rolling around and pulling hair and shit.

Reminded me of that cartoon character the Tasmanian Devil from back on the Bugs Bunny Show. There’d be this frenzy of fighting and it was like they were spinning in a big featureless ball, with dust and hair flying. Then it seemed they would all tucker out at the same time and just come to a dead stop- each of the three of them heaving and sweating. They’d catch their breath and then Kathy would get pissed again and Sarah would say something stupid and the spinning ball would start again.

Have I told you that I think a sweaty woman is sexy? In particular, I am enamored with beads of sweat in the soft hollow of a hot neck. But my ADHD is getting control of me and now I’m digressing something fierce.

As the other three go spinning around for maybe the fifth time, Danica Patrick says to Oprah, she says, “Why don’t you and I go interview Mooner. I’ve got a stun gun and Mooner’s got his whacker.”

Oprah said, “Let me zap him, Danny, I’ve always wanted to pop a man with one of these.”

Now me, I was hanging there from a bungy cord and I’m thinking to myself, I thought, “Danny? Is that her nickname?” And before I could process any additional information- “ZZZAAAAPPPP!!!”

I didn’t get into any real dream trouble because that’s when I woke up, and with quite the boner. It seems that I can just dream about tazer guns and get the desired erectile effects. Hell, just thinking about it in a daydream can do it too.

See, I was to the Sprouts Farmers Market there to the Arboretum the other day and they were stocking the shelves with a truckload of brand-fresh produce from down in the Valley. The Valley is our big commercial produce part of Texas. This time of year is when all the melons start to ripen along with the red peppers and zucchini and okra and stuff.

I was waiting for them to get everything out before making my selections, hanging out near the cantaloupes. The only thing that was a must get from my list was the okra. Everything else I just get what I need to supplement what we grow to home. Since Rush Limbaugh the pig rooted-up all of Gram’s okra patch out to the ranch, I have to buy it. And massive quantities today because Gram wants to can some with the jalapeños that just got really hot.

“Git me an tha P-cubed some okree, Mooner. It’s cannin day,” was my Gram’s instructions.

My Gram is a great canner. OK, actually it’s P-cubed, Gram’s best bud, who’s the head canner, and Gram is the canner’s head bitcher.

And lookie here- we just hit 850 words. Fucking word police.

I’ll stop right here with my first icy cold Carta Blanca beer of the day and conclude by telling you that Katelyn checked me out at Sprouts and told me she was sorry but, “I don’t have a computer so I haven’t read your blog yet.” Then she added, “I’m a little behind the computer age.”

Now me, I’m behind the computer age myownself, so I won’t take advantage of Katelyn and say stuff behind her back. But it’s too bad that she won’t read that I think she is a number-one Cracker Jack check outer guy for Sprouts, and one of my favorites. Maybe Santiago will let her use his computer.

I’m not happy with this stop-before-you-get-an-entire-thought-out bloggerating business. It feels unethical. Why don’t you guys tell me what you want and maybe I can make some adjustments. And click onto www.godaddy.com and ask them to leave me alone.

Manana, ya’ll.

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Rick Perry Joins Rush Limbaugh In Closet; Republican Party In Turmoil

Thursday, June 17th, 2010

I want to move. Oregon or New Mexico or maybe Finland, you know someplace with summer temperatures the other side of hellish. I’ve already got sweat on my face, sweat running down my back and sweaty balls and I’m taking a shower for shit sakes. June 15th and its already 95 degrees and 95% humidity.

Just so you know, I have a Summons to Jury Duty next week and for a period from June 21through July 2. Are you fucking kidding me? What attorney or prosecutor will want to be looking at my ass sitting in a jury box? But, you never know.

And get this- the letter with the Summons says, “Since there is no parking for the Courthouse, we suggest you make arrangements with Capitol Metro to get to the Courthouse by the 8 am starting time. Again, are you fucking kidding me?

From my place way out here to the far northwest part of the County I would need to leave yesterday at 8 am to get downtown by 8 am today if I use Capitol Metro. Then, once I got there I would need to turn right around and head back so I could get showered and shaved to be back to the courthouse by 8 am tomorrow morning. Assuming they want me to stay for a visit once I’m there, I’ll be needing to make other arrangements for transportation.

The point I digressed about this jury duty business is that I might not be posting anything much next week. But I’ll make it up to you in some fashion or another.

As for Rush Limbaugh the pig, the carpenters just finished installing a private entrance from the side of the house into my closet. It’s like a weather-safe doggie door except bigger. Rush is just too frightened to come out of the closet all the way. He’ll come out and play and stuff but he’s back in the closet every night. And any time he hears the nerve-grating screech that is my Gram’s voice he burns the ground racing to his new door.

He’s like Liberace or Rock Hudson or maybe that lady from the view who got her stomach stapled and lied about it. Everybody knew about their secrets, nobody really cared about them, and each one brought a world of shit down on their own heads while they hid from their truths.

Rush Limbaugh is the most ridiculous of them all if you ask me. Except for Gram, he has a loving and supportive family who both know of, and enjoy, his differences. He is funny and smart and provides me with endless hours of entertainment when he rams his snout up Gram’s ass and furts her.

Gram is the best furt victim I have ever seen in my decades of furting. Jumps out of her socks every time. And since she’s always in everybody else’s business, there’s ample opportunity to catch her bent at the waist with her butt exposed.

But now I have a new problem with Rush Limbaugh’s refusal to come clean and leave the closet. Rick Perry the ostrich has done that thing that baby birds do when they bond with the first living thing they see. Except Ricky has bonded with my Gram, in whom the term living thing has perverse meaning, and that big ass bird is no baby.

Lucky that Dixie speaks Strothio Camelus, that’s the African black ostrich language. There’s a small problem in that Rick Perry was separated from all other birds as a newborn and was raised in a pen with a bunch of pigs. That information should lead you to the conclusion as to the particulars of my current, new problem.

Living with pigs will cause a person to develop pig-like habits. I know that sounds trite as all get out, but it is truer than fictionalized. Pigs jam their snouts up everyone’s ass and squeal and oink and shit all over the place, and so does Rick Perry. Two hundred pound flightless bird thinks he’s a piggie.

Brings new perspective to that whole, “If pigs could fly,” dealie.

Dixie is having a terrible time translating for me because Rick Perry speaks ostrich through his nose, again like a pig. Apparently that messes with the syntax of the vowel sounds in ostrich talk making it difficult to decipher.

When I told Dixie to tell the bird to stop furting Gram or I’d be grilling his skinned carcass on the spit to my big smoker out back, Dixie translated his response. “Well Mooner, he either said that he will be most gracious to accommodate your every wish, or he asked me to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

Sounds like he’s gonna fit in with this family either way.

Star Jones. The lady from The View, her name is Star Jones. Had her stomach stapled and wouldn’t come clean and married this guy that many called gay. I don’t see why any of that should make a difference. Lots of gay people are happily married to the opposite sex. They just can’t marry within their desired sexual parameters, happily or not.

Fucking right-wing Christian Republican shitballs pushing their belief systems up our ass again.

I did a little investigation to learn more about ostriches and discovered several interesting things. First, he’s got 46 feet of intestines and that explains the fact that his farts can melt the glass out of a window frame.

Second is that they run in circles when they try to run away from danger and third, and most interesting is this. An adult ostrich will have two eyeballs, each the size of a billiard ball, crammed into a dense, thick skull. Each eyeball is far larger than his brain.

This set of facts are why my Gram gets so much credit for her senses. Mother thought it was a political statement when Gram sensed the bird’s name was Rick Perry. But once again, science bears Gram’s vision as dead on target.

The running in circles with a very small brain seems visionary fodder for my Gram.

Anyway, Rick Perry has bonded with Gram and keeps furting her by poking his snotty beak up her ass and making this noise that less resembles the sound of a, “Furt!” and is closer to the sound a flat tire makes just as it blows and shreds against the fender at 70 miles per hour.

So now Gram has Rick Perry on the same list as Rush Limbaugh, that’s the “Execute on Sight” list, and that means I’ve got the both of them hiding in my closet. Twenty-four hours a day except for excursions to potty and make mayhem. It’s a good thing the bird is flexible and can get out of Rushie’s door.

And speaking of mayhem, I’m sitting to the dinner table with the family last night and Gram says to me, she says, “Mooner, call yer young a-dult buddies Johnny and Sammy an ask em iffn they lik fancy red Fer-Raries.”

I almost choked on my Carta Blanca and sprayed a mouthful over my plate of enchiladas. “No way Gram. These guys are my buddies and I will not have you ruining their lives.” This I said with resolute firmness.

“Oh stop yer whining Mooner. I’m gittin a touch randy an need some fresh boys ta meet.”

Sweet mother of God, I pray for the young men’s souls.

“No way. And don’t ask me again.”

Then she takes a slug of her own beer and says, “Aw who gives a shit Mooner. I was jist fuckin with ya.” And she added, “Tha P-cubed an me is headin down ta tha Drag ta see what we can shake outa tha cracks.”

That means that Gram and her best buddy, Penelope Paxton-Parades, are taking Gram’s 550-horsepower Ferrari down to UT to troll for young adult males. More frightening imagery.

Sam Barnes and John Egloff, the aforementioned adult young men, have agreed to be my age appropriate consultants for their age group and advise me for all this webber and bloggie nonsense.

If things don’t get any better you can blame them.

But my ADHD is fritzing like crazy and I need to head over to Sprouts.

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Rush Limbaugh the Pig Remains Closeted; Wiccans and Witches Show Support

Monday, June 14th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I could have saved word count by simply saying the ranch is on a busy street. Bottom line is that somebody got tired of feeding and caring for their six-foot tall, 300-pound can’t fly, but can run like a greyhound, bird. Cute shitbird except for the beady eyes and maybe a too surly attitude.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Will Rush Limbaugh (The Pig) Come Out of the Closet?; Mooner Tells All

Saturday, June 12th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Body putty?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I mean really, this was not her business.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ZZZZZZZZZZZZAAAAAAAPPPP!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuckballs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just hit 1,750 words and I need a Carta Blanca.

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Rush Limbaugh Hides In Mooner’s Closet; Santiago and Katelyn Serve Sprouts Proudly

Thursday, June 10th, 2010

You can stop writing me and e-mailing me and calling me about the entire Barnes and Nobles Bookstore dealie because I promise I’m going to finish it right here, and now. I mean shitsicles folks, don’t you understand how complicated my life is even if I didn’t have ADHD?

I mean really. How can I stay true to my promise to write everything in real time as it happens in my head and only tell you stories from the past tense after they become past tense?

That has got to make sense.

Anyway, the exceptional layer of additional bullshit on this bowl of seven-layer dip is from when I went to that bloggie class from the Writer’s League a few months ago. They said that the absolute, written-in-stone, take-it-to-the-bank, bottom line maximum number of words in any blogger posting is 400 words. Anything more than 400 words is a blogging disaster.

400 words? I can’t blow my nose with 400 words. Take yesterday’s posting as an example. That puppy clocked-in at 1,900 words and I never got around to telling you about who I saw over to Sprouts and neither did I finish with the bookstore stuff. Like Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. It still fuck-strates the crap outta me.”

It is frustrating.

But really, who does give a shit? I mean really. Who wrote the silly 400-word rule? And what about this- if I write “400”- one word count, wherein the speller checkie job to Microsoft Word calls “four-hundred” two words, so I’d be breaking the blogger rules if I had 401 words writing it four-hundred, but I’d break Roberts Rules for English if I wrote it 400.

Are you getting a sense of my problems?

Therefore, since I have found it impossible to live by all of the different and differing rules set by others, I simply choose to live by my own, carefully-planned and well thought-out rulers.

Which reminds me. Do you think I use too many hyphens- that would be these things (-), the little dash thingie I placed between the parenthesis- those are these things- (( ))? And why don’t we spell it paranthisisses. That makes more sense and would make a great Spelling Bee word. I’d write a song like the one for spelling Mississippi.

Anyway, fuck the rules and let me get back to my story. So, this morning I went to my usual Sprouts store to get some kale and a bag of those edamame beans because Mother had a hankering for greens and beans. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson got Mother hooked on that particular Sicilian dish way back to when we were still married. Gram, however, has never acquired a taste.

“Git that damned Eddies momma’s beans outta my face Mooner. Them damn things taste like sweetened laundry starch.” Then she’ll say, “Ruins a good batch a farm greens iffn ya ask me.”

Anyway, I was actually looking for Lima beans but Sprouts was out so I substituted the Chinese variety. Or maybe they’re Japanese. I got some other stuff to make the trip worth making and went to check out. Santiago was my register man and Katelyn was my smiler and bagger woman. Santiago was smiling as well because that’s just what the people at Sprouts do. It’s just that I’m more susceptible to the smile on an attractive lady’s face than an attractive man’s toothy grin.

OK, look. That doesn’t mean I want all you men to stop smiling at me. I just mean that a woman’s smile melts a little deeper.

Anyway, they were telling me that they were afraid to talk to me because they are concerned that I might embarrass them here to the bloggie. I was careful to not promise anything except that I would entertain and inform. They also were afraid that I was saying bad things about the store.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I said, startled by the question. “I love Sprouts Farmers Market.”

I love Sprouts. Which brings us back to the bookstore dealie. Let me summarize thusly:

  1. Dixie is writing a kids book, and asked me to research formats of kids books.
  2. I went on Friday morning awhile back, early and in shabby shorts and UT tee shirt, a greasy ball cap and without shaving.
  3. I looked for a poker book and didn’t find it, went to the info stand and waited in line behind this Baptist shitbird who was difficult to help.
  4. I had, as always in season, my portable tomato kitchen and shared a slab of red wonderment with my fellow line standers, but not the Baptist.
  5. When I cracked and shared the required cold bottle of Carta Blanca beer, I was chastised for drinking in the bookstore. So, I guzzled the bottle and put the empty back into my tote.
  6. When I finally got to the head of the line….

I asked the information lady about which children’s books are most popular and she asks me, “What age children,” and I say, “I’m not certain,” and then she says, “I know who you are Mr. Johnson and you are just as difficult as I have been told.”

I’m thinking to myself, I thought, “What the fuck is this all about?” So, I asked her.

“What the fuck is this all about?”

And she says, “Mr. Johnson, I am in your Gram’s prayer group at the church and your rotten soul is number two on our standard agenda. It was number three but then we seemed to lose interest in Tiger Woods soul. Pastor Browningwell says he’s not sure Buddhists have one.”

I’m thinking that maybe I’m proud to be moving my way to the top of this list so I ask, “Who sits at number one?” You’d want to know who sits at one if you were two, right?

She looked me square in the eye and said, “That’s easy, Mr. Johnson. Your sweet grandmother and mother, God bless their souls and give them strength.” Then she added, “Now go look at whatever you want but don’t bother anybody.”

“Fine,” I said. “But if you knew how things really are you’d put me to number one.”

Now, this Barnes and Nobles is the one there to the Arboretum and the kids section is pretty cool. Located deep to the back of the store, it’s kind of like a little store of its own. With short benches, chairs and tables spread about and these little play areas, it’s what I’d design my kids section to be if I had a bookstore.

So. It’s pretty crowded with moms and their kids or maybe nanny’s with other folks kids, but many women and children whichever. I start perusing the stacks looking for what look like popular books and after maybe an hour I have at least glanced at every title in the entire section. And I’m totally lost.

I get a brain storm and figure, “Who best knows what a kid likes better than the puller of the purse strings that hold the cash that buys the books?” So, I gather maybe an armload of what looks good to me, and I’m stopping at each group and asking the kids opinions.

“Do you like this book, little girl?” and, “What do you think about puppy books Willy?” I knew he was Willy because his name was on his shirt pocket.

By the way, remember that I told you I guzzled the beer so I wouldn’t waste it? I did and I had been belching the yeasty beer gas during my perusals.

I was finally getting a feel for things and was stooped to talk to these adorable twin girls about The Little Engine That Could, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I figured it to be one of the kids with a small ball bat but was wrong. As I stood to address my tapper I came to realize that the entire Arboretum Security staff was there to back up the head of Security, Bert Massey, the tapper and using his night stick.

“Hey, Mooner, can you come quietly with us?”

I answered, “Sure Bert. You need my help with another snake escape?” Bert and I are well acquainted from several previous incidents here to the mall. Well, it isn’t really a mall but I think of it the same way. The last time I saw him was when this stripper from Las Vegas left the car window rolled down too far and her python escaped.

“Na,” he said. “Different problem today.” Then he shuffled his feet around and said, “Look Mooner. I’m sorry to do this to you, but will you mind stepping outside with us?”

“Sure,” I told him. “Just let me get a final opinion on the Little Engine and Little Lucy Songbook.” I turned back to the twins.

“Mooner!” It was almost a shout. “Now. Please, now.”

“OK, Bert, keep your knickers on. What’s the big rush?”

That would be about the time the first little kid started crying and then Willy took the plastic hammer away from this other kid and whacked him on the nose and then things got a little chaotic. Now, everybody in the store has gathered to see what was up, and this one lady came over to me and said, “I know you. You’re that child molester from Florida. The one that was stealing little kids from the bookstore.” Then she added, “Look- same ratty shorts and greasy cap as from the picture.”

She held up this three-ring binder with a bunch of mug shots that were in those plastic sleeves. When she held this one photo up to my face she said, “See?”

“Let me see that,” and I grabbed the book from her. “Look here Bert. This is a picture of some asshole named Clovis Williams. Says here he’s 5 feet 7 inches and has a Popeye tattoo on his forearm.”

I rolled my sleeve up for inspection and said, “See here- only thing I’ve got inked on me is my Salvador Dali droopy clock tattoo. Not a Popeye in sight!”

OK, now stop the presses. My little tool bar word counter daealie says I already hit 1,682 words at the end of that last paragraph. And I think it’s time for me to have a little tomato snack and a cold Carta Blanca beer. This morning I plucked the first of the little miniature plum variety, the one that looks like little tear drops. These get a deep ruby red, almost purple color when they ripen.

These little guys are the bird’s favorites right now. And the acid is way up in everything after the great rains we had the last several days. By this time next week we’ll be harvesting everything we planted this year excepting for the okra. We salvaged as many okra plants as we could and replanted them back in rows after Rush Limbaugh the pig tore them all to hell and back.

I’ve been hiding him in my master suite to keep him out of Gram’s sights.

Fuckballs. Now I’m at 1,840 words.

Manana ya’ll.

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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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Juli, I’m Sorry; Don’t Drink Beer At Barnes and Nobles; Psycho Therapy Is Frustrating

Monday, June 7th, 2010

I just got finished with my morning psycho therapy session and the topic of discussion reminded me that I still haven’t told you guys about what happened when I went to the Barnes and Nobles Bookstore over to the Arboretum.

I was doing some research for Dixie because she wants to write a children’s book and needs formatting advice. I guess she wants me to do it for her because I’m already a successful author and I have kids.

Anyway, I was in therapy this morning and Dr. Sam I. Am asks me, she says, “OK, Mooner, let’s talk about your latest fuck-up. It’s been more than a week and you haven’t spoken a word about it.”

I just sort of stared at her like she was the moron because I truly didn’t know what she was talking about. Then I remembered and I said, “Oh yea. I was up to the Sprouts yesterday to get some organic lettuce. It’s been so hot that all the lettuce burned out and the big ranch garden has only summer crops. Sprouts has the best price on a three-pack of organic romaine anywhere to town.”

The good doctor is just staring at me so I continued. “I got my lettuce, some apple cider vinegar for salad dressing, and a big bag of turbinado sugar. Then I saw that they were selling berries for $.99 per half pint and I loaded up on those. When I checked out, Juli, one of my favorites, was my register person and she was sort of pissed at me.
Doctor pain in the ass is still just staring at me so I say, “OK, look Sammy. I know I told Juli I wouldn’t name her by her real name to the bloggie in that posting last week but I forgot. She was hurt that I mentioned her name and was obviously embarrassed by what I had written.”

Now the bitch doctor’s steely gaze is getting under my skin. “Oh for shit sakes Sammy, I told her I was sorry and would never do it again.”

I decided to return the cold shoulder and not talk to her so I started looking around the office with my lips zipped tightly shut. I grew tired of counting the little holes in the ceiling tiles when I got to 13,188 and glanced at my watch to see how much more silence I had to endure until my time expired.

“Fuckballs!” I said. “My watch has stopped.”

And after I spoke, “Oh fuckballs twice. I was gonna make you talk first.”

“You will never learn Mooner.” said Dr. Am-Johnson. “I am strong of heart and will and you Mooner are, simply put, still you.”

I keep telling you guys she’s a bitch.

“I need to call Scotty and get him scheduled to fix my watch,” I said with manly concern.

“Stop whining about your watch Mooner. You’ve got bigger problems than knowing the time to the exact second. Now, tell me about the incident at the bookstore.”

Have I told you guys about my buddy Scott? He retired from the TCEQ awhile back and now he does a little consulting but mostly he does retiring and watch/clock repairs. He is one of the few good men I know from my entanglements with government officialdom and he has become a friend. Maybe he does retirementing.

Anyway, he is a watch and clock collector/seller and a terrific repairer of timepieces. He can fix anything and he is honest and trustworthy. He has a large collection of military watches and he is quite active in that market, I understand. If you need a repair or you want to buy an interesting timepiece, contact him at smccoy26@austin.rr.com . He might not get right back to you because he is after all, retired. But you will be glad you waited.

Have I ever told you guys that I like my watch to provide me with the exact time? I don’t know why and I can’t place a single event in my life that was crucial in a to-the-second sort of way. Except for a few fireworks dealies and maybe the one time Streaker Jones and I decided to see who could hold his breath the longest.

But I should have known that Streaker Jones could beat me in a breath-holding contest. He beats me at everything except wifing and the whole ex-wifing thing. Maybe that might need to be wivesing and ex-wivesing thing. And it would be things, plural.

Oh for shit sakes. They would be things.

“Mooner!” Dr. Sam I. Am yelled at me. “De-glaze your eyes and look at me.”

I snapped out of my watch thoughts and looked at her. “What, Sammy? What, what, what?

“Lower your voice buster, and tell me about your problem at the bookstore. Tell me now or I’m calling for the ambulance to haul you to Shoal Creek Mental Hospital where I’ll book you a three-week engagement.”

And then she added, “Maybe that will improve your focus.”

“OK, fine. First of all, it wasn’t my fault. I just want to get that straight from the start,” I began. “Well you know that Dixie wanted me to do some research for her and it was Friday a week ago. Not last Friday three days past, but the one before that. It was the Friday before Memorial Day, whatever day that was, maybe the 28th of May, I think.

“So, since I was going to Sprouts anyway I decided to stop at the B&N books to look around since it’s so close and they have a big kids section.” Now I took a big breath and continued, “It was early and I didn’t shave and I had dressed myself so my outfit wasn’t fully coordinated, and I was wearing a greasy auto parts cap because I forgot to take it off.”

Maybe I was providing too much detail because Sammy says to me, she said, “Mooner, get to the point.

“OK, the point was this. I walk into the store and spy the kiddies section straight to the back of the store. I was headed back and remembered that Jeff Hwang has a new book out on Pot Limit Omaha and I’m trying to learn to play that game better to broaden my poker horizons. I walk over and they don’t have it on the shelf. There’s this guy standing beside me at the Poker Section and he’s holding the last copy.

He says to me, he says, “Look here,” and he shows me the inside of the book. “You can order right from Jeff at www.jeffhwang.com .”

“Thanks, man,” I told him. “But I wanted to get started right away. I’ll just see if another store has one.”

“So. I go to the information desk and have to wait in line behind this shitwad who’s asking about do they have the new inspirational book by that TV evangelist Tupac Shamir or whateverthefuck his name is. You know, the Indian guy from India except that he sounds like a Harvard law graduate and dresses like a TV talk show host.”

Maybe that guy’s name is Shupok Darfur.

I took another big breath and continued to Sam. “I had my portable tomato kitchen with me and since this was looking like an endurance kinda conversation ahead of me, I sliced off a couple slabs of Early Girl and passed them to the folks now crowded in line behind me. I didn’t give one to the guy in front so’s to not disturb his already trackless train of thought.”

Now I’m getting into my story when Sam interrupts me. “Get to the point before I kill myself, Mooner. You are driving me to distraction!”

“The point is, you can’t drink alcoholic beverages at the bookstore. When I popped the lid off the frosty Carta Blanca beer from my little kitchen and passed that around, the information lady working with the brain dead questioner ahead of me got snippy.”

“ ‘Put that beer away, sir.’ This was loud whispered like a teacher telling you to stop pulling on Susie Ashburn’s pigtails back to first grade. The teacher is whispering because you are supposed to be taking the spelling test that all the other students seem to be managing without distraction.”

“Anyway,” I continued, “I just downed the rest of the beer myself, stashed the bottle back in my hemp tote bag, and headed to the children’s section to begin my research. When I got back there…”

“Oops, sorry Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson interrupted again. “Your time’s up. We’ll continue in this afternoon’s session.”

I really think psycho therapy helps. I really think psycho therapy helps. I really think psycho therapy helps.

Gram says that if you can say something three times in a row real fast it will become true.

I love my life. I love my life. I love my life.

Fuckballs.

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Suicide Prevention Technique; Mooner Saves Jumpers

Saturday, June 5th, 2010

Hoo-Yaa!!! I just met with my web expert, Dustin Sparks, and I am major league pumped. He is going to fix my many I-net problems and help me get things designed and pretty as well.

He’s the man who told me about 99designs to do the logo contest. If you have been to the contest site the winner is Number 211 and the designer is SteveO. The contest drew logos from almost 40 designers and I looked at like 250 different designs.

Several friends in advertising have chewed my ass out for going to 99designs because it bastardizes the process and you can’t get the highest quality. “All you will get are amateurs and stoners giving you designs,” was how one put it.

But after the success of my 99designs logo adventure, I agree with Gram on this one. As she would say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. They’re all locos ta me!” And then she added, “Crazy artists ever one of em.”

Every time I’m ready to choke the life out of that old bat she saves herself by lighting up my life with the same mouth that has brought me most of my miseries.

I am very excited about the logo decision as well as all of the stuff that Dustin is doing here to the webber and bloggie. He’s doing layouts and sliders and clickies and all of that technical shit that would drive me to drink if I was responsible for them. Fact is the thinking about it has caused me to crack open the first icy Carta Blanca of the day.

If I was one of those suicide intervention officers for the police, I would always carry a cooler filled with Carta Blanca beer on ice along with some fresh homegrown tomatoes. If the tomatoes are out of season, I’d substitute a bowl of fresh smashed guacamole, fiery-hot salsa and a bag of good corn chips- like the store branded ones from Sprouts.

Then when I perched myself on the window ledge with the potential leaper, I’d give him a thin slice of vine-ripened heirloom with just a touch too much salt and pepper. Let him sit with that for maybe two minutes and get his salivary glands into action. Then I would pull a Carta Blanca from the cooler and make a big deal out of stripping the ice and icy water from the bottle, and I’d wipe the moisture from my hand on my shorts.

Of course the police would require me to wear a uniform or slacks, but they will work as a coaster as well as shorts. Then I’d say to the guy, I’d say, “Man this is thirsty work.” I’d make another big production out of opening the bottle.

Grampa, that would be my Gram’s long suffering and glad to be dead husband, gave me my first bottle key when I turned eighteen. Made of thick stainless steel, it bears the deep, obviously hand-stamped logo and catch phrase of my Grampa’s second favorite beer.

“Hamms- From The Land Of Sky Blue Waters, Hamms The Beer Refreshes!” are the words and the picture logo is of a happy, dancing bear. The sharp end used for punching the nifty triangular-shaped hole to the top of a metal beer can has long since seen use for its original purpose, but the flip top cap popper end is still going strong after thousands of uses.

The etchings show the polished and worn evidence of my many uses, and all of my pants have small worn spots or even holes to prove that I carry this treasure with me at all times.

So, after letting my charge sit with a mouth-full of over-salted tomato slobber, I would fumble with the antique church key and miss opening the bottle on the first few tries. Then, when I do get the cap pried off, I’ll let it flip off and over the side of the building.

“Holy shit,” I’d tell my jumper. “That’s a long way down!”

Then, I’d raise the bottle to my lips, but stop just short of my mouth and say, “Oh man, have I got terrible manners. Would you like to have this one?”

Of course he would and he reaches for the frosty bottle. I’d let him enjoy that first amazing swallow and when he shuts his eyes in pleasure, I’d zap him with the stun gun I have hidden in the waist band of my shorts and pull him backward into the building to safety. I’d sit on his chest and finish his beer while waiting for backup.

Maybe I should trademark this move and sell it to the police. I would do training seminars and get the police to volunteer to play the part of the jumper. I’d get to taze their shaggy asses and get them to pay me to do it. Major win/win kinda dealie.

As for my I-net improvements, Dustin hopes to have some stuff to look at soon. And I need to give him a plug because anyone who can work with me and my ADHD and still provide quality output needs to be plugged. You can get Dustin at www.dustin.net

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Rainforest Partnership Might Be OK; Matt Damon Is Not Corporate

Sunday, May 30th, 2010

OK. Now that I’ve got you guys helping me with my logo design contest over to 99designs, we can start to deal with my other problems. I know that you know that Dixie is writing a children’s book and asked me to do her research on what layout would be best for her book. I don’t know why she won’t do it herself and just go talk to some kids, but she’s like most all of the women in my life. Pushy, ornery, stubborn and ultimately- lovable.

Women and me (I?) are an interesting puzzle that neither has seemed to solve. And don’t try to tell me that the me/I question I just asked has a simple answer.

Anyway, I told you about going to the B&N bookstore that’s near my favorite Sprouts store and spending some time doing research yesterday. On my visit to Sprouts early this morning, I picked-up some lamb ribs and beef liver that I’m going to serve at tonight’s Johnson Family BBQ. I got my food and packed it on ice because I had an appointment down to the Moonshine Grill- you know there to Red River near the Convention Center.

I was meeting Maia for lunch to talk about her new internship at the Rainforest Partnership. I was also meeting Maia to meet Maia since I had never met her before. Maia is the daughter of my buddy up to Dallas and I’m glad that I’m firmly settled into my relationship with SAC Ellen, because Maia has all of the charms I hold sacred in a woman.

She’s smart, cares about the environment, is a hard worker, she’s interested and interesting, knows how to laugh and she has the extra benefit of being cute as a button. The reason I’m glad that I’m with SAC Ellen is that I have already ruined enough friendships with my passes at somebody’s daughter. Daughters. There was this one time with my auto mechanic who has twin daughters, and he is now my ex auto mechanic.

Then there’s the other whole thing about me being quite happy with the SACster and unwilling to do anything to screw that up. On purpose.

But I’m already digressing. The ADHD is on the fritz so I might wander a touch. On my way to meet Maia for lunch I started thinking about how to cook the liver. The lamb ribs are easy- rub with olive oil, season with chunky-ground salt and pepper and grill. But the liver is another whole dealie- should I braise it first and then grill it for a little smoke and char, or should I just marinate it and then fire it up. I missed my turn and was halfway to Dripping Springs before my brain latched to the hinges of here and now.

Have you ever thought of how many different marinades you can use on fresh liver?

Anyway, Maia is a student at Texas State University down to San Marcos, the same place where one of my boys graduated. She wants to be involved in environmental issues as a life career, as well as her life choices, and that makes her OK in my book. She called me for some strange reason to see if I could help her with some ideas.

I agreed to meet her because her daddy asked me to and because she is an environmentalist and interning at an organization about which I am clueless. And also because I am still looking for a good cause who is not too embarrassed by me to want to link-up together with me for a share of my profits.

Wait, that’s not entirely true. I know much about rain forests but little about Rainforest Partnership. And what about this- am I looking for a cause who wants to link with me, a cause that wants to link, or a cause which wants to link? I can run that train over each of the three grammatical rules tracks and find my destination.

When you have ADHD like the variety that infects my brain, you can find reasons to apply any and all rules.

So. Maia is going to be doing corporate sponsorship stuff for the RP and she thought that maybe I could help. I told her that most of my experiences with the corporate types usually end in a lawsuit or a visit to jail. Or a stay to the loonie bin. But I am a good poker player so I thought I might have some good corporate guy tells for her.

“Look,” I told her. “Your corporate sponsor types will only get involved on two conditions. The first would be if one of the high muck-d-mucks in a company favors your cause as a human person in his/her personal life. You know, like Matt Damon and the clean water issue, except that Matt Damon isn’t corporate in any way.” I then went on to tell her that since many corporate types are Baptist Republican shitballs and not real humans, she might want to concentrate on the second condition.

Now that’s not to say that America is not populated with some corporate types who managed to climb the ladder with their souls intact. It’s just that the ones of that breed who have made it to the top have likely been previously snatched away by already established causes. Like Matt Damon.

Going strictly on my personal experience, many of those other guys sold their souls to climb the ladder to the top. That or they didn’t use the ladder, and instead made their way to the top by building the tallest pile of co-worker corpses so they could stand on top and grab the brass ring.

I don’t like companies that build their success on the burned-out bodies of their current, and former, employees. Back to the seventies that was the very definition of a Fast Track Homebuilder.

Again, I’m certain that many of those corporate guys have good hearts and an unsold soul that still remains mostly outside the Devil’s reach.

Please tell me that all made sense.

So, assuming condition one goes unmet, condition number two is that you need to find a way to make your charity and/or cause interesting to the corporate types. When I asked Maia how you can make your cause interesting to a corporate type she said, “Find a way to show them a benefit they can gain if they work with us.”

Told you she was smart.

Then we brainstormed some ideas, an endeavor my ADHD-addled mind can handle with ease. When I can get each of my many thoughts focused upon one central theme, I’m a one-man stormed brain. My only problems with brainstorming are getting my hundreds of ideas verbalized and giving the other stormers a chance to speak in a 15-minute session.

Oh yea, and there would be the problem of my digressions.

When I asked Maia if the Rainforest Partnership would be interested in cross-pollinating with my webber and bloggie by linking-up, she got this weird look on her face that I am most familiar with.

I hate that look. It means, “Mooner Johnson is crazy and I am unsure how to tell him No.”

My only hope to get cross-linking from the Rainforest Partnership guys is if Maia gets desperate for sponsorship options and I get what I want as someone’s last option. That doesn’t bother me at all. I mean I don’t wish her to be frustrated but I will rush in to fill the gap.

It’s like my Gram always says. She’ll say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner, long as ya git what-cha was wantin.”

Anyway, I had quite the experience over to the Barnes and Noble store. I’ll tell you later after I review and comment on the 20 new design submittals I have for my logo contest over to 99designs. Please log on to 99designs and help me judge this contest.

Pretty please.

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Rush Limbaugh is a Pig Who Likes Mooner’s Homegrown Tomatoes

Thursday, May 27th, 2010

Remember me telling you guys that Dixie wants to write a children’s book, and I told you that I was going to visit some bookstores to research a book format for her? Yesterday it was, I think. She does and I did agree so I spent the morning at the Barnes and Noble over to the Arboretum. I chose that book store because they seem to have a large children’s section and also because it is close to my favorite Sprouts store.

They had a special on sea scallops and organic lettuce and celery. I only buy organic celery and lettuce because the inorganic selections have unconscionable levels of chemical residues left from bad farming practices. I would like to tell you that I only buy organic everything but that would be a lie. Certain things must always be organic, like celery, and my others choices are subject to my pride and prejudices.

Like, I’m proud to pay extra costs to local farmers for their organic produce and meats. The price almost can’t get too high if those guys need it to flourish. But I will not pay six dollars for one organic artichoke grown down to Florida. I mean first of all, where in Florida do they have weather cool enough to grow my beloved chokies?

Remember Fire Sign Theater- “I’m Artie Choke and we’re just a joke?”

First time I heard that album I had never seen an artichoke and though it was maybe a cool martial arts move. Now, of course, I am a fan of and an expert cooker with chokies. Gram named them chokies after my first attempt at cooking them. Didn’t have any directions so I failed to make the connections between the name of the veggie and the effect that requires the Heimlich Maneuver.

Of course it had to be Mother to eat the damned choke part and almost die choking. She turned all blue and fell from her chair to the floor. We were all sitting there to the dinner table and enjoying most of the first plate of artichokes I cooked. Everyone but Mother seemed to know how to avoid the choke part and was either pulling it off or discretely spitting it into their napkins.

Well except for Gram. She was storing the chokes from hers in her cheek like a chipmunk. When she finished with her servings she left the table and went to the kitchen. I heard her drag the garbage can from the pantry and then, “Pfluggsht!” and then a spit, a cough and Gram yells, “Fer cripes sakes, Mooner. Take tha gills outta yer chokies next time.”

It seems like Mother is always the one with a fish bone or a mouthful of choke stuck in her throat. Drowning them in garlic and tarragon seasoned lemon butter won’t help the choke go down as our entire family can testify.

But if you want something really tasty, try this:

  1. Cut the stickers from the leaf tips and a half-inch end off the stem from the artichokes. Then cut them into quarters lengthwise. That will mean that each cut piece has top, middle and bottom to the stem. I actually cut each of mine into six parts- halve it and then thirds, but some people have trouble with that entire square root of Pi thingie. Leave the choke in for now but don’t forget it later. The choke will help hold the cut parts together while cooking.
  2. Place the parts in a lidded pan that is large enough to fit all parts in one layer. Make more batches if need be, but don’t stack them in your pot. Once placed, salt with sea salt, black pepper and cayenne to suit you. Then put water to a half-inch depth and then a quarter-inch of dry white wine. Cook over medium heat until almost tender- still firm. Remove from the pan to cool and drain.
  3. Make the butter dipping sauce in a very small saucepan. I place my small one-cup Revere Ware pot on the lid of my artichoke pot to cook. Use enough butter for how ever many chokies you have and then peel, crush and coarse chop a big garlic clove for each choke and place both in your little pan. You want to slow-cook the garlic to release its wonderment and sweeten it up. Like I say, I put mine over direct heat a few times to get it up to heat, and while the chokies cook the little pot sits atop the lid of the bigger pot the rest of the time. Don’t burn the garlic.
  4. Grill the chokies on a hot grill for just long enough to heat and grill-mark each of the three sides. I sometimes pre-cook big batches that I freeze for later grilling. Make sure that whatever you grill has come to room temperature before grilling.
  5. Just before serving, add sea salt, black and cayenne pepper to the butter to taste. Add fresh fine-chopped tarragon to suit your taste, if you like the taste, and then just a squeeze of lemon. Start with a quarter teaspoon and add more if you wish. You can’t de-lemon butter any better than you can re-virgin a pregnant woman.
  6. Remove the choke from each piece, get out the cold Carta Blanca beer and some homegrown tomatoes, and serve those puppies.

Hoo-yaa! Goes with steaks or chicken or goat- anything else you grill.

Rush Limbaugh, our pet pig, eats all the cooked parts we leave including the chokes. He’s a pretty picky eater for a pig but that’s maybe because we eat so well ourselves and don’t feed him many table scraps. For some reason he won’t eat raw fish, and I find that peculiar.

Rushie’s favorite food is my homegrown tomatoes so I grow a half-acre patch just for him. His second favorite food is greens- any kind of greens. We plant greens as row filler around the tomato plants. Dixie taught him how to discern the differences between weeds and his feed plants so he roots around and does his own cultivations.

He does get a tad short of patience waiting for his tomatoes to ripen.

Holy shit, my ADHD and I have digressed my shorts off. I’ll tell you about my bookstore adventure later.

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Dental Hygienists Sue Gram; Sprouts Has The Answer

Saturday, May 22nd, 2010

Gram is on the war path. I told you she has this new potion for curing gum disease she calls Ginger I’m Invitin Ya Ta Go Away, right? Well, it seems that the American Dental Hygiene Association got wind of the trials she was doing over to the research lab that Streaker Jones and I own, and they filed a lawsuit and got restraining orders to stop her clinical testing.

Lawsuit says that my Gram is, “Conducting illegal research and creating a Public Nuisance.”

Well fucking duh!

You ever meet Gram? That old leather saddle bag is a Public Nuisance. Half of Central Texas heads for the hills when they see her coming and the other half simply isn’t smart enough to know to run. Or maybe they’re new to town and just don’t know any better.

I mean really. Remember Granny from The Beverly Hillbillies back to the earlier days of TV? If you guys were to see a wrinkled old woman, that looked like Granny except extra well-worn, driving a bright red Ferrari downtown at 100 miles per hour- banging and pinging off everything in sight, wouldn’t you run?

But you would be astounded at how the men and boys, a few women too, are attracted by that damned car. Streaker Jones got it for her when she didn’t kill me this one time. She had to go an entire year without inflicting any serious damage to my person, which almost killed her.

Anyway, Dr. Kelly Keith is our dentist and Melissa is our hygienist and we love them both. They office in a nifty old house over to Red River near the University. We had to talk Gram down from going over to Red River with her shotgun.

When I asked her why she was planning to shoot my favorite hygienist, and hers, she said, “Hynie-geeners is as hynie-geeners does, Mooner. I cain’t be a playin fav-rits.”

That was the point when Mother fainted.

“Look Gram,” I tried to intervene, “Let’s make sure that Melissa favors this lawsuit before you start shooting.” Then I thought to add, “Jeff is pretty good at getting us Johnsons acquitted of murder charges but he keeps reminding me that we need to have justification.”

“Don’t you double talk me Mooner Einstein Johnson, I’m a lookin fer justice. I ain’t gonna shoot her, Mooner, just scare sum sense into her.” And then she added, “Einstein my rosy-red ass. I shoudda shot you when I had tha chance.”

Have I told you that Mother feints often? Well she does. Gram says she’s, “Got tha deli-cat sensor billies.”

That just cracks me up.

When I asked Gram how Mother can be so sensitive with Gram for a mother she says to me, she said, “Lookit, Mooner. Yer Granpa an me furgot yur mother up to Amarillo this one time when we came back from vacating. We stopped at the Pala Dura Cannon ta have a look-see and just left her. She always was a quiet one but she was a’feart a rattlesnakes and they was ever’where up there in them rocks.

“Back then it wuzza two day drive each way. Yur Muther was all alone fer five days inna cannon with them snakes.”

“I taught her ta play dead when she was ta see a snake and I guess her faintin is just her a playin dead. She got enuf practatin that one time to git good at it.”

Is it any wonder I’m so fucking crazy?

Explains Mother’s feinting as well.

Anyway, I was making my Saturday visit to Sprouts to get some fresh wild salmon, Carta Blanca and other fixings because the salmon was on special and you can never have too much Carta Blanca. OK, you can drink too much at one sitting but you know what I mean.

When I checked out I got Juli as my cashier, and she is one of my favorites. She’s got an ear ache from her allergies, poor thing, but she had some good advice when I asked how I could keep Gram out of jail.

Juli told me, she said, “Why don’t you get her distracted- you know, get her attention focused on something else.”

See why I like to go to Sprouts?

When I asked her how I might distract Gram, she said, “Tell her about the big fraternity party at UT. All of the frat houses are having their end of school party on the same night. Tonight. Everyone at UT knows your grandmother likes to hang with frat boys.”

I wanted to kiss her.

“I guess it would be inappropriate to kiss you, Juli.”

“Mr. Johnson, Harry has told all of us to keep our distance. You can thank me by not writing about me in your blog.”

And then she added, “I have my reputation to protect.”

Wait a minute. You guys all know that Gram didn’t mean Pala Dura Cannon, right? Gram was talking about Palo Duro Canyon, the half sized replica of the Grand Canyon up near Amarillo.

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I Get That A Lot, or, When Your ADHD Is Not Obsessively Compulsed

Friday, May 21st, 2010

I was over to the Sprouts Farmers Market store this morning and Harry called me back to his office for a chat. I spend so much time there I am often mistaken for an employee. When I say that I spend so much time, I am speaking both from frequency and duration of the visits.

If we were evaluating me as a porn star based upon the frequency and duration of my Sprouts visits I’d be a star.

I go often- almost daily and sometimes more than once a day when I forget things from my list. Always armed with my Postie Notes list as I enter the store, my ADHD interferes with my list checking and digresses me into activities and purchases not on the list, at the expense of listed necessities.

Like yesterday when Gram insisted I get her 40 pounds of fresh ginger for some new potion she concocted and Sister asked me to get some of the fajita meat that was on special. When Sprouts puts something on special it is usually a big deal so Sister invited a bunch of her lesbian buddies out to the ranch for the Johnson Family Friday Night BBQ.

Gram’s new potion is to prevent gum disease and she calls it Ginger I’m Invitin Ya Ta Go Away. When I tried to tell her it’s gingivitis and not ginger-invite-us, she said to me, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. People need pink gums.”

OK, but 40 pounds of fresh ginger?

As I was choosing the zucchini that was on my Postie list yesterday, I started admiring the legs and eyes and bottom of this lady, none of which appeared on my Posties.

So, I’m kind of googling at this nice lady’s long, tan and silky smooth legs and she says to me, she says, “You look just like that asshole Mooner Johnson. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

“Why yes, as a matter of fact they have- I get that a lot.” I am always quick with a clever retort.

And she added, “Well if I was you, I’d fix that problem. Have you considered cosmetic surgery?”

“Well,” I said to her, “I did have a little work done recently. Let me show you the results.” At which time I dropped my shorts to my sneakered ankles and waggled my butt in her direction.

Did I tell you guys about the stains on my skin I got from not bathing recently? Streaker Jones figured out this concoction that works but it stings so bad I can only do little patches at a time. Ingrid applies the liquid fixer a with fine paint brush and just for kicks, she’s writing something in fine lines on my butt areas to work into a show as she de-stains me. So far, she’s got “Eat At,” and nothing more.

Maybe that should be un-stains.

Streaker Jones’ stain remover does two things. First it clears my skin of the stain and restores my color to its pretty one-fourth Native American luster. Second, it bleaches my hair into these dense, almost white curls. Great contrast to my natural black-black butt hair.

So, I drop my shorts and waggle for this nice lady and she screams and pepper sprays my face.

“You inappropriate asshole!” the woman shouts. And then, “Somebody get the Manager.”

“I’m OK, I don’t need any help from the Manager,” I tell the gathering crowd. “I’m used to pepper juice except on my crotch. I’ll be OK.”

“No you won’t,” the now not so nice lady quipped. And with that said, she pepper sprayed my balls.

Have you ever been cutting fresh hot peppers and gotten a little of the capsaicin oil on some delicate skin? Capsaicin oil is what makes peppers hot and that is the ingredient in pepper sprays.

Wait, I’m digressing you while I tell you about digressions. All of this stuff was yesterday’s visit to Sprouts and this bloggie post is about today’s visit. Let me just wrap up yesterday’s discussions by saying that I was glad to not be driving Gram’s Ferrari because I always have a cooler of Carta Blanca beer iced-up in my pick-up.

I stuffed a six pack in my shorts to cool my balls as I headed home.

Anyway, I go often to Sprouts and I tend to dawdle while I’m there. I dawdle because my ADHD causes my mind to wander me into predicaments. I also dawdle because, as a defense mechanism to help control the AD part of my ADHD, I am a touch obsessive-compulsive. But only a touch.

One of my compulsions involves the choosing of things, like produce. First I must choose which varieties of produce I desire, like is tonight’s dinner side dish stuffed zucchini or shall I make green beans? When Sprouts has specials this can be perplexing.

The second compulsion over which I obsess is choosing the very best of my previously chosen variety. Like today, when I went back to get the fajita meat for Sister, ginger for Gram, and zucchini for stuffing to go with the fajitas.

When choosing squash which are special priced at Sprouts, you get two or three big displays to look through, each with many examples. This morning’s choices were maybe a few hundred in each of three displays. So I’m required to inspect maybe 800 squashes to obtain the dozen needed for tonight’s dinner.

Each person gets a half squash filled with my special stuffing except for Anna the Amazon. Anna is my ex-wife and Sister’s current spouse, also a wife. Anna likes my stuffed zucchini and eats a full squash worth.

So that explains the width and breadth part of my frequency/duration discussion from earlier.

Anyway, I’m choosing my squashes this morning when I hear my name over the speakers. “Mr. Johnson, will you please report to the Manager’s office?”

I’m still squeezing and smelling squash when I hear the speakers, “That would be you Mooner. Now!”

“I didn’t recognize your voice on the speaker Harry,” I told my buddy the Manager as I entered his office and took a chair.

Harry handed me the ever-present pint bottle of Hornitos tequila he keeps in his desk for my visits. “Here, have a pull of this. I need a drink.”

“Please don’t tell me that Regional Director McCoy is banning me from the store Harry. I’m running out of places to shop.”

“Stop crying Mooner. This is about me.”

Harry had a weird look on his face- like half happy and half facing a firing squad. “I took Patty to meet mama for dinner last night and now I’ve got a big problem.”

“Oh just give your mom a chance Harry. Patty’s a great Wiccan woman and your mom will come around,” I counseled. I can be a thoughtful counselor. “Maybe I can get the Pope to bless something for your mother.”

The Pope owes me a favor.

“That’s not the problem Mooner. They like each other and that has become a problem.”

Wait a second, I just remembered something. I need to go back to Sprouts to get three more squash- I was on number nine when Harry summoned me to his office.

Fuckballs. I’ll see you guys later.

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Am I Bleu?; Cheese Talk with Mooner Johnson (Part 10)

Friday, May 14th, 2010

Does anybody know how to get stains out of your skin? I have now been hosed down with a power washer, soaked in bleach, abraded with a wire brush, had maybe 36 showers, enjoyed an even dozen full body scrubs with that gritty oozie goop I got from Dana at Arbonne, and.

Wait, wait wait. Let me start all over.

First, if you don’t know, I felt disrespected and unappreciated so I went on a protest to get some. Respect and appreciation that is. I did not wash myself or brush my teeth and I ate a diet that consisted of garlic and onions exclusively. After the first day I had a slight ripeness to me, like maybe what you would get from sniffing through the tight plastic wrapping on a little chunk of bleu cheese down to the Sprouts store.

You know what I mean. A person knows what blue cheese smells like so even though it is tightly-wrapped in clear plastic, you can smell it. Maybe you aren’t actually smelling the cheese, like one of those psycho thematic dealies, but your nose catches just a whiff of that incredible, rich smell of my favorite cheese even if it only comes from memory.

I truly do love bleu cheese. I love blue cheese as well- any kind of bleu cheese made anywhere and by anyone. I am non-discriminatory as to a cheese’s country of origin, religious affiliations of the cheese maker and I don’t even care if the cheese maker or animal producing the raw milk product are Republicans.

In my opinion, the only thing that matters is that the cheese was produced without chemicals and that it has good flavor. I mean it.

Wait. Psycho semantics- that memory dealie is psycho semantics. It’s all just a matter of words, right?

I do, however, have preferences as to which variety of bleu cheese to use in particular situations. As an example, in a salad or salad dressing I prefer a cheese that is on either extreme of the flavor spectrum. Either the most mild, like a Maytag, or a really mean French triple-cream aged-in-a dead-goat’s-carcass and costs $50.00 a pound- a real Gram gagger.

Gram hates bleu cheese and I love to pester her with it.

“Iffn you gag me puttin that bleuie cheese shit in my face one more time Mooner, I’m gonna stake ya to a anthill,” my Gram told me this one time. I had a chunk of Limburger, it wasn’t an actual bleu, but my Gram lacks any culinary sophistication. Like she always says, Gram will say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Iffn it smells lik shit, it’s shit!”

Have you ever been staked to an anthill?

Anyway, to continue the description of my ripening as the days progressed in true allegorical fashion, I began to unwrap the plastic covering as my blue cheese sat in the trunk of the car on 100-degree Texas afternoons.

By the fourth day, as you have unwrapped enough plastic to make a small opened crease that exposes some of the cheese to the air, my body odor would make your eyes water from the next room. By day seven, with the fully unwrapped lump of cheese fermenting in the sweltering trunk getting new infestations of bacteria and fungi, the now blackend bleu cheese has stripped the paint from the entire car and melted the soft rubber gaskets used to seal the trunk lid, windows and doors.

By day eleven- that’s when I had my epiphany and got respect, it is far safer to burn the car than to even consider looking inside the trunk. OK, that would be a bad example because the toxic smoke from the fire would likely defoliate much of Central Texas like Agent Orange. But you get my meaning.

Do you guys know about how the oils and acids and shit in garlic and onions can worm their way through your system and make an oil slick on your skin? All of the odor and flavor of garlic and onions will start layering your skin in this oil slick after you eat enough.

So, after my pressure washing to blast the rest of my clothes off me- that was shirt, undershirt, socks and bandanna, and then all the scrubbing with wire brushes to get the tar off me, I was left with a heavy coating of this oil.

And just so you know, Streaker Jones brought the Haz-Mat team out to the ranch from our research labs to do phases one and two. They bagged and jarred everything they pried loose of me and took it back to the lab for full military testing.

The Army is sending both chemical and biological inspection teams to observe our testing. They know everything that was removed from me is organic but they still can’t figure out what it is.

So. I’m all stripped down to the oil coating and that’s where Dana comes in. Dana, and you don’t say it like Dana Andrews, you say it like Princess Diana except without the “i”.

Jesus, Mooner that was lame. Try this: it isn’t day-nuh, you say her name dan-nah, like it’s got more “n’s” in it than it does.

She’s my beauty expert, so I called Dana to see if she could help me get the oil off my skin and she said to me, she says, “Do I even want to ask why you need such a product Mooner?”

After an hour of my explanation, she interrupted me to say, “Got it Mooner. You need Awaken Sea Salt Scrub from Arbonne.

“Fine,” I said. “Send me a few cases.”

This stuff is so great that as soon as SAC Ellen is talking to me again I’m going to have her pop me with her stun gun and then scrub me down with Awaken. I love this stuff. If you want some, get with Dana at www.danafrank.myarbonne.com. Be sure to tell her that Mooner sent you.

She won’t give me anything if you do, but you don’t want her to think you’re a stalker or some silly religious shitball wanting to get inside her guard.

And I also want to send out a special Thanks to the makers and importers of Carta Blanca beer. I would be dead if it wasn’t for Carta Blanca beer. Carta Blanca beer provided me with all of the essential vitamins and minerals I needed to supplement my restricted diet these last many days. I love Carta Blanca.

And Texas Governor Rick Perry, you small minded little imbecile, you managed to keep me in stitches with your snakes and guns and hollow-point bullet stories. We all know that humor is the best medicine, so Ricky- please keep sharing your innermost thoughts with me. You know, the ones that come from your hollow, pointed head.

OK, the ADHD has digressed me to near hallucinationing.

I’m back, I’m strong and I’m focused.

But if you are the first who can tell me how to remove the stains from my skin, I’ll send you a free copy of my book when it comes out. Bleach, acid washing, and lasers have already been tried.

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Sandra Bullock, Chelsea Handler, Kathy Griffin and Oprah Fight Over Mooner Johnson (Part 2)

Thursday, April 29th, 2010

So. I’m asleep in my bed last night and I’m dreaming about Sandra Bullock, Kathy Griffin, Oprah Winfrey and Chelsea Handler. I am the judge of the Miss Celebrity Camel Toe contest between these four of my favorite women, and the contest is heated. Likewise, my dreams are heated due to my garlic and onions diet.

If you don’t keep up with things here to the bloggie, I am on this diet to get some respect and appreciation. I will not take a bath or brush my teeth while on this diet until I get me some. Respect, that is. SAC Ellen impressed upon me that I won’t be getting any loving until I end this personal habits routine. Actually, what she said was, “Mooner, you smell like the dumpster at Quality Seafood on a hot August day. Call me when you eat some meat and take a bath.”

I think that means I won’t earn her respects until I get my respect.

There’s five categories of competition in the big dream contest: an evening gown, khaki pants, swimsuit, and exercise gear competitions as preliminaries, and a final “open” category. The ladies are each in their finest fettle, and each has won one event. Oprah Winfrey stunned the crowd, and the judge, in her sequined Valentino number. Cascades of shimmering light escaped Oprah’s well-defined toe. The light was like the beacon atop a lighthouse- both as a warning and a summons as to what might lie beneath the sea of organza fabric of the fancy gown.

In a surprise win, Kathy Griffin won the exercise portion of the show, looking absolutely ravishing in skintight gear from Doe Skins. I knew she had been working out recently, but I hadn’t seen her since her last Austin Tour stop. Her well muscled look was as captivating as was her pouty pose.

No surprise to anyone, Chelsea Handler won the swimsuit competition by a mile. Since I’ve seen her naked, I knew Chelsea has magnificent womanly charms to display. In this dream competition, she showed both her hidden charms and her sense of humor as she flashed me a luscious moon on her pass down the runway.

Sandra Bullock won the khaki pants event by a camel’s nose. I really wanted her to win the whole thing, but her heart just wasn’t in it. She withdrew after her first place finish in very fashionable slacks. Men can be such shits. This I know with the absolute certainty that comes from my being a shitty man.

So. With the score tied at one win each, the final Open event was going to determine the winner. Each of the three remaining contestants had chosen to pose in Lycra tights covered with flowing robes. The final pose-down was done like one of those body builder dealies with the contestants jostling for position to get the Judges’ attention. Soon a cat-fight developed and I stepped on stage to break it up.

Next thing I know I’m all tangled up in in the womens’ robes and I fart. This giant, raucous and ugly garlic and onion fart. The ladies stop fighting because they are gagging and I fart again- this one worse than the first. Chelsea says to me, she says, “Mooner Johnson you inappropriate shit, I’m gonna torch you off if you fart again.”

Of course I fart again and wake up screaming. I’m all tangled in my bedsheets and Dixie is lying on my face. Through sweat-filled and matted dog hair that fills my mouth I say, “Wuth thah fuhh, Dithee?”

Dixie says to me, she says, “I can’t decide which end of you smells worse, Mooner, your ass or your breath. I just decided to try and smother you to end my misery.”

“Well you just ruined the best dream I’ve had in weeks,” I told her. “Now get out of my face so I can dress for our trip to Sprouts.”

My dog aggravates the shit right out of me but she is right. I’ve got a touch of the BO from not bathing for three days now, but you can’t even smell my pits from my other ripenesses. Maybe that would be “ripenings”.

I’m dying to brush my teeth and I’m so sick of this garlic and onion diet I could slit my own throat. I’m sitting there to dinner with the family last night and my Gram is tormenting me. She’s waving every forkful of her sweet bean tamales in my face.

“Mmmmmmmm,” she says. “Wouldn’t little Mooner love a bite a my tee-mallies?”

She’s administering this torment like I’m a baby who won’t eat without a little food tease.

This morning my mouth feels like the French Army bivouacked in it. I love that word, bivouacked, but the feeling is just awful. And my breath would melt a block of ice sitting in the next room.

But it is the farts that are the killers. Dixie and I needed to go to Sprouts and then to the body shop, both over to US 183 near the Great Hills/Arboretum area. The trip to the grocery is to get some more grapefruit, and the need to go to the body shop is a recurring need.

See, my Gram learned how to drive in a 1903 John Deere tractor while plowing a four section sized farm up to the Panhandle. To you non-farm informed, that means she was driving a big, open farm tractor with a top speed of maybe six miles-per-hour. And all of this driving was done on perfectly flat land that was a big rectangle that was one mile wide and four miles long. I don’t know where you live, but here to Texas a section is a one-square-mile chunk of property.

And since my Gram never really learned how to drive a tractor at six miles per hour on flat land, she’s hell on wheels driving a 550-horse power Ferrari at a hundred in the Hill Country. She did learn how to plow though. Dixie and I took her little Italian hot rod on our errands this morning because she plowed it into a bunch of those orange plastic barrels over to FM 2222.

Since Gram routinely plows into stuff, I have a standing appointment each month with the body shop I keep on retainer.

It’s a wonderful day here so Dixie and I were driving with the top down, which provided benefit other than driving topless. I was farting so much and they stunk so bad, that I might have asphyxiated us with the top up.

When we got to Sprouts, Dixie waited outside and sniffed around. She’s such a dog. When I got inside the store was pretty crowded and I had to pick my way around people. I guess something besides grapefruit was on special because there were people everywhere.

You know how when you are in a big crowd and you need to fart and you kind of hunch into yourself so you look smaller. And then you release the gas in little fits-and-starts as you walk. You guys know exactly what I’m talking about.

So, I’m taking advantage of the crowd and venting my blue vapors as I serpentine through the crowd. I hear gasps and, “What the fuck is that smell?”, and other comments. But I’m always a few yards away by the time my stinky gas slithers through peoples’ nostrils and attacks their brains like a computer virus.

I walk all the way to the back of the store to release my pressure so I can take my time standing still to the grapefruit display. It takes me some time to select produce because I take my time picking and I didn’t want my gas to get me into a predicament. I choose 40 perfectly chosen grapefruit, placing each selected orb carefully in my hemp cloth tote bag that sits in my little baby grocery basket.

Sprouts has these little baby carts that I like for short-list visits. I’m finally satisfied that I have both the correct number and quality of fruit so I start for the checkout line.

The store, like I already said was packed, and I was having trouble maneuvering the cart. So, I decided to ditch the cart and just carry the tote bag. I reached into the cart and with both hands, grabbed the straps of the tote, lifted the heavy bag and, “Phggrrraaaaappp.”

I ripped one of those farts that would win a contest on the Howard Stern Radio Show over to Sirius Satellite Radio. It was noisy and long and had multiple layers of volume and sounds. And brother was it stinky.

Eye-watering, lose your lunch, extinguish all smoking materials stinky. Standing trapped in a crowd of already teary-eyed shoppers who were nauseous from my earlier eruptions, the looks in the eyes around me said it all.

It really was one of those, “If looks could kill moments.” This one crazy old bat slugged me with her purse and then tried to choke me. Next thing I know I’m in the Manager, Harry’s, office, sitting in his side chair with my clothes ripped and torn.

“Sweet Mother of Jesus, Mooner. I had to give everybody their groceries for free and shut the store down,” my friend Harry informed me. “They will do tests to be sure, but the Haz-Mat Team says I’ll need to disinfect the walls and repaint.”

Harry is a good Catholic boy and honest and open minded. Until I met Harry I thought any two of those traits were mutually exclusive.

“Here,” he says as he sips the bottle of Hornitos tequila and then passes it to me. “Take a big slug of this and don’t fart in my office.”

“Hells-Bells, Harry. I didn’t do it on purpose, it just slipped out,” I told him in my manly-most voice.

“Don’t crybaby Mooner. You’ve got plenty of money to pay for the damages. Your real problem is that my boss, Regional Director McCoy, told me I would have to ban you from the store if you cause another incident. And I’m in love with Patty, so I can’t date everyone you pissed off this time.

Harry is dating Patty Pritchett, the woman whom’s camel toe created the incident here awhile back. Maybe that might be who’s camel toe. No wait, I know who’s it was, so let’s go with whom’s camel toe.

I had the happy pair out for Easter dinner to the ranch. They are a cute couple but I see trouble brewing in the east. See Patty’s a Wiccan and Harry’s momma is an old-school, Latin-is-the-only-language-for-mass kind of Catholic girl.

Gram says we need to call Patty “The Wicc’ster”. Says she “sensed” it.

I say Patty cast a spell on Harry’s heart because he’s taking Patty home to meet Momma.

“What do you think I should fix for the big dinner Mooner?”

“I’d say sacrifice a lamb for your mother and a rooster for Patty. That way you can be sympathetic to both tribes.” I offered him the animals but he passed.

Holy shit but I am digressing all over the place. My point is that I don’t know how much longer I can wait to be respected. I’m going down to the Long Center to the Chelsea Handler stand-up show tonight, and if I have another farting incident in a packed theater- I could cause a stampede and get arrested. Again.

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Forbidden Fruit and How To Be A Man: Sometimes It Hurts To Be A Man

Wednesday, March 24th, 2010

So.  Life is full of dichotomous situations. You know what I’m talking about- those times when you are damned if you are doing, and likewise damned for don’t-ing. I encountered one of those dichotomousses the afternoon when I went over to the Sprouts there to the Arboretum.

Maybe that should be “dichotomousi”.

I wanted to take advantage of their special on sweet Italian sausage so I drove over in Gram’s Ferrari. She needed my truck to deliver some mushroom juice to a new customer, the GTO is in the shop, and the weather was too nice to pass-up on the hot red sports car. Besides, Italian food- Italian car. I was making fresh tomato souga with basil and garlic and secret ingredients. Souga is Italian for sauce, kind of like salsa is Spanish for salsa. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, a way-back Italian-heritaged hottie, taught me this souga recipe back when she was wife/psycho therapist and not just therapist to psychos.

Sammie hates it when I separate the “psycho” from their “therapist”, but that’s my lifetime-best joke.

I buy my sausage, and since I was there figured I might as well accommodate myself and get the two-bags full that fit in the tiny backseat of Gram’s car, and go to leave. Wait- two bag fulls. It has to be “fulls.” As I was lifting my two bags from the shopping cart to hustle off to my ride, my eyes were captured by a woman walking into the store.

Said woman was dressed for exercising and looked well exercised. Her cheeks were rubied and fully-blushed and she had a misting of sweat on all of the exposed skin not covered by the tight Lycra skin that was her hot pink workout uniform.

Of course, it is possible that the “just exercised” part of her look was just for looks, that the cheeks were blushed with makeup, and her sweaty mist was misted-on from an atomizer. In that part of town it’s maybe 60/40 either way.

Anyway, her hair had a sprinkling of gray, she was in great shape- not ripped and bulimic looking, just sleek and smooth. She had a pretty face and inviting eyes. And there, doing the pocket Rumba, sat the plumpest, juiciest-looking most robust camel toe I have ever seen. I mean ever! This thing looked like the woman was its caretaker, not its owner. It was incredible, and I don’t use the word “incredible” lightly.

Once it caught it, my eyes were captured. I stared like the moron I am from the first spotting from maybe fifty feet out in the lot, until it rumbled its way into the store and past me. It was a wonderful day here to Austin- sunny and mild, and the mild, bright sunlight sent cascades of sparkles off that shiny, pink fabric in hypnotic jumbles and swirls. By the time I managed to refocus my eyes I saw that the fifteen others around me were just getting their focus back as well.

“Holy shit,” the elderly woman standing beside me said. Then she grabbed my arm and urged to me, “Please Mister, would you look to see if I’ve got one of those?”

I did, she didn’t. I told her, “No Darling, but I do like your belly piercing.  Is that a shark’s tooth?”

Then all the other women were getting opinions from me. I guess I looked like an expert on the subject. So after a few minutes of playing FDA inspector and passing judgment, someone suggested to me, they said, “You outta tell that woman she’s packing. It would only be right.”

I went to the car and wedged my groceries to the back seat, got myself seated- a job into its ownself- started the car, and then started to thinking. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, but terribler in the wrong hands. Terrible-more?

My first actual thought was if steroids could possibly be the root cause behind this woman’s loaded crotch. But the other muscles didn’t match steroid rage, so I discounted that. I moved on to more profitable thinking and I wondered, “If a woman has a world class camel toe, should you say something to her about it?”

A very, very good question. Now, don’t shut down on me because you think I’m inappropriate. Go with me on this for just one more minute. Think about this with me.

OK. Supposition Number 1: the woman either knows that she’s got a double-wide flap of woman meat bulging from her crotchie, or not. Right? She either knows or doesn’t know.

Supposition Number 2: if she knows, she is proud, and: A, she wants you to look and compliment her, or: B, she’s trolling for a man that likes meaty-crotched ladies, in which case she wants you to comment.

Supposition Number 3: if she is totally unaware that she could play a stunt double for the butcher shop in the movie Rocky, then wouldn’t she want someone, like me, to let her know? Kind of like that dealie where you walk up to a stranger and say, “Look, I don’t want to pry into your personal business, but you have a booger hanging out your left nostril that looks like an African night crawler running from a fish hook.”

You know, that kind of situation.

So I’m thinking that maybe someone does need to man-up here and talk to the lady and since I never shirk responsibility, I’ve got a man’s job to do. I turned the Ferrari engine off, endured the exercise that is getting out of the little car, and proceeded back inside the store. I’m looking for the woman and realize all I need to do is follow the trail of glazed-over eyes.

I find the lady over to produce, inspecting a pair of the giant avocados that were on special at two for $1.00, a great price. Ever a man with a quick wit and light tongue I told her, “Don’t try to smuggle those out of here in your pants. That camel toe of yours will kick some avocado ass and you’ll be scooping your guacamole from a V-necked bowl.”

Now look. How much more clever and appropriate could a remark have been? I didn’t say, “Holy shit lady, how many days can your camel go between drinks,” or something rude. I didn’t ask her if she was ashamed of herself for keeping the poor camel cooped up, and I for sure didn’t say, “Hey lady, all I see are his feet. Where you hiding the rest of your camel?” Nope, I didn’t do any of that rude shit. I tastefully let her know that I knew and let the chips fall where the fell.

Anyway, this lady got a funny look to her face, smashed the avocados in my face, slapped me (hard) on each avocado-slathered cheek, and stormed-off to find the manager.

Having experience in similar situations, I stood where I was to wait for the store manager rather than run from the store. I have found store managers to be much better listeners than the police.

So I wait for like a minute, maybe less, for lady and manager to arrive. I think Sprouts has excellent customer service. That circumstance would take at least three minutes if we were to any HEB store. The lady tells the manager her side of the story, shows the camel toe to him after he asked to see the evidence, and told her, “Thank you, Miss. Give me your name and contact info and I will make a full report, and handle things from here.”

So, she thanks him, gives him her info, slaps me one more time for good luck, and storms off. “You,” he says as he points a stiffened index finger in my chest, “to my office.”

We get to his office and he closes the door, using the same stiffened finger points to a chair to the front of his desk, and says, “Sit.” Then he sits down behind the desk and opens the drawer to the desk and pulls out a pint bottle of Hornitos.

“Here, you first. Your exposure was far longer than mine.” He offered the bottle to me for a slug.

I obliged and passed it back and he guzzled a slug from the little bottle of tequila. He swallowed the booze with a grimace, looked first to the ceiling, and then he crossed himself in classic Catholic method. “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he almost whimpered. “I wanted to touch that thing so bad I was shaking. I had the image of pulling a rabbit out of a hat.”  Then he pulled from the bottle again.

“I understand, young man, but that’s a forbidden fruit,” I counseled. “Men have got to be strong in the face of these new trends in womens sportswear.” I think I’m quite a good role model for this younger set.

“I’m not calling the police or anything, but we need to stay in here until she has left the parking lot.” Then he lifted his phone and had someone bring us some limes. “We need a drink.”

A young woman of maybe nineteen came in with the limes and said, “Better call the produce distributor, Harry. We’re almost out of avocados.”

Harry and I are now friends and he is coming over for Easter dinner out to the ranch. We’re having ham and potato salad and beans and guacamole. When I asked him who he was bringing for his date he said, “You’ll see.”

Mooner

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The AMA, Iraq and Afganistan War, and Sandra Bullock

Monday, March 22nd, 2010

Who was the first person to say, “No good deed goes unpunished?” I want to send them a card or nominate them for some kind of smart person award. I am now neck-deep in crap and for no reason other than I try too hard to help.

First, let’s talk about this bloggy job. It’s a blog, people. It’s not a radio show, or a phone call or an e-mail, and it’s for sure not an open invitation for you to come out to Mooners Compost Plant and try to punch me in the nose.

No, it is a BLOG! Respond to my rantings and ravings here. Nowhere else.

So. If you want to respond in any way about any thing I say here, do it here. Post your thoughts or ideas to the bottom at the “COMMENTS” dealie to the end of any posted entry. Hell, make yourself to home and write something as a comment to all of them if you feel the need.

But stop calling me to work and the ranch and my cell phone to bitch at me. Bitch at me here. Don’t e-mail me because I won’t read it or respond. And for shitsakes stop coming after me to do bodily harm. I’m tough enough to whip most of you all by my lonesome. But if you were to manage to penetrate my personal defenses, you’d be dealing with Streaker Jones.

Please don’t make me clean your body fluids and tattered parts off the floor if Streaker Jones comes to my aid.

But this one Russian psycho therapist buddy of Dr. Sam I. Am calls me, and he says, “Well, Mooner, I would like to say something both in support and in opposition to your positions. But I must maintain my anonymity. Any breach or disclosure of my personal thoughts and opinions would be detrimental to my professional rapport with my patients.”

So I told him I wish Dr. Sam I. Am would keep her personal thoughts to herself in my therapy and you know what he said? He says, “Well Mooner, Sam shares the problems confronting her in her work with you in our peer supervision sessions. You are so crazy she needs our help. We fly in from all over the world to meet and discuss your problems.”

Well of course they do.

He went on, “I simply can’t have my name or e-mail address appear on your website.”

OK, fine. It won’t. I must have missed the part where he said something supportive.

Look here- when you comment below one of my posts, you are asked to supply your email address. That is not for publication but it is rather the only method I use to censure comments. If I have your e-mail address I can be sure that you are not a “Spam-bot” or some evil hacker.

If you are not some evil doer of computer crimes, I promise I will post your comment. I will only cut anything you say that I deem to be illegal. I am inappropriate to the extreme, but at least marginally law-abiding.

So comment away. Just do it here. Thank, you.

But in the face of making myself a liar, I do want to respond to a few of those previously-mentioned inappropriate comments.

First of all, I like Dexter Pittman and I was only trying to help him. Mark my words- in the weeks before the NBA Draft, all of those talking heads over to ESPN will parrot my comments.

Second, all of you chemical companies can kiss my ruby-red, spit-shined and cut to look like the Eiffel Tower redneck butt! Weed-and-feed products are nasty poisons and pollutants and need to be removed from the market. Send that shit over to Afghanistan and Iraq and bring our boys and girls back to home.

That crap will cause more ruin in five years than than the decade of George W. Bush-directed military actions have. So go ahead and sue me you caustic chemical making Republican right-wing Baptist fuckballs. Comment below and I’ll give you my lawyer’s info to send the papers.

I don’t know if this is third or should be labeled fourth, but third, I’ll quote Gram. She said to me, she says,” Mooner, you done caused me a shitstorm over to tha church. How could you talk about that Spriggie store and not mention the HEB or the Central Market? Pastor Browningwell sent Leticia over to sit with me and your Aunt Hilda to discuss it with us. Mighty embari-assin, Mooner. Mighty.”

I’d like to bare my ass at my Gram, but she hit me with a 410-gage shotgun loaded with rock salt the last time. I am required to listen to that old gasbag’s nonsense without negative reaction. I flash her just the one time while she was on a date and she blows half the hair off my butt with a shotgun.

Pastor Browningwell is Gram’s Baptist preacher and Leticia is his wife. And “yes”, the self-same Mrs. Browningwell who was my teacher, and more. HEB and its spawn, Central Market, are owned by the HE Butt family from down to San Antonio. The Butts are huge Baptists and Baptist as it gets. I am non-discriminatory so I shop with them, but I refuse to promote them. Besides, grapefruit was only 2 for a buck at my HEB, so I went to Sprouts. Sprouts has a limited selection when compared to most places, but they have great specials and the limited selection has great variety.

My butt is shaved in a replica of the Eiffel Tower for the moon show I have planned for when I take Dixie over to Paris for her big award night. I’ve got sparklers and fireworks and some other stuff and I plan to do it up right for her. I tell you this because I just know someone will ask, “Why’s your butt look like the Eiffel Tower?”

Fifth, I will respond to the American Medical Association in like-kind to their mailed complaint:

Dear AMA:

Fuck you. Nowhere in the six pounds of wasted-paper research, enclosed with your pissy letter, do you provide any hard research that disproves my theory of the attacking heart. All you do is blame the poor person for smoking or over eating or not getting enough exercise.

I get that a person’s habits can be bad for their heart, and I will say right here that nobody should smoke cigarettes.

However, my Gram buggerates me way beyond what any man has ever done to his heart, and I have yet to squeeze the life out of her. I want to, I have dreamed of it, often, and planned it a few times, but never acted.

But these hearts don’t have a heart. They just plunder and kill and maim with abandon, and often with no warning at all. Zero, zip nor zilch. Hearts attack people and we need to start keeping a close eye on them starting like when we, and the heart, get to be about maybe forty, I’d say.

Now, leave me alone and go find a cure for the common cold.

Sincerely,

Mooner Johnson

OK. Sixth and last. Google called to tell me that their search engine is ignoring my website because I don’t have good keywords. The sweet lady went on to explain that because I talk, “Like a backwoods hick,” it is likely that the search engines will continue to ignore me. When I asked Ben, my personal computer guru, about all of that he said, “That’s OK, Mooner. Just get other sites to link with you.”

Now I just need to figure out how to link. Dixie told me I need to be careful with whom I link. She was out with the Snoop Dog the other night after his concert here to Austin and he was telling her that the X-Rated porn sites have almost ruined his bloggy job and the website too.

I’ll figure it out but will use all of the help you can give me.

Also, I want to shout out to Delores. I passed all of your thoughts on to Gram and she said to tell you, “Tell tha D-girl that the f-cacentrics of her potions will improve ifn she’ll add just a touch a the magic shroomers. She can call me an I’ll give her a professional discount on some spoors.”

I tried to explain to her that Delores is less concerned with the efficacy of her formulas than she is with the historical correctness. Gram doesn’t understand following either a recipe or instructions.

And Gram went on to say, “An Mooner. Tell her that I got a potion for potion makers called, “Potion Smart Maker”. I’ll special price that un too.”

Delores is a regular responder and commenter to these pages.

Oh yea. I just thought I’d put Sandie’s name to the top to show my support.

I’m hungry, so goodbye. Mooner

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Geeks, Goats, Grapefruit and Basketball

Friday, March 19th, 2010

What did I ever do to these inter-net or ether-net or whatever-net geekoids over to all these research engines? This is getting ridiculous. Four days of being web hosted and posted and bloggerated on a daily basis, and I still get no respect. Why won’t they recognize my web stuff? You still can’t Google and get here.

Gram said its because I have bad cornerstones. “Lookit, Mooner child. You can’t build nothin right unless you got good cornerstones.”

When I told her, “Its keystones, Gram, not cornerstones,” she said to me, she says, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Keystones, cornerstones or kidney stones they’re all the same. You ain’t got yer stones right and all you git is stoned.”

Then she added, “Here, baby. Take a few droppers of this potion.”

I looked at the label- hand-written in my Gram’s chicken-scratch. “Enternet fixer-upper Potion Version 1.6 Beta,” was the potion’s name. And under symptoms and cures it read, “Calms yer nerves while you work on yer com-pooter.”

When I asked her how she had researched this “enternet” malady and why this was a “beta version”, she said, and with a chuckle, “P-cubed and me was over to tha coffee shop down to the Drag over at the UT. You know tha one with all the college boys. We parked the Fararie there to the front in the H.-iecapper spot an sat onna hood drinking a cuppa joe. Cops all know us sos we don’t tickets fer not being crippled.”

OK, look. P-cubed is Penelope Paxon-Parades, Gram’s best buddy from way back. “Fararie” is the bright red 550-horsepower Ferrari that Streaker Jones gave her for her birthday last year when neither she nor had I killed the other. If you live here to Austin and you hear the screaming wail of a massive 12-cylinder engine accompanied by the sounds of gears grinding and horns honking- duck and cover because my Gram is dangerously near.

Gram is a highly sensual and sexual woman and she craves stimulation. The reason you will find Gram and Fararie both parked to the Drag is simple. When I asked, she answered. “That’s where we find the prime tenderloins, Mooner.”

And don’t start on me with any of your, “That ain’t right,” or your, “No self-respecting college stud would bed a saggy old goat bladder like your Gram.” A $250,000.00 bright red, 550-horsepower Ferrari will blind and labotomize 99% of all heterosexual males under the age of 25. Or maybe age 55. My Gram’s sexual exploits would make Tiger Woods blush.

Anyway, turns out that the two ladies scored themselves a dorm room full of computer majors and got some “enternet” education of their own. Why isn’t it a room “fulls” of computer majors?

Gram’s new potion tastes a little like that time Streaker Jones dared me to stick my tongue to the belly of this turtle we had back to fourth grade Spanish class. Mrs. Browningwell was mightily aggravated when I puked in the turtle’s aquarium.

And now I’m pretty down about my UT Longhorn men’s basketball team. Coach Barnes needs to spend the summer building us a point guard. Or buy one for crapsakes. Hell, I’ll put up half the money. OK, while we’re on this subject, I need to vent my spleen to Dexter Pittman.

Dexter, you listen to me. I know you lost 80 pounds. I know that and applaud you for it. But pay attention to me here. You have got some mad, badass basketball skills that are going to waste. Basketball is not fun when you lose. Basketball is not fun when you let a pissy little set of Demon Deacon forwards rebound your shorts off.

Stop smiling on court and get yourself a mean man attitude. You can own the paint if you’ll just stop being so happy about getting yourself in shape. 80-pound weight loss? Old news, Dexie. Get mad at those little shits when they try to invade your space. Get your hands up and stop slapping and grabbing. Belly-bust the skinny little asswipes and make them pay a Dexter Tax. Stuff the ball through the net and down their throats! Bite somebody or something for shitsakes.

Start smiling when you string a nifty run of double-doubles together for some NBA team. Smile at the little kids that admire you because you lost 80 pounds and you then went on to be a solid pro player.

OK, a drink recipe. The Texas ruby-reds are in season and cheaper than a three-dollar lady down to Matamoros. Five for a dollar over to the Sprouts store just last week.

Slice the grapefruit in half and cut the section divider thingies as if you were planning to eat them. Scoop those out into a glass bowl, squeeze the remaining juice into the bowl and then put the bowl into the freezer with your Tito’s or Dripping Springs vodka. When the grapefruit is almost frozen, mix it-sections and all, with your vodka in the tall, thick-walled glass-glass you keep in the freezer with the vodka and grapefruit.

No ice!

Don’t get me wrong, this is not a cold Carta Blanca. But yummy good. Like Gram says. “That there tastes like another.”

And somebody please answer me this. When I was standing to the sink washing my grapefruits for the drinks I was planning to serve at the BBQ, I looked at the bottle of organic veggie scrubber and noticed that the main active ingredient was “grapefruit oil”.

So, I’m standing there to the sink with four-dozen big ruby reds, veggie wash up to my elbows and with all of those grapefruits rolling all over the place, and having trouble remembering which were washed, which not, because you can’t tell by smelling them, because they all smell like a fucking grapefruit.

Streaker Jones wanders in and asks, “Where’s tha drinks, Mooner?”

I tell him all of this and I ask him, “If we’re using the oil from a grapefruit skin to wash the grapefruit, isn’t that an oxymoron or something? Why am I wasting my breath on this dealie when I can be out there making sure that Gnat’s boyfriend is cooking my goat right?”

“Fergit tha goat, Mooner. Wash the ruby reds.”

I went with Streaker Jones on the grapefruit. But it takes a special man to cook good goat.

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