Archive for the ‘Squatlo’ Category

Rotten Apples Can’t Fall Too Far From The Tree; Creepy Crawlers And Other Silly Shit

Thursday, August 27th, 2015

So.  I just got back from a four-day trip up to Colorado.  The intentions were for this trip to be a short respite for the dogs from their daily grind, a chance for me to get my sweaty self in some cooler air, and I fully intended to play a lot of poker.  As the old saying goes about good intentions, our road was paved to Hell when the six-hour drive took—and almost precisely—ten hours.  Santa Fe to Denver is six hours any way you cut it, except and unless our fossil fuel-warmed planet decides to shit all over your plans.

Just south of Colorado Springs, my front seat companion says to me, she says, “That looks like a string of taillights ahead, Mooner.  You better not get us stuck in a traffic jam…  You know the goat dog gets sick in stop-and-go driving, and he got into the compost pile just before we left.  Ate two of the rotten apples you let roll off the heap to the edge of the fence.”

The speaker was Squirtie Girl, my darling puppy harnessed beside me as our copilot, and the goat dog would be Yoda, eater of all things organic and not so organic, who was tethered in the back seat. The severe hail storm that never fucking happens in Santa Fe that happened a month ago banged dents and gashes in what apples it didn’t strip from the trees.  I thought the remainder left clinging to their branches would make it to my kitchen to be washed and eaten, but as the sugars developed so, too, did the rot.

“How the Hell did he get to them through the fence?” I asked Squirt.

“You watched too much news about that shithead who tunneled his way out of a Mexican prison,” she replied.  “He dug a ditch under the fence where you left a gap in the underground wire.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Yoda.  I’m not the one who beat you and slit your throat, I’m your savior.  I’m the person who has made your life better.  Why am I punished with your cleanup?”

In reply, my chastisement was met with a crooked grimace, an emotional whimper and a lick to my hand.  The white-haired hair brain was formerly incarcerated in Oklahoma’s version of Guantanamo Bay for dogs—this puppy mill run by lowlife scum, Christians one and all.  They beat much of the good sense from his tiny skull and cut his vocal chords to quiet his bark.  What is left is a dumb and soft spoken dog that has become my beloved third son.  Gram has talked me off the ledge several times as I packed for a quick trip to Oklahoma for some retribution.

“You ain’t never been in a single Okie jail, Mooner, don’t know any Okie lawmen neither.  Me, I ain’t breakin’ yer ass outta no Okie hoosie cow.  Talk bad ‘bout um over to yer blogeration an’ let it go.”

Good advice from my grandmother, and a clear sign that I still have the ADD.  Since taking the trip to the Coors Beer and Legalized Pot State with the dogs, my focus is worse than that of a Brownie camera.  Remember Brownie cameras?  Only person I know who could make good pics with a Brownie might be my buddy Squatlo over to The Squatlo Rant.  Brownie cameras are what took America’s middle class photos for nearly seventy years, and likewise what made Kodak an everyday name.

Of all the family photos I possess, it is a pic taken by a Brownie—a medium close-up of three ADHD-addled Johnson men—that is most prized.  My grandfather, father and I had just finished painting the barn and were celebrating with icy-cold Carta Blanca beers.  Arms on shoulders, beers held forward, toothy grins all around.  I was thirteen and it was mid-July, maybe a month before the pedophile Baptist deacon Boy Scout leader raped me in the back end of an Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser.

That photograph holds a bundle of mixed metaphoric emotions for me.  It reminds me to be grateful in my own life and to be thoughtful when looking at the lives of others.  And it makes me ever vigilant for pedophiles.

The string of taillights, as things turned out, was caused by a line of severe thunderstorms that covered Colorado’s landscape (and highways) from fifty miles north of The Springs, all the way to our final destination.  An hour of stop-and-go was all Yoda could take before disgorging a belly full of Costco Organic Kibble, two rotten apples and what looked like the remains of a baby sparrow.  I think the neighbor’s cat left the sparrow, but who really gives a shit?

I cleaned the mess from the plastic cover I place under Yoda when we take long road trips, held him tight while scratching his head, and got back on the road to creep our way to Denver.  Which reminds me.

America is starting to give me the creeps.  Our political scene has become a fucking reality show for the benefit of, produced by, and paid for by billionaires.  Billionaires whose amazing greed is so vast that they want ever more $Billions.  $Billions they wish to strip from the crumbling infrastructure of natural and human resources of our once great country.  $Billions stolen from we “commoners”.  $Billions that half of our populace seems willing to give them—hell, eagerly give them.  Some almost beg the rich to steal from them.

It’s fucking creepy, and that reminds me of something else.  I have a slogan for the new female sex-drive drug:

“Puts the recreation back into recreational drugs!”

Someone needs to monitor Bill Cosby’s Medicare drug program—audit his purchasing activities.  Makes me wonder if this new drug works like the mystical Spanish Fly myth from back to the 1960’s.  I guess Cosby’s Roofies served as an actual Spanish Fly on all those women he (allegedly) drugged and raped.

Which brings up a question.  How is a rapist like Bill Cosby any different from Jared the Subway Pedophile?  Children are vulnerable because of powerlessness and inability to understand what is happening, the self-same conditions that are the side effects of a Roofie.  And that brings to bear another reminder.

To the best of my memory, it seems that America was founded and settled by people who, A. Wanted to get away from the established religions of their European homelands so that they wouldn’t be forced to abide another man’s religion, or, B. Wanted to get away from the feral, oppressive class systems whereat the wealthy and well-born exerted great economic and political power to keep commoners under control.  Those countries had indentured servants and slaves, feudal class societies, and a few very rich with many poor.  People were executed for professing to the wrong deities.  There were no middle classes in those societies.

Now, here to modern day Murca, we seem to be willingly pushing ourselves to become what we were founded to escape by killing our middle class.

And that reminds me that I seem to be doing a lot of writing about fuckhead Republicans and dog puke.  Instead, why haven’t I told you that my blood pressure has been in the one-teens over the high sixties with pulse rates in the upper fifties?  Why haven’t I mentioned that I’ve had six conversations in-a-row wherein Mother has been sweet as apple pie?  Why haven’t I told you that God paid me a visit and told me that everything is going to be OK?

Why haven’t I focused my attentions on the positives in life?  OK, I have no attention, what with the ADD and the giant grasshopper hanging to the rough stucco wall outside my office.  He’s a really big sumbitch, which raises a question that I had in vacation Bible school.

We were studying the locus blight from the Bible and were told that the grasshopper invasion was a terrible thing.  Earlier in the summer Buddy Tanner’s dad had come back from The Philippines, whereat he was on a temporary duty assignment for the Air Force.  Buddy shared the various food-grade bugs his daddy brought back as a gift to show cultural differences.  Candied and fried and pickled ants, grasshoppers and worms.

“That doesn’t sound so bad, Mrs. Browningwell,” I instructed.  “Even if the grasshoppers ate all the crops, like you said, they could have eaten the grasshoppers.  The fried ones taste like salted peanuts and the chocolate-covered ones aren’t any different from a box of Whitman’s Samplers.  This sounds like a whole lot of bitching about nothing, like that Noah and the Ark thing.  Do you really expect me to buy that load of crap?”

Second year in-a-row I was early dismissed from Bible school.  And that reminds me to say, “Fuck Walmart!”


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An Open Letter To Christians; Somebody Please Explain This To Me

Friday, December 19th, 2014

So.  I’m packing to leave for the Oregon coast and will be gone until after the first.  I want to wish everyone a fantastic holiday season and especially Bob and Cindy over to Squatlo Rant.  Those two have taken on the raising of a young girl and need all the best wishes I can give.  I was feeling all full of myself for doing something nice for another person the other day, then I thought of the gift of love they have given their niece.  Put my small act of kindness onto perspectives.

Anyway, as a perk to the Medicare Part B coverage I purchased to supplement my Medicare, I got a free membership to a fitness club.  Needing to get my ass into better shape for the cancer treatments on the close horizon, I’ve been going to the gym five days weekly for the last month.  When I was sitting on one of machines whereupon you push down with both hands and make the backs of your arms quiver, I was watching CNN on a TV facing me.  What I saw was one of the Christian talking heads on a show telling about how normalizing relations with Cuba is an un-Christian like thing to do.  Silly shitball scolded the Pope for “…meddling…” in America’s business.  Me, I thought he should have said, “…not Christ-like,” but as I gave up my Baptist Christianity years ago, I might be a touch out-of-touch with modern Christian linguistics.

Maybe it wasn’t CNN, but I’ve seen this asshole before and he always seems to have found a way to bastardize the teachings of his blessed Savior into the twisted wreckage that has become today’s right wing Christian hate.  Hearing this exactly one week before the celebrated day of his Savior’s birth, I’ve decided to write an open letter to all Christians.  Here is an open forum for you to share your faithful beliefs with a bunch of us heathens.  I encourage any and all Christians to respond.  Please respond.


Dear Christians;

In one week you will celebrate the birth of your God and Savior, Jesus Christ of Nazareth.  Your dogma holds the purported teachings of this Christ man, as memorialized in the King James Version of your Holy Bible, as words of absolute truth—words that shall guide you in the living of your life.  You likewise claim that His words are to be taken literally—no translation required.

            Careful reading of all those memorialized words attributed to Jesus demonstrate him as a man/God of great compassion—the son of a God living a full life without ever hating, or berating kindness, or seeking egregious wealth.  Your Jesus washed the feet of indigents, kissed and held Lepers in his arms, cursed the money changers for their greed, and turned his cheek to another man’s attack.  Your Jesus never lifted His hand in a fist, and He placed all the poor masses of His time ahead of the moneyed few in every way.

            Your Jesus, if what you say is true, would have had the power to rule the world.  He’d have had the God-given authority to impose his will on every human and animal and plant on this planet.  Hell, He could have moved mountains if it pleased Him.  Yet, with all that power and authority, your Jesus chose to live a pauper’s life, a life lived spreading glad tidings of comfort and joy.  Your Jesus never once acted to use his strength or power or knowledge to make a personal gain.

            Now here we are, some two-thousand years after His death, you silly sumbitches have managed to mangle, mismanage and misinterpret His words so terribly that I think your precious Jesus would be ashamed of you.  Think Jesus would approve of the Koch brothers political activities?  Think Jesus would support men who place themselves above other men due to race or sexual orientations?  Ask yourself this before you spout off about the president’s recent administrative edicts:  Would Jesus condone any sort of torture?  Would Jesus turn away the hungry and abused Hispanic masses at His doorstep?  Would Jesus welcome doing business with China and shun Cuba?  Would Jesus ask you to unburden the rich by taxing the poor?

            If all a person did was watch Fox News to learn about what modern day “Christians” believe, they could compare the stated values as seen there to the words in the Bible.  This comparison would cause a reasonable non-Christian person to say, “What the fuck?”

            Me, I’m now asking you guys, “What the fuck?  What happened to Christ’s words over the last couple thousand years?”

            You don’t believe in evolution, so it can’t be that Christianity has evolved from love to hate.  For those of us on the outside, it appears that it might be a literal “false prophets” scenario, one of those “Beware of false prophets who come to you dressed in a lambs clothing, yet are ravenous wolves at heart.”

            If memory serves, that’s from your Saint Matthew’s book of the Bible, and I likely messed the specific words a little bit.  It has been fifty years since I was a Royal Ambassador to Christ over to the Eastridge Baptist Church.  What my RA leader told us was that there would be men who represented themselves to be speakers for/prophets of Jesus, each of whom would be charlatans.  These people would seek personal wealth and power by transforming Christ’s messages, bending His words to suit their needs.

            That leader called them “flim-flam men,” the first time I’d heard the term.  As examples, he mentioned the “faith healers” of those times.  But I’m rambling.

            Let me conclude by asking any Christian out there to produce the tangible evidence in the words of Jesus Christ to justify any of the following:

  1. Turning children away from our borders.
  2. Accepting China and rejecting Cuba. They are, after all, both “C” words just like Christ.
  3. Denying universal health care.
  4. Enforcing your will on a/another woman’s body.
  5. Racism.
  6. Bigotry.
  7. Torture.  Please, this one really gets me.

If you can produce words from Jesus that support some of this shit, maybe some of the rest of us can find a way to seek common ground—maybe you might convince us that mistreating other humans for personal gain is a good thing. I leave Sunday really early and will print any responses you make before I leave.  After Sunday, it will take me until the first to get back.  But I will print responses without edit, saving threats.  Jesus wouldn’t like you to make threats.

Please have a happy, Walmart-free holiday.

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When Bison Speak; Fuck Republicans

Monday, September 30th, 2013


So. It’s been a Tennessee weekend for me here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. A new friend provided me with some brownies made by her cousin—rich brown delicacies cut into the size of large sugar cubes.

“Look, Mooner, don’t laugh at their size,” she told me as I giggled at the mocha nuggets in the triple-seal Zip-Lock baggie. “These are hash brownies, silly. One will mellow you out and a second will kick your ass.”

Friday night, after a long day at work, I ate one tiny brownie, fired up the grill and prepared a buffalo steak, potato, onions and scorching-hot peppers picked right from the vine. As things started to cook, I pulled a big handful of cherry tomatoes from their vines and scattered them around on the solid part of my grill. Grilling was a rather long process as I found myself especially interested in the sights and sounds and smells of our backyard.

“You’re fried, asshole.” It was the Squirt. I was on my hands and knees, sniffing at the herb section of our little garden.

“I’ve got a moral dilemma, my tiny pipsqueak of a poochie. Basil, oregano, sage, savory, mint or should it be a combination of them all?” I asked her.

“What in the world are you talking about? You don’t put mint on buffalo, shithead.”

She’s right, you know. Except I’m pretty sure it was a bison steak. I love mint on some occasions, but not on a cowboy grilled dinner. I snapped-off stems of basil and oregano and tossed them on a cooled fire. I like to finish things for a couple minutes on a cooler fire to allow the steak to get warm inside, but not cooked. I like the “moo” out of my beef, the “baa” out of my lamb and the…

What the fuck does a bison say? What do you cook out of a bison to cook it blood rare? Do they growl? Snort? Grunt, scream? I’m guessing some combination of bull snort and hippopotamus. Old McDonald didn’t have an “E-Eye-E-Eye-O” for bison or buffalo either one.

I didn’t like singing that song as a child. My ADHD would grab my attentions right about the “…had a farm…” part, and I’d be thinking of ways to pester little Susie Ashburn. My pesterings usually involved something to do with Susie’s long, braided pigtails. Buy my silly fucking book and read more on that subject. OK, those subjects.

After my cowboy grilled dinner, a chunk of cheesecake, two containers of Noosa brand honey yogurt, a half-bag of corn chips and another small cube of brownie, I sat on the couch and turned on the TV. The dogs settled into my lap and I flipped the tuner for maybe fifteen minutes before something dawned on me.

“I’m pretty stoned, kids.”

Have you guys tried Noosa brand yogurt? Spectacular!

I finally lighted on ESPN-U, the sports station’s fourth best choice of offerings. “Oh, look, guys, it’s Tennessee VS Arkansas. Let’s watch it for Squattie.”

My buddy, Bob, from over to Squatlo Rant, is a huge Tennessee fan. Regardless of their win/loss record, Bob is a die hard fan. “They’ll just get their asses kicked, Mooner,” Squirt told me, “let’s watch a movie instead.”

“I didn’t see anything that captured my attention, little lady. Let’s just do this for Bob.”

“Fuck Bob,” she said as she jumped to the floor. “Put a movie on the other TV and we’ll watch in there.

I did, they did, and I grabbed another brownie from the kitchen and went back to the game. Among the questions/comments I made—some quite loudly—as I watched the game were:

  1. Why is this video quality so poor?
  2. Those uniforms are so last decade.
  3. ESPN-U has really shitty graphics.
  4. Oh, would you look at that—Arkansas has another Stoerner at quarterback.
  5. This Stoerner kid looks just like his big brother except slower.
  6. Clint had more zip on his passes.
  7. Wow, look at the fog.
  8. OK, I need to read the sports section more carefully. Who inthefuck coaches Tennessee?
  9. This looks familiar.
  10. What would it hurt to have one more brownie?

I awoke Saturday am and realized that I had watched a rerun of the classic late nineties clash between Arkansas and Tennessee. Then I awoke this morning to discover that USC has fired the giant flaming asshole named Lane Kiffin. Fuckface Kiffin had coached Tennessee and screwed them royally before running off to USC a couple years back.

Anyway, happy Shutdown. Fuck all Republicans and Walmart too!

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The Square Root of 10; Musical Mysteries

Thursday, June 6th, 2013


So. I got a call from a good buddy last week inviting me to listen to some music, said he had an extra ticket to see Lyle Lovett and Robert Earl Keen out to the Santa Fe Opera.

“Hell yes,” I told him, “when and how much for the ticket.”

“Sunday at 7 pm, and your money’s no good in my town.”

That’s my buddy Doug, a man with a big heart and a photographic memory. He’s a man who remembers every slight word-for-word yet holds never a one against you. Me, if I had a photographic memory, I’d be extracting retributions.

“Hey, Sister, remember that time you ate the blue Crayola and I had to color the princess’s eyes brown? Well, fuck you… Huh, what’s that? You were only two-years old? Who gives a shit, you were an asshole and I never forget anyfucking thing.”

I was expecting Robert Earl to open as a solo for Lyle and his big, sassy band and found myself disappointed when we took our seats to find the stage set with two chairs, two mike stands, two feedback speakers, and four beautiful guitars racked—two beside each chair.

Did you know that Robert Earl is taller than Lyle? Not me. I always knew he was tall, but thought Lyle was the taller. Not that it makes a shit. My disappointment at missing the horns and saxes and backup singers dissipated as soon as the two men sat—their longtime friendship visible in the comfort they took with sitting at each others side.

A weird thing happened for me at this concert. OK, stop. Background is everything when you try to interpret the words of a backwards-thinking writer, so let me provide you with a little info. Due to my having been genetically inflicted with the dreaded ADD and its big brother, ADHD, my musical comprehension is incredible—for maybe ten bars of every song I have ever heard.

I can provide you a few lines of melody and/or libretto for anything in the catalogs of such varied artists as Harry Connick to Frank Zappa to Amadeus fucking Mozart. I can hum a couple bars of anything I’ve ever heard yet can’t sing you the complete verses of even my most favorite songs. Hell, I even have difficulty with the Star Spangled Banner. After six decades, I still mix up “Home of the free” with “Land of the brave”.

But what I lack in musical comprehension I have been spaded with human and emotional association connected with any song and my own life. I can tell you all the details of my life surrounding any song ever to pass through my brain. Take “In the Jungle, the quiet Jungle” as an example.

I had this tiny crystal transistor radio bedside as a young adolescent. I lay in my bed one summer night—the summer I grew 11-inches between school terms, and every bone in my body ached with the pain of their expansion rates. My legs and feet hurt the most, and this one night I was thinking I could actually hear my bones creaking and splintering as they expanded and extended under my skin. Each night I pressed the zero end of a yardstick tight to my sphincter and measured the distance to my foot—you know, that spot where the smooth skin of your leg turns into the rough sandpaper of heel. I’d mark the measurement on a Big Chief Pad, then measure again in the morning.

Most nights the increase in seam length would be small—discernible, yet quite small. But this one night I actually grew a quarter-inch overnight. Anyway, I was lying there on the cool cotton sheets debating the virtues of masturbation and whether I wanted to get up and make a date with my personal bar of Ivory soap, or just lay there and hurt. I remember that I was thinking about adding steps to my nightly yardstick ritual and see how much my pecker was growing and whether I should measure softy or stiffy.

I had just voted “stiffy” when that silly song squeaked from the paper cone speaker on the radio.

“The lion sleeps tonight, weem-a-wacka, weem-a-wacka?” I asked myself in the darkened bedroom, “What, inthefuck, does that mean? That might be the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

However, I must now edit my teenage thoughts by saying that I had not yet discovered Iron Butterfly at that point. “…Inna gotta da vida, baby…” Really?

So, the memory/emotional responses I got from Lyle and Robert Earl were for/from my buddies Squatlo and BJ. I laughed for Bob at songs such as “She’s No Lady, She’s My Wife”, and I teared-up for Bill with Robert Earl’s family stories. Bill’s mom is really sick and Bob likes silly shit.

And that reminds me that this woman at the Whole Foods asked me a question the other day. She somehow knew that I’d been married ten times and she asked me, she said, “Which of the ten was the sexiest?”

After a lengthy discussion about how each was quite sexy and the many different ways so, she asked me again. “OK, but which was the sexiest?”

I then had a question of my own, that being, “Why do you ask, you blue-eyed sexpot? Are you angling for a spot of Mooner?” a question that did not quite draw a slap to my well-sunned face, but did garner a look that might have shriveled the pecker of a lesser man.

And here I now sit, asking myself that self same question, and have come to an answer. The sexiest of my ten ex wives is as of yet unknown to me. I will, however, ponder the solution and report herein my conclusions. I can say for certain that if your idea of sexy is a woman having an insatiable appetite, then I must go with Roshandra Washington-Johnson, the gun-toting Nubian warrior guarding the headquarters of the Austin City Council. If mystery is your clue to sexiness, then maybe it’s number seven. OK, stop, maybe mystery would be number four, the shortest-lived of the ten. Then, again, mystery is a word of mysterious definitions in its ownself, and the understanding of the very word “mysterious” provokes a myriad of interpretive adaptations.

Ugh. Mother will be here in four days. Buy my silly fucking book and you’ll understand more. Manana, y’all.

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Mayans Send Mixed Messages; Mooner Untangles The Myths

Thursday, December 20th, 2012


So. It’s Thursday before Friday’s world-ending events possibly predicted by the Great Mayan Calendar. It seems that the entire earth is in for a major calamity should the doomsdayer’s interpretations of ancient stone tablets be correct. Stone tablets, which I might add, that no living human has any real idea how to interpret, other than to say that, rather than ending their calendars for reprinting each twelve modern months, the Mayans chose to scribe their date keepers for page turnings every few centuries.

It’s easy to see how the Mayan calendar ends when it does since the fucking Catholics slaughtered all the Mayans hundreds of years before they even needed to think about quarrying the stone for the next period’s dates.

Evil right-wing murdering Nazi Catholic goat fucking shitheads.

Me, I see this silliness in the same way I see how different shitheads interpret the books of the Bible. Every wing nut and evil-hearted conman has an interpretation of the Bible, and those interpretations range from “Love your fellow man” to “President Obama is the Devil”. The longer I live the less I believe any Biblical interpretations are worthy of serious discussion. The longer I live the more I’m convinced that the Bible has jumped the shark.

That’s right. You heard it here first—the Bible has jumped the fucking shark.

If my grandfather were still alive, he’d say, “The world has already ended, Mooner, so who really gives a shit the Mayan calendar?”

I remember the day that JFK was murdered when it was my grandfather who came to William B. Travis Junior High School to pick Streaker Jones and me up after they dismissed classes. All of us were stunned in some manner or another—students and teachers alike. Streaker Jones and I were in Mrs. Browningwell’s Spanish Class when the Principal announced both the assassination and school dismissal over the loud speaker.

The institutional beige loud speakers at Travis Junior High were Altec brand, and maybe 14-inchers, that hung in the top corners of each room. The speaker boxes were bolted to the walls and the bolts had a spot weld to keep them in place. Seems some enterprising young schoolboy had found an after-market for institutional beige Altec 14-inch loudspeakers.

I always thought it was Mike Martel. We caught him breaking into all sorts of shit and stealing anything from the Valomilk candy in the cafeteria to the Kotex from the Girls’ Rooms.

God I loved Valomilk candy. The snap of the crisp chocolate shell, the way the marshmallow cream oozed out onto your fingers… That one time when Candice what’s-her-name sucked my finger clean. What was her last name?

Several of the girls in class gasped and started crying when they heard the President had been killed. Me, I didn’t quite hear it accurately. I’m sure that my ADHD had my brain spinning with thoughts of Susie Ashburn’s budding breasts or some other thought more interesting than Mrs. Browningwell’s dull lessons on conjugating Spanish verbs.

“Mooner… Hey, Mooner, snap outta it. Sumbody shot the President. We need ta go home.” It was Streaker Jones and he was already standing at my side and tugging on my sleeve.

“Sit… Down, everyone!” Mrs. Browningwell barked. “The Principal said to evacuate civilly and in our assigned order. Assistant Principal Smithson will come to release our room. You are to sit and shut up until he gets here.”

We all waited, squirmed and cried. After a few minutes, Assistant Principal Smithson did indeed stop at our door. He motioned Bat Brains Browningwell to join him where they conferred in whispers. All I heard that was legible enough to understand was her whispering, “It was bound to happen.”

Mrs. Leticia Browningwell was twenty-one and just out of college and just married to then Assistant Pastor of Mother’s Baptist Church, The Reverend Dr. Browningwell. Bat Brains Browningwell was a constant character in my life from the start of that school year so long ago, until today. Her hubby is the self-same asshole who managed to convince my mother to be the mean spirited shitwad that she has become.

OK, look, Mother didn’t need to be convinced to be mean spirited—she fucking IS mean spirited. But the good preacher has provided the focus for Mother’s attacks, most recently gays, President Obama and Public School funding.

When Granddad picked us up from school that day he was in a solemn, quiet mood. Which for Granddad was remarkable. See, I caught the dreaded ADHD from Daddy who caught it from Granddad, who likely invented the fucking AD and HD. When he didn’t respond to my, “Hey, Granddad, how ya doing?” I knew something serious was going on.

“They shot our President, son. It’s the end of the world.”

We rode the rest of the trip in silence. See, my grandfather was a man who felt that civilized people would neither assassinate their own president nor would they even feel he deserved to be killed. Civilized people talked their differences and then voted their preferences.

Granddad would yell at the TV when some shithead said something he thought was stupid. “You ignorant John Bircher ass licking Nazi loving sonofabitching motherfucker,” was his favorite yelled phrase. I guess I didn’t fall far from that tree myownself. Substitute “goat fucker” for John Bircher and “shithead” for ass licker and you’ve got my TV rants.

Anyway, what I want to say is that I’ll be on the road with the Squirt, Yoda the goat dog and likely not the fucking cat. Honor seems to have disappeared again and left nothing but smatterings of mouse blood and fur in her wake. I’m hoping her long hair and hunting skills keep her moving while we’re gone.

Armstrong! It was Candice Armstrong who sucked the sticky marshmallow Vallomilk center off my index finger. I’ll never forget the embarrassment I had from the delayed-action woodie she invoked. Are woodies invoked by sexy women? Evoked, maybe?

Remember boy’s short-short basketball uniforms? Hard to hide a big old boner when you didn’t even realize one had arisen from inside those shorts. We were all standing around after basketball practice eating Valomilks when Candice and the other cheer leaders walked by from their practice.

“What’s on your fingers, Moooo-nerrrr?” Candice cooed.

Then, without any additional foreplay, she grasped my wrist in her velvety-smooth hand and stuck my index finger into her mouth. “Mmmmm, marsh-mmmellow cream. My favie.”

I remember, for some reason, that she said the word “favie”. I think that my thoughts about how she said “favie”, when combined with the tingle running through me for minutes after she stopped sucking on my finger are what invoked that woodie.

Have you ever been standing among a group of friends and strangers and had your rock hard pecker come peeking out from the hem of your shorts? That shit is embarrassing no matter how many times it happens.

Maybe I can look Candice up while I’m in Austin, and maybe Squattie or Beej will stay abreast of the Mayan shit and let me know if the world ends while we’re on the road tomorrow. I’d hate to miss the end of times.

I’ll try to write you while in Austin, but no promises. Manana, (maybe) y’all.


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Thinking Of Q; Reflections On A Year Ago

Tuesday, November 13th, 2012


So. I was just reading some comments from Squattie and Beej and it hit me. A year ago today is when I packed my car and headed back to Austin after BlogCon 2011. That memory should have hit yesterday when I learned that Quincy’s wife died. That’s my buddy Q from over to Thank-Q For Common Sense.

My first stop for BlogCon 2011 was to see Quincy and his wife in Jackson. I thought of how the Mrs. Didn’t feel well enough to have dinner and beers and conversation on that November night I stopped in Mississippi to meet the Q. While he never shared with me any details of his lovely wife’s illness, I have never sensed pain from/in Q. I never sensed that he carried the burden that many people with a dying spouse carry like 80-pound backpacks. He was reverential and respectful and always loving towards his mate. But never a “woe is me” was uttered.

When I tried to say something meaningful in respects yesterday, I realized how insufficient words are. I wondered about how we humans have experienced billions of deaths over thousands of years yet we lack any truly comforting words after death.

Why don’t we have a standard statement that will make everything OK—why can’t we say a few words and have things actually be better?

I left Jackson, Mississippi the next morning last November with a new friendship, a half-dozen smelly beer glasses from The Bulldog, and a learned respect for common sense. I programmed the OnStar system in my little Chevy for the outskirts of Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and headed out. I arrived at the McDonalds near to BJ’s place where he picked me up for a “grocery trip.”

The two of us drove central Tennessee for a couple hours and hit four of the best pork and chicken smokers’ establishments in the South. We also established the foundation of one of the best friendships I’ve ever had.

OK, and let me also say that Beej was the assigned vetting agent for Squatlo and the Reckmonster—the toughest of the three of them whose job it was to make certain I wasn’t an ax murderer from Texas who’d driven 1,800 miles to thin the blogger population in Central Tennessee.

Which reminds me. I read that some silly assholes in Texas have gotten enough signatures on a Petition to Secede From The Union to make it official. Got enough other assholes to sign it to force the President to look at it.

Dear President Obama:

I hear that Texas wishes to leave the extreme discomfort of The United States of America in order to form what they consider to be a more perfect union—a union of one. Please grant their wish.

Sincerely (and I mean it),

Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, American Citizen and Former Texan”

Do those silly asshole even realize how fast Mexico will invade the fucking New Republic of Texas? Davy Crockett and the boys stole Tejas from the Mexicans and the Mexicans want it back. Don’t know why they want it back, they just do.

I wonder if Rick the Prick Perry would lead the Texas Brigade in the second defense of the Alamo. Take his Texas Aggie sword out of mothballs and lead the charge.

And that reminds me to say, “Hip-hooray for the Aggies football team!!!” Kicked that Alabalama butt and did it in Tuskalooser. And something just hit me.

I have always wondered about the elephant in the room with the Crimson Tide. Might that be because the word “tusk” is in their hometown’s name? What if the actual name was Tiskaloosa? Maybe they’d have Miss Manners as their mascot.

The morning I got up to leave BJ’s house exactly one year ago today, he fixed me several magnificent breakfast sandwiches. Bacon, ham, eggies biscuits…

One year ago today. Wow.

Anyway, our country will remain in good hands for another four years and we can all be entertained as we watch the right-wing talking heads explode. Manana, y’all.

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Hosed Again; Moving Moments

Sunday, September 23rd, 2012


So. Here we all are in Santa Fe, New Mexico. We’re tired and sore and sick of wrapping paper and moving boxes, but we’ve not often been as happy to be tired and sore. As the Squirt put it last night when we were out to the portal having icy-cold Carta Blancas and a plate of finger foods, “Son of a bitch but this is some fine living, Bwana Mooner. This is some mighty fine living.”

She was right, of course, and a portal is a covered patio and the finger foods came from a selection of fresh veggies, handmade sausages and meats, and some pickles we grabbed from the Santa Fe Farmer’s Market. I picked up some fresh bread and other accouterments from the Whole Foods over to Cerrillos Road and we were set.

The weather was crisp and clean and the temperature fell from about 69 when we sat down just at dusk and was 62 when I checked it at 11:00 pm as we finally went inside. Then this morning it was 55 when I got up to go get the Sunday paper. I see from the sports section that Tennessee won yesterday, so I won’t need to listen to my buddy Squatlo piss and moan about that, and Kansas State whipped Oklahoma so I get the pleasure of hearing Sooner fans whine about that. A Daily Double.

My elder son and his special lady will arrive for a visit in a few hours—the first of family and friends to see the new casita. It’s still a work in progress but he wanted to help me with some of the update stuff, and help is what I need.

“You’re as clumsy as a borracho pintor Bosnio, Mooner. Everybody knows that you have to put the clamp on the hose first, dumbass,” Squirt advised me. “Look at that dumbshit, Yoda, he worked his ass off getting that hose into place and now he’s got to take it back off to put the clamp on it.”

I was squatted behind the clothes dryer—cramped and crowded in the tight space and likely looking like a drunk Bosnian painter—and the Squirt had her nose wedged between it and the washer next to it. Yoda the goat dog had jumped atop the dryer and was peering down at me like when Snoopy played vulture in the cartoon. The smell of stinky dog breath was a fetid cloud of halitosis as I was struggling to get the too-small vent hose snugged-over and clamped-to the out-of-round vent pipe in the wall. I was thirty minutes into the job and I already had two slices in my fingers from the sharp metal edge of the pipe and an ass full of frustrations.

“Have I told you that they eat dog meat tacos up to the Reservations near Taos? We’ll be heading that way this afternoon.”

Squirt laughed at me and the goat dog tried to eat the end off the dryer hose. We all climbed into the GTO to head over to the Ace Hardware store for a new hose and they were making a new batch of popcorn when we got there. Yoda went to stand station by the popcorn machine to capture anything that dropped and to practice his begging skills.

“Mr. Johnson, how are you sir?”

It was the head cashier. “Listen, you might want to leave Squirt in the car today, sir. We just waxed and polished the floors and I don’t want her to rub those wax finishing products into her cute little bottom.”

For those of you uninitiated here ’bouts, the Squirt had impacted anal glands and would drag her ass on the floor tiles all over the Ace Hardware. She was so fucking adorable with her hind legs pointed skyward and that grimace plastered on her face.

“Oh, Thanks, but don’t worry. We got her all fixed up before we moved.”

Here I lifted the miniature bundle of brown fur and wonderment and flipped her around to show the scars. “See, most of the swelling is gone and you will hardly be able to see her scars. I paid extra to get her cuts and sutures done cosmetically.”

“Uh, ah, I can tell,” was the only reply I got.

When we had made it to the dryer vent aisle, Squirt stopped and looked up at me. “That, you giant flaming asshole, was soooo embarrassing. If you do that to me again I’m going to shit in your favorite sneakers and have Yoda eat your car seats.”

Point taken. I guess I can be somewhat inappropriate at times. “OK, little lady, I’ll try to not do that again.”

Anyway, when the family arrives we’ll head out to the Santa Fe flea market and off to lunch in the mountains. Another day in paradise.

Manana, y’all.

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Parental Concerns; A Religious Sentiment

Monday, January 9th, 2012


So. It’s 5 am and I can’t sleep. I’ve been without my two adorable puppies and the fucking cat this weekend, and I miss their pesterings so much I can’t sleep. Who knew that the absence of pain could cause insomnia? I miss getting crowded out of my own bed and I actually miss the cat’s needle sharp caresses.

I have a 10:30 psycho therapy session wherein I’ll get Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s evaluations of one, my animals’ states of mental health, and two, her clinical opines as to my mental health as reflected in my parenting said animals. Based on these evaluations, I’ll bring the animals home with me, or not. I’m not really worried about the results except that the Squirt is fully capable of fucking with me on this dealie to gain an advantage somewhere. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that I need to be more responsive to their needs, or some silly shit like that.

If I was writing a book, that last sentence would be foreshadowing. Here, it’s but a simple prediction.

There is some foreshadowing in my just-released book—Full Rising Mooner—available by either clicking over there ===}}}} to the linksters, or by clicking on the STORE tabbie up top^^^. I would consider it a personal favor if you will at least investigate a purchase. Check out the book trailer—a 30-second video ad for the book. I put it over there on the Bloggie Roller as well. Over there ===}}} where it says “Book Trailer”[.]

Which reminds me. If you have been here before, you know with certainty that I am a staunch supporter in a woman’s right to choose. I support a woman’s right to choose any and every fucking thing as it relates to her body, person and mind. While that might have been a tad redundant there, it does properly describe my levels of support for a woman’s rights.

In my last posting, I mentioned my support of a woman’s reproductive rights and I showed a picture of my latest anti-anti-abortion protest picket sign. That’s the sign I’ll use when the anti-abortion protesters show back up over to Planned Parenthood. Squatlo made a comment that, “… conception begins at puberty…,” a comment aimed at the silliness of recent right-wing Christian statements that the instant a sperm sniffs out an egg you have yourself a baby.

That silly sentiment was debated by the Catholic anti-abortion lady and me on one of my last visits with her. I think a baby is what gets born outside a woman’s body, a plain and simple belief. Catholic A-AL now believes the sperm-meets-eggie bullshit. Since we’ve been protesting against each other, her “belief” as to precisely when a human exists in the procreation process has regressed from during the third trimester, to the second trimester, to when a sonogram can determine sex, to when you can detect a heartbeat, to now—egg meets sperm.

Following that illogical pathway, Squat decided the next place to look at conception would be puberty. The idea would be that as soon as you CAN conceive, you HAVE conceived. Not a silly idea in the previous context.

But here is my thought. When Catholic A-AL and I argued this issue, I asked her why she kept changing her tune, why she has so much trouble making her mind up about all of this. Her answer was somewhat confounding. “God is a living God and the Bible is a living book.”

Translated, she meant that whatever her priest/preacher told her to think is what she believes. So my first question to her was, “But I thought you previously told me that God knows all, sees all, and is the Maker of all things. Right?”

“You got that right, heathen. Everything that ever happens is God’s will. Ev-er-y thing ev-er!” she replied.

Oh, re-a-ly? Everything that happens is God’s will? This was the last time I was slapped. I said back to the lady, I said, “Well, then, if everything that happens is God’s will, then a woman getting an abortion is simply doing God’s will. She doesn’t have a choice. So, since you don’t want a woman to have a choice you are getting what you want when the woman gets the abortion.”

She looked at me dumbfoundedly and said, “But God gives us free will.”

Two… three… and four. “Now wait, little darlin’,” I advised her. “You don’t get it both ways. Either your God decides everything that will happen and then makes it happen, or He lets us make our own choices. But you can’t have it both ways just to get your way. But whichever you choose, your God is OK with a woman making her own choices about her own body.”

Again I got the dumbfounded look, which turned into a squinty-eyed stare, which lead to a, “Slap!”

To me, this underscores the absurdity of any attempt to force any religion or religious belief system on persons not followers of that religion. Faith-based religion is illogical by definition, so once you push your religious dogma past the pulpit it is illogical to the rest of us. You can attempt to convert us to your way or you can try to convince us that your way makes sense.

But what makes you think you can tell us what to do? Why should the rest of us be forced to follow your illogical beliefs? What gave you the right to force your shit on us?

I really don’t care what you believe. Think whatever you wish. If you choose to think that Earth was created in the course of a week 4,000 years ago—knock yourself the fuck out. If you want to believe in an exclusionary deity, go right on ahead, asshole.

Just leave me alone.

On the ADHD front, not having the additional stimuli of the dogs and fucking cat around has been a mixed bag. I don’t have the stress of being a good parent ever present in my skull, but I do have a parent’s concern about whether they will embarrass me when out of site. I usually don’t worry about getting embarrassed. I do way plenty stupid shit all the time so I suffer no embarrassment at my own hands. But I do suffer from that silly parental concern.

OK, I need to get ready for therapy. Please buy my book and I’ll see you, manana.

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Squatlo Shows Ass; Here’s The Unvarnished Truth

Tuesday, December 6th, 2011


So. I feel compelled to rewrite you today due to a series of situations having arisen from several of the predicaments in which I have found myself during the last, let’s call it ten hours. I’ll call it ten hours and not even attempt a closer proximiTY AS I’M TOO FUCKING FRAZZLED TO CATCH myself hitting the “Caps Lock” button on my keyboard. I hate doing that and needing to go back and re-fucking type whole paragraphs in their entireties.

I’m thinking that last paragraph might be a prime example of what that person from Floriduh meant when telling me my prose lacks professionalism of any sort. But who really gives a shit, right? When last I researched the subject, writing was invented as a method of communication first, and foremost. So, as I previously said, and quite eloquently at that, who gives a shit?

Predicament number one. We can’t find the fucking cat. She headed out early this am to go bird hunting and hasn’t been seen since. Normally, not having a fucking cat around isn’t problematic for me, but it’s to be quite cold tonight and Mother has become worried about the little short-haired miscreant we call Honor.

“Mooner, you go out and find that sweet little kitten and you do it now,” were my mother’s words to me. Then she added, “It would be just like you to leave it outside to freeze. You’re not right, son, and you need to spend some time thinking of someone other than your self.” And no, grammar police, I didn’t mean to say “yourself”[.]

I was about to attempt an explanation as to the fact that the fucking cat ran off without any assistance, or counsel, from me, but Mother felt the need to martyrize the situation to fit her needs. “I don’t know how I can face the shame if people find out that you killed that poor kitten.”

Give me a fucking break.

Anyway, that started the shit storm and then I got so frustrated with my attempts to download pictures from my new camera and get them posted here to Loony Land. I had the sharpened machete at my carotid artery (right side) when I thought to enlist the aid of my bloggie buddies to see if they could help. Bob, over to Squatlo, had me email them to him and he sent them back as JPEGS with a note that said, and I’ll quote Bob here, “Pretty simple shit…”

Asshole. Do you see any photos with this posting? Well do you? Simple my rosy-red plucked and dyed to look like Sarah Palin in a blood-colored thong ass.

Then, adding insults to my injuries, he started pimping me about this dealie that happened at his house when I was there to Tennessee for BlogCon2011. “That was the funniest thing that happened the entire time you were here,” are Squatlo’s words in their precisenesses.

Asshole. That wasn’t the funniest thing by maybe a factor of thirty-six. It was funny, and I’m going to tell the story here to insure truthful reporting of the events.

OK. Look, the background you need to know for this story to have any kind of import, is that, and quite simple put, Bob is a bit of a whiner. Not a crybaby snot-nosed whimper shit, but a more sophisticated piss-and-moaner. He’s the type that says, “Are we going to eat anytime soon?” rather than saying he’s hungry. Or he’ll say, “Charmin is really a good value when you consider how few sheets you need,” when what he really wants to say is, “My finger broke through your cheap-assed toilet paper and I got shit under my fingernail.” That kind of stuff, where he whines by trying to not sound like a pussy.

Bear that in mind when I tell you that we were at BJ’s place and it was cool inside and out. BJ and I were remarking as to how we like a house chilly, and we remarked additionally as to how those around us bitched about it. Just as Bob bitches about his house.

“Well, then you should come over to my house because Cindy keeps it so cold that I can’t feel my feet unless I soak them in gasoline and set them on fire. Chez Squatlo is colder than an ice house.”

Knowing that the boy has a way of exaggerating shit, neither BJ nor myself placed much credence in his words. So, we boo-hooed his whiny ass and told him he was e xaggerating.

Next day, a Saturday, we gathered to Squat’s house to watch football, a gathering with no happy football endings. Texas was stomped first, then the Tennessee Vols were stomped more later. Now, I’m not saying it was cold in the house, but it was maybe 50-degrees outside, and we went outside to warm up. BJ and I found every excuse we could to go to the back porch.

“Oh, look,” BJ shouted as he raced to the back door. “It’s a hyperbolated jack bird with purple tufts. And it has blue eyes.”

BJ and Bob both are bird birders. Birdophiles? Each has a backyard built for bird watching and each attracts birds by the thousands. Me, I can take your bird or leave it and wouldn’t know a jack bird from a donut hole, but I beat BJ to the door with, “Incredible. I-i’-vvvve nnn-evver sss-seeen a tufted one yyyy-yet.”

He and I huddled on the back porch, hugging to share warmth. “Jesus, Bob wasn’t kidding about how cold she keeps the place,” BJ told me.

“I agree,” I responded. “I’d suggest maybe that Cindy has the menopause and she should see about some hormones to adjust her internal thermostat, but I’m afraid she’ll break my neck with one of those karate dealies.”

OK, wait. I would likely be able to distinguish between a donut hole and a bird—any fucking bird.

Back inside, Bob took the opportunity to twist our twats and poked fun of us in front of the ever dangerous one. Cindy got up and we thought she was going to flip from AC to heater. That’s when asshole Bob said, “She’s not turning on the heat, she’s getting you pussies some blankets.”

See, I told you he’s an asshole.

Cindy came back and pitched the blankets at us, a tight smile on her lips. “Here, cover yourself with this, Mooner,” BJ told me as he placed a beautiful woven blanket over my lap. As soon as it touched my skin it set my entire body to a glow.

“I’m not using a blanket until you use one first,” this from me as I threw the cover back at him.

We neither gave in and both froze our balls off. My left nipple is still scabbed-over from where it got so cold-engorged that it split like an overripe watermelon. And yes, BJ did offer to burn couch cushions in the fireplace and I did offer an all expenses trip to Iceland for a little heat.

In retrospect, I think it’s only fair that Squattie lives in a meat locker. Asshole.

Now, I’ve got to go look for that fucking cat. Manana, y’all.

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Book Sales Brisk: Not A Bris

Sunday, November 6th, 2011


So. This is the last post before my big trip on the Mooner Johnson Bloggie Posters’ Tour. I’m having trouble naming this well-seasoned road trip because I heading out to visit other bloggie posters, but I’m traveling alone. If other bloggie posters were on the road with me, it would be easy to just call it The Bloggie Posters’ Tour. Of course, if it were the Reckmonster traveling with me, I might be tempted to call it a honeymoon.

I’m really good planning honeymoons.

The first name I named it was Mooner Johnson Takes A Vacation To Visit Other Bloggie Poster Persons After He Stops To Play Some Poker Wherein Mooner Leaves The Dogs And The Fucking Cat Back To The Ranch. This misnomer was fully accurate, so the “mis” part is wrong from the application perspective rather than a miss on the facts.

And one of you asshole grammar shitballs answer me this. If you can have a misnomer, then why not a nomer? Really, whatinthefuck is wrong with a nomer? I think whoever was in charge of some of this grammar crap was a fucking Baptist. The logic irregularities share the same glaring idiocies.

Anyway, I have way much too much to do today because I made a mess of yesterday. I watched the early day crushing of the Texas Tech Red Raiders by my Texas Longhorns, and I drank a few too many icy-cold Carta Blanca beers. I drank too many beers because Streaker Jones and Dixie came by to watch the game with me. For new readers, Dixie is my Golden Retriever—the self-same Dixie who trained the Squirt how to speak—and the two of them wanted my opinion on some new products for the hemp clothing factory we own together.

They have the Spring Line ready to go, and nifty it is. Streaker Jones also has a new mushroom strain he wanted me to Guinea hen for him. This latest cross-pollination of his breeds the Great Texas Psychedelic Cow Patty mushroom with the black truffle. I cut some thick slabs of ciabatta bread and covered them with the mushrooms, bleu cheese, roasted garlic and a light jacket of caramelized onions. before broiling. When the cheese got a light toast on top, I took them out and drizzled some olive oil and sprinkled torn basil leaves on top.

Tops were just a tad crusty, and I got crusty as well. Maybe it was the mushrooms that caused my over-indulging on the beer side, but I didn’t feel like doing anything but beer drinking, eating and waxing philosophically.

Which reminds me. Two things. First, Gnat will post a week’s worth of stuff all written by other persons who are not me. It’ll be one post but it’ll have the days written on it. You can read them as intended and come back once each assigned day as I intend. Or, you can be an asshole and read them all in one sitting. Your choice.

Second, if you need me, go over to my Bloggie Roller and click onto Dumb Perignon or Reckmonster or Squatlo or Thank Q, and leave me a message with one of them. I don’t know how to check on my own shit from remote locations, and quite frankly, I don’t want to learn.

OK, and I lied because there’s one other thing. You really need to go out to Amazon and buy my fucking book. I started all of this bloggie bullshit and went to all of this trouble to promote and market the fucking book. Click on to the linkster at:

It will be available on the Kindle by Monday sometime, and the Kindle version is only $9.99. Or is it $9.90? Doesn’t matter. The book is a real heavyweight in papered format which accounts for its pr iciness. I’m told that Full Rising Mooner is quite readable on the Kindle.

I don’t think I’ll miss anybody while I’m gone, but I promise to think about you each, and every one. Manana de la manana de la manana de la etcetera until about the 16th of Noviembre.

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Bloggie Tour Plans On A Roll; Doughnuts For Breakfast

Saturday, October 29th, 2011


So. I have only one week left before I head out on my road trip to visit Squatlo, BJ, the Reckmonster and TQ—fellow bloggers and buddies of mine. I’m starting the trip with a few days of poker at an Indian casino up to Oklahoma. I hear the poker rooms might be better over to Tunica, Mississippi, but I have an eighth Indian blood from Daddy’s side and I want to keep my action with family.

In my absence, my homie family and associates will provide you with a little entertainment. I have asked each of them to say a little something on any subject they choose. I have also asked them to do this after I’m gone so that they can write unbridled by my comments. OK, why aren’t they unbridled WITH my comments?

We just finished discussing it at breakfast. When I told them of my idea, you’d have thought I asked them to slit their own throats.

“Oh, dear, son,” Mother started. “You are too controversial and totally inappropriate. I cannot have my name associated with you.”


“But you’re my mother, for shitsakes, don’t forget that you’re my mother.”

Mother sighed her deepest martyr sigh and said to me, she said, “Oh, sweet Jesus knows I have tried to forget, Mooner. But God has determined that you and your grandmother are to be my bearfull burdens in this sinful life, and He wants us to remember our responsibilities. Sometimes it’s just too much to bear.”

Bearfull burdens? Whatinthefuck is a bearfull burden?

Before I could form the words in my mouth, Gram piped up. “I’mma bear yer ass full a this hot oatmealie if’n ya start up with that shit agin’.”

There was verbal silence for minutes as my Gram sat and stewed. Every thirty seconds or so she would look up from her oatmeal and snort at Mother, a cold and scary look in her eyes. Gram scraped the last of her oats into the big soup spoon and jammed the over-filled silver utensil into her mouth. “Ah thooda thoth Thigha tha mmathy Emthala Mahthathun.”

Uh-oh. Someone run grab the Kleenex.

It took a second for my mother to translate Gram’s mush-mouthed proclamation, but her cognizance showed as huge tears welled in her eyes. “How can you say that after everything I have done for you? How can you throw Emily Morrison into my face after all these years?”

My Gram had just told Mother that she wished she’d told Chigger, that’s what we called Daddy, that he should have married Emily Morrison. Emily was my Daddy’s high school sweetheart and first love. They separated, unmarried, when Daddy went off to war, and Daddy came home with Mother in tow.

OK, let me stop the presses. You need to go buy my book because the rest of our breakfast talk delved deep into stories contained in the fucking book. I can’t be spoiling book surprises here in the bloggie. So click onto this linkster:

What I can do here is summarize breakfast. Gnat, my personal assistant, will take dictation from each of the contributors after I leave town. Gnat will translate to computer speak, and publish the whole thing on Monday morning, November 7th. You can read one entry each day, or read the whole silly thing at once. I don’t really give a shit which.

Anyway, I’ve got a truckload of Carta Blanca arriving that needs to be unloaded, and I need to go wake SAC Ellen from her slumber. I did me some fine work last night, and she need a little extra time to recover. She’ll blame it on jet lag, but we all know better.

Manana, y’all.

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Waaaanita Perry Whines Again; World Still Spinning

Saturday, October 22nd, 2011


So. OK, first, please allow me to say that to the best of my knowledge the world did not end yesterday. I pigged-out on pork all day as my family and friends spent out last possible hours enjoying each other as if old Harold were right this time. I stopped drinking at 7 pm, right after my crispy whole piggy dinner, so that I would be fully sobered for the drive to the airport to pick up SAC Ellen.

She and I fumbled and giggled for a couple hours as we made the best sex we could in the back seat of a Sixties Pontiac GTO. I’ve got abrasions on my knees, left hip and my chin, and I think I strained a hamstring. The abrasions to knees and hip are from the GTO’s rough carpet. My chin must be rubbed raw from the regrowth of the SACster’s neder regions.

Before she left Monday morning to head out to California, we spent Sunday night doing personal grooming on each other. I shaved her clean—legs, arm pits, pubis and taint. While I like a hairy woman, there is no other feeling to match the sensation of dragging your tongue over a smooth-shaved adult female. Still fun, whisker burn results when nuzzling stubble.

SAC Ellen thought it would be funny to shave my front to look like Dumbo with Micky Mouse ears, and she shaved my ass to where the unshaved hair spelled “Ellen”[.] When she finished I told her I thought it looked like Goofy, and she poked me for saying something that dumb.

And let’s stop for one minute and cogitate on something. First, why shouldn’t I have said, “… to where the unshavened hair,”? If you are “clean-shaven” then you would have to be unshavened. Also, why not “spellt” or maybe “spellted” instead of spelled?

I know I’ve got grammar police reading my shit because you never fail to try to correct me. But never once have any of you offered me logical reasoning as to my questioned grammatical alterations.


Which reminds me. Have any of you guys noticed that Anita Perry has even started looking like her namesake, Anita Bryant? I swear to god it’s true. If I could Photoshop, or whateverthefuck it is that lets you put two pics side-by-side, I’d show you. Maybe BJ or Squattie will do it for me. Grab a stock black and white of Anita P, and an uncolored on of Mz. Bryant from when she had the same hair style. Look like twins.

Which also reminds me. Message to Rick Perry: “Ricky, do yourself a huge favor. You are plenty stupid for the entire family. Tell Anita to stay to home until she gets her medications stabilized.”

Waaaaanita was in South Carolina and started whining about her poor baby boy having to resign his job because of a federal regulation that prohibits policy advisors from participating in political campaigns. Waaaaaaaanita thinks that’s “unfair” to her little Griffin Perry, the now former employee of Deutche Bank. While Waaaanita was whining about insider influences, hubby was up the coast in DC to woo the insiders on his own behalf. The Prickster was there to raise money and influence from the lobbyists who fuel our greedy political system.

Now folks, please listen to something. Rick Perry has historically chided those politicians who are funded and influenced by the same shitheads he is there to now impress. And he has grown desperate for his sinking polls and will do anything to get back on top.

But I just remembered my point to all of this shit. What I wanted to say is that I want my First Ladies to show that they have the strength to make their husbands behave their fucking selves. Like with Mrs. Obama. Anyone doubt she’d have trouble pulling the trigger on her man? Or Eleanor Roosevelt? Or Barbara Bush?

Presidents are men, for shitsakes, and we men are total fuck-ups without the rudder of a strong woman. Strong women do not fucking whine because her kid has to follow the same rules as everyone else’s kids. Hey, Waaanita. Griffy ain’t in Texas anymore, and we don’t like whiners.

FUCK RICK PERRY and drink Carta Blanca beer as we all root for Tennessee to kick Alabalony’s ass tonight. Manana, y’all.

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Nice Rack…Slap; Mooner’s Still Nuts

Tuesday, October 18th, 2011


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bitch,” the best I had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cheers, you crazy mothers!”

Manana. Y’all.

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Pee Wee And The Squirts

Sunday, October 16th, 2011


So. My team lost, Squat’s team lost, the Reckmonster and TQ’s team lost. Brandon from over to Idaho was the only fan with a winning college football team yesterday, with Boise State. Of the three losses, I have to say that Michigan’s loss to Michi-fuggin State was the worst.

Tennessee lost to number one LSU and my beloved Texas Longhorns dropped one to the sixth-ranked Okie State Cowboys. Each of our teams is filled with freshmen and first-year starters who play hard and show promise to be good.

Michigan lost ugly.

Reck, if you’re listening, if I were there I would poor-sweet-baby you. As a true college football fanatic, I know what it feels like to take a terrible beating and, also, what it takes to ease that pain. I won’t go into all of it here, but think foot rubs, your favorite meals, and…

The little dog formerly-known-as Pi has started to adapt to the Johnson family way of life. The bug-eyed shitbird now called Yoda has started acting more like my dog every day. He doesn’t flinch when Gram shoots him the evil eye, he’s learned to dry his little hooded pecker on the wash cloth after peeing in the sink, and he stood up to the cat for the first time yesterday.

One of the things that drives me the most crazy about myself is (are?) those last few drops of urine that hang around in your pecker after you think you have finished a pee event. You pee and shake, wiggle and pee some more, massage and wiggle and shake and pee another tiny stream. You think you’re finished and then wring the last of it off the tip, wipe on the damp wash rag, and then you wash your hands/flush the sink and move on.

Next thing you know, your sitting at your computer to check all your buddies’ bloggies and you reach your hand into your shorts to hold your pecker. I like my pecker and I hold it every chance I get. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson has, at various times, told me that it is: a substitute pacifier; a protective gesture; a reactive gesture to having been raped as a kid; foreplay.

It seems that many primates play with their gentiles and for those many reasons. While I have never flashed my pecker in public on purpose, I have accidentally loosed it before a crowd when my ass show malfunctioned. I wasn’t bothered any of those times. As I said, I like my pecker and enough to take it everywhere I go.

When I was younger, I worried that I would be a flasher if my pecker were one of those giant things. Since it is what was told to me to be “typical for a man of your race and size”[,] I think of it as special to only me and those with whom I wish to share it. But if I had one of those twelve-inch jobbies with the girth of an old fashioned glass…

Well, I’d get a ruler tattooed along its length and a measuring tape around its fattest part, and I’d share.

Anyway, I was sitting at the computer to read with my hand stuffed in my pants, when I sensed a dampness against my fingers as I did that idle-minded pecker-petting we men do. Then, as men do, I removed my hand from my pants and stuck the dampened fingers to my nose for a sniff.

“Ugh,” I said aloud. “My pecker smells like stale pee.”

OK, now everyone calm down. If you didn’t know this about the men in your life, you don’t have fully-intimate relationships. Any of you men who will deny these habits can go fuck your self-denying shithead selves. We ALL do it.

Anyway, at dinner last night I brought the subject into the conversation, wondering if anyone had any ideas as to how to get the last drops of pee to settle anywhere other than my underwear. Mother said, “Oh sweet Jesus, Mooner, is the dinner table an appropriate place for that?” which was a totally predictable response from my mother.

“Quit yer whinin’, Mother. This sounds serious,” Gram started. “What’s it smell like?”

“Well,” I told her, “it smells like urine but a touch stale.”

“Thank God. I was worried you was smelling like head cheese. I hate when a man has that smell a head cheese commin’ outta his hoodie.”

I started to remind my grandmother that I was circumcised at a quite tender age but decided I didn’t want to hear the story of Mother latching my pecker in the steel zipper of a pair of Daddy’s old coveralls. That story is in the book, and the memory too painful to fully relive at this juncture.

OK, what.. in the fuck… was my point?

I guess it doesn’t really make a shit. I’m taking the whole crew fishing. The Carta Blanca beer is loaded and we’re heading out. Manana, y’all.

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Squatlo And Reckmonster Root For Teams; You Should Too

Saturday, October 15th, 2011


So. It’s another Fall Saturday and football is on our minds. I’m all jacked-up with the hope that my Texas Longhorns can bounce back from the severe ass-kicking one Oklahoma team gave us to beat the other highly-ranked school from the land rush state in today’s big game. Okie State is ranked number six, and my young Longhorn team might get their asses handed to them again.

Squatlo will spend his day wearing the orange color of the other UT—an orange color that I can only politely describe as “interesting”[.] It’s the orange colored equivalent to puce—you know, that color of purple mixed with baby shit brown. Or maybe chartreuse—the sickly color of soon-to-rot limes or already rotten lemons.

Reckmonster will be all decked out in maize and blue. Her Michigan Wolverines are in their big cross-state game with Michigan State. Let’s hope Michigan coach Andy Divine can get his favored team to the winner’s circle this year. Recent past coaches have left the proud Michigan football traditions in the locker room for this big rivalry.

I don’t know who TQ roots for.  Is it Mississippi or Mississippi State.  OK, maybe it’s neither and he’s a traitor to his state and roots for Alabaloney.

I love the sense of pride and tradition and ownership a human gets from sports fandom. Having a favorite team provides a unique sense of belonging to something bigger than self. Sports fans have been around for as long as we’ve had sports, and that, dear friends, is a very long time.

Historians, of course, argue about who was the first civilization to play a sport. The Chinese say they were the first, of course, when they played a game that loosely translates to “kick the ball”[.] I’m still struggling with this whole quotation marks without a quote between them. Until one of you grammar mavens can give me an expectable reasoning to do otherwise, I’m putting the attendant punctuations inside brackets that I’ll hang on the ass-end of the not-containing quote marks. Like there when I said …to “kick the ball”[.]

My problem with the China claim is they didn’t state what a ball was and there were no rules mentioned or if anyone was watching. See, the very definition of sport requires more than one person to play. Playing games with yourself is not a sport. Sport requires competition. Except, of course, when you have multiple personalities or you dissociate a touch and you play games with your self and other selves of yourself.

I don’t remember playing any games with my imaginary friend, Don Legacy. I do remember him getting my righteous ass into massive loads of trouble. “Go ahead, light the fuse,” was what he said to me this one time. And his favorite way to get me in trouble was to say, “Nobody will find out. I promise.”

Isn’t it amazing how you just can’t trust people when they say, “I promise.” It’s the same dealie as when they say, “Well, to be honest with you…” Somebody starts a sentence with that, and I’m on alert to hear what the lying motherfucker has to say next.

And the worst of all that shit is when a businessman stands on his Christian principles as the foundation of his/her business philosophy. Worst crooks I ever met had big bibles on their desk as a display of their “Christian” ethics. Ask my opinion, Christian ethics means, “Jesus came to me in a vision and said I should lie and cheat and steal all your money.”

I walk into a man’s office and he’s got a Bible on display, and I’m walking right back out. That’s the same silly-assed logic used for the Crusades and the Inquisition. Fucking Inquisitors. Brutal shitballs, those guys. I mean, think about the crazy Jesus speak they used for the rules of their games.

“OK, Jaime of Cordoba, heres the rules for your game of Beat The Reaper. We’re gonna tie your left arm and leg to that 2,500-pound plow horse over there (Priest points to Mar el Pan, the dapple-gray beast on Jaime’s left), and your right extremities will be chained to the rock wall of the church. You must demonstrate your faith in God and not gets ripped in half when Mar el Pan strolls over to the basket of carrots held by Father Barnabas, over there.” (Priest points to basket of carrots)

The Mayans had a game like soccer that was played with a ball made either from a goat’s stomach or an enemy’s head. They had arenas with seats and concessions and shit. To me, this represents the first historical sport because it had rules and some specificities.

I wonder what kind of shoes they had. Can you imagine the shoe wars between Nike and Adidas in trying to sign the biggest names in the sport.

OK, I might be digressing whatever point I might have had. Here’s the deal. Today is a very good day to be an American. Let’s put our political differences aside and focus solely on our football rivals. Let’s put away our donkey and elephant signs for a day and wear our school colors instead. Let me be the first to do it.

Today, I’m not saying “FUCK RICK PERRY”[,] I’m saying instead, “Beat the Oklahoma State Cowboys, the best football team that T. Boone Picken’s money can buy!”

Now let’s get the Carta Blanca beer on ice, and go root for somebody! Manana, y’all.

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Republican Party Woes; Yoda Posts First Story

Tuesday, October 4th, 2011


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

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

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

Riiiiiight. Unh huh, that’s right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

etv29v to sow50j

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

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Beach Budget Bingo; The Flim-Flam Man Rick Perry

Thursday, September 29th, 2011


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Chelsea Handler Wins Camel Toe Contest; Yoda Wins First Dog Fight

Tuesday, September 27th, 2011


So. I needed to take the new puppy for a follow-up visit to the vet to get him another shot. I don’t remember what it was for—was it a parvo or rabies or whatever—just that I had the appointment. Squirt suggested that just the two of us make the trip so that we could do some male bonding.

OK, maybe we did some male/semi-male bonding. Or male-eunuch bonding. Poor Yoda had his little puppy gonads sliced off before he ever got a chance to use them.

So I packed him into his harness and loaded him into the GTO. Which reminds me to tell you that the original subject of today’s bloggie was to have been me telling you about the incredible dream I had last night. I had this absolutely amazing dream. Somehow my subconscious had managed to assemble enough suggestive materials from my other conscious to create the critical mass required of a great dream.

Some of the outside factors gathered by my not-frontal lobes were: Squatlo’s dream story last week; catching a glimpse of Chelsea Handler wearing tight, stretchy Capri pants; the now faint eau de SAC Ellen I can still whiff when I close my eyes and sniff the back of my left elbow; and the internal debate I had with myself over pachyderm versus dromedary.

I had this remarkable camel toe contest dream that was to be the central focus today, but something happened at the vets to disrail my attentions. And don’t even think about telling me I should have said “derail” when I said disrail. Derailing is when your train leaves the tracks. Disrailing is when the train jumps off the tracks.

Yoda and I were already checked-in over to the vets and sitting on the church pew that serves as waiting room chairs. I always sit on the pew when I come to help remind myself of just how much I do not like church. I’d already weighed the little shit and he has gained two ounces, a good sign for my little puppy mill castoff.

He sat at my feet on his leash and wasn’t doing the Chihuahua shaky bones dealie too bad. He’s still scared of other people and dogs but has made much progress. He didn’t freak when the lady sat next to me with a cat in her lap, even when the cat hissed at me. Fucking cats. He managed to handle everything that came our way until the asshole with the Sharpei dog walked in.

First, I don’t give a shit how you spell it, Sharpei, and I’m not looking it up. Second, I don’t like anything about the ugly and mean-tempered shits. This one’s owner was of a similar character as his asshole dog, and walked him into the vet’s office without a leash. Big-ass sign telling him to leash his fucking dog, this asshole ignoring it.

“Would you please leash your dog?” I quite pleasantly asked the man.

“Don’t worry, Emperor Chang won’t hurt your little doggie,” the total dumbass responded.

“Not worried about my dog, sir. This little guy isn’t quite sociable yet and he’ll take a nip if he feels cornered, so you should leash his royal highness,” my second request.

“You take care of your dog, buddy, and I’ll take care of mine.” This got me his rebuke and the shit-eating grin that bullies like to give the weak.

To add intimidation to the mix, the man said, “Emperor, you’re free.”

In this case “Free” meant “free to roam the cabin”[.] The ugly mass of gray wrinkles wandered towards Yoda and me, so I put my foot out to block his path. This got me a snarl and a low rumbled rebuke. “Sir,” I said, “keep this dog away from me and my puppy.”

He pretended to not hear me and acted like he was reading about feline heart disease from a poster on the wall. But I could see him glancing my way and I could see the shitty grin still plastered to his face. “Okay, have it your way,” I tried.

I lowered my foot and Emperor lunged towards Yoda, a ten-pound jumping jack of a dog who has recently been taught several MMA moves by the Squirt. “What you want to do, Yoda, is go for the eyes or the nose,” was the part of the lessons that seem to have stuck in the little guy’s brain.

As the bigger dog lurched his way, Yoda jumped straight up and came down on Emperor’s head, upper front fangs snagged in the Sharpei’s nostrils and bottom sunk into the wrinkled skin at the eyes. I’d never heard dog yelping in Chinese before. It would be very unsettling.

“Release, Yoda,” I said calmly. “Yoda, release.”

He looked at me just for a flash with this “Aw, come on Dad, I’m going for a pin” look, but he let go and jumped beside me on the pew. The bloodied Emperor ran to cower at his owner’s feet.

“Look what he did to my dog, asshole. I’m gonna kick your butt.”

When I’m sitting, I look of average height. I have quite long legs and I like to relax when I sit—slump if you will. My overall height and bulk are disguised. “Oh, alright,” I answered as I stood to most of my original six-feet four. I have shrunk a little as time goes by, but the man was staring at my neck as he approached.

He stopped short and backed away. “You’re not worth it.” And with that he picked his dog up and left the vet’s office.

“That shitball is the preacher over at Bethany Baptist Church, Mooner. He’s always like that when he comes in.” The receptionist and I go way back. “I started to say something but I knew you would handle it.

“Figures,” I answered.

Anyway, last night I had this dream where I was judging camel toes in a contest at the State Fair of Texas. The Fair has started up and I guess that’s responsible for my dream’s venue. This contest was for “Best Painted and Unclothed Camel Toe”[.] You know how an artist will paint a naked lady to look like she’s wearing a tuxedo or a snake or whatever, and it looks all lifelike and shit?

Well, Chelsea Handler was the winner. She was painted to look like she was wearing black Lycra workout shorts and a pale blue top. You know, whoever dresses Chelsea Handler should be shot. She is so pretty and has such a great body, but she always looks as if she were dressed by a color-blind blind man. Thank god that person didn’t paint her for this contest.

Anyway, her camel toe was so plump and juicy that I just knew it was real, and not painted on. The painted on part was the major rule for the contest and one that had already disqualified Michele and her husband Dr. Marcus Bachmann both. She tried to fake a painted-on bikini camel toe with a neon green thong, and Marcus attempted to deceive this judge by wearing pages of a Bible that were papier mache applied with rubber cement.

I almost passed out from the fumes as I tried to read the verses from First Peter and Revelations Number Nine that were all jumbled up on his package. I didn’t need to pick at the loose edges of paper to disqualify Marcus. I was worried he was going to cry. I hate when the weaker sex cries.

As I was declaring Chelsea the winner, Michele Bachmann declared a foul and demanded that I test the winner’s artistic authenticity. I said, “OK,” and bend close to Ms. Handler’s camel tow. I noticed that it glistened in the bright stage lights of the contest pageant. Now, I was dizzy from my proximity to one of the world’s best pocket-meat sandwiches.

I was wavering, worried that I was about to do something so inappropriate as to redefine the word. I looked around for help, but none was there. Michele Bachmann is screaming at me to prove it’s a legal win and the crowd is screaming for the winner. That’s when I feel a tap to the top of my head, and I look up into Chelsea Handler’s quite pretty eyes.

“It’s OK, Mooner, go ahead,” She said.

I must have looked perplexed because she smiled at me and repeated, “I said go ahead, Mooner.”

“Are you certain?” I asked as a final assurance.

“Sure, Mooner, take a taste.”

I awakened licking the leather harness I use to strap Yoda into the car, and I had boot black smudges on my face when I went to brush my teeth. Did you know that Carta Blanca beer will wash the taste of dog sweat out of your mouth?

Manana, y’all.

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Rick Perry And Tx Aggies Taste Ass

Sunday, September 25th, 2011


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

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

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

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

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

Metaphors. Life’s finger pointed at dumbass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, September 24th, 2011


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

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

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

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

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

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

See what I mean about cats? Fucking cat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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