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Iowanianians Speak; Rick Perry Fucked!

Wednesday, January 4th, 2012

 

So. In this morning of aftermath, as the Iowainians have nothing left to revel in, or about—save the afterglow of their every-four-years national media migration—I have something to say.

God has spoken in Iowa, and bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! Pooooor Ri-ckyyyy, poooor Ri-kyyyyy!

In response to the prayers of the many Republican presidential hopefuls, whose visits almost doubled the Iowa population, God has finally made his decision as to which of those silly fuckballs He has chosen to support. God, in His infinite wisdom, has decided that the Mittster shall be blessed with a narrow first, the other Ricky gets second, blah, blah and blah, then Rick “The Prick” Perry gets fifth and Michele “Oh Marcus, That’s Not My Vagina” Bachmann came in dead last of the long list of candidates who actually visited Iowa.

I find myself in a state of elation, a state which is balanced with queasiness. God, with the assistance of the conservative right-wing Christians of Iowa, has decided that Ricky Perry shall not be President. As it turns out, God has listened not to the prayers of the Texas Governor—a pious man with deeply conservative Christian values—and rather listened to me, Mooner Johnson, an unpious and excessively liberal reformed Baptist ADHD-addled dingbat. Maybe I’m piousless. Or piousfree.

Please, allow me one more time to say, “Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha. Poooor Ri-ckyyyyyy!”

Rick Perry said he was praying for a win, or at least third place, and for God’s guidance. I prayed that God would make the people of Iowa way smarter than those of us in Texas, and hand the Prickster his first political defeat.

Scoreboard, mother fucker!

If Rick Perry had finished in third place or better, you know he would have thanked God for the success. If he’d been a winner, the win would be all about God. But will Ricky now say that God has told him to go back to Texas and stay put, or will the pompous little asshole say that God let him down? Doubtful.

All of this leaves my stomach somewhat unsettled as well. Do you realize that 25% of the super arch-conservative Christians in Iowa voted for a Mormon, a man who wears magic underwear to protect him from all evil? OK, they call them vestments, I think, but you get the picture.

Which reminds me. Go over to Squatlo Rant and find the Penn Jillette video, crack an adult beverage, like a Carta Blanca beer, and watch. It will take you the better part of twenty minutes to watch the entire thing, but you will be better off for it. The linkster is over there ===}}}

I’m also queasy in the knowing that the people of Iowa are now, as a result of my prayer, way smarter than those of us in Texas. They managed to see Rick Perry for the dolt that he is, and we keep electing Ricky as our governor. He and his cronies in big business and energy have raped and pillaged our state, and we keep electing him to our highest office. My best hopes for all of this is that we Texans learn by observations.

But overall, I’m happy with the results. I prayed and said, “Fuck Rick Perry,” and, dear friends, Rick Perry is fucked. I’m thinking that since my prayers are more powerful than Rick Perry’s prayers, I can start a new business.

Mooner Johnson’s Prayer Emporium will be a fee-based prayer service. I don’t have all the detail worked out yet, but I think this one will be a winner. With God on my side, how can I lose? I’ll charge rates based upon your need and I’ll even make some prayers free.

Which reminds me. The Squirt woke me early this morning and asked me to have a private conversation with her. We grabbed a cup of coffee and went out to sit in the courtyard. It was near-freezing out this morn and the little puppy shivered with every breath.

Squirt took a deep cleansing breath and released it slowly. Then she looked up at the stars, took another breath and shivered hard. “What is it, little lady? You seem to have something powerful on your mind. You want me to talk to God for you?”

She squared her solid little body to face me and said, “No, Bwana Mooner, es ist nicht ein Gebet Ich brauche. Quiero invertir mi histerectomía.”

Huh?

“You want me to reverse your hysterectomy—you want me to undo your spay?” This was dumbfounding to say the least. Squirt has been quite vocal as to her happiness with a sexless life.

“Si, oui, and yes, Mooner. And the sooner the better. Mr. Dave won’t live forever.”

Turns out that Squirt was heading to Aunt Hilda’s room to deliver a package from UPS, and she walked in on Mr. Dave standing, nekid, at the foot of the bed. I’m starting to think size might actually matter.

“Well, my furry little sweetheart, that request will require a prayer.” A first client for Mooner Johnson’s Prayer Emporium, and a charitable one at that.

Anyway, all of these mentioned matters require more thought before I get too carried away with myself. Gram makes a magic mushroom potion blended to give a person clarity of thought. She calls it “Shut yer yapper and think fer a second”[.]

But I’m up to the task. Mooner Johnson- deep fucking thinker! Manana, y’all.

 

 

 

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Clarifying Clarion’s Review: Full Rising Mooner Is Double Page-One Success

Friday, December 23rd, 2011

 

So. Let me first get my book stuff out of the way. The Squirt has agreed to not shit on any of my things if I spend fewer than three paragraphs on the book, not counting this paragraph wherein I describe the deal for her not so shitting. This first paragraph is introductory in nature and I’m not to be held accountable for any book bragging yet, if, I would suppose, that I don’t get carried away.

Now this paragraph will be the official start of sanctioned book bragging, and I’ll start bragging by saying that the link I gave you yesterday was to the page of my book’s review within Clarion’s website. When I gave you that link, I didn’t grasp the full purviews of things. I didn’t realize that the notice of my book’s review was on the actual first page of Clarion’s website! It appears that the first page of their website, Reviews Tab, posts six of their highest star rated books with recent reviews. Go and Google “Clarion Book Reviews” and then clicker to “Clarion” and hit the “Reviews” Tab. That’s a lot of clickers and apostrophes, but you can manage. If you can follow my thought streams you can forge that one.

There, in a prime spot on the first page of Clarion’s website, is my book Full Rising Mooner. Then, you can go down that page to see all the different categories Clarion reviews, where mine is under “Fiction- Humor” and again you can clicker that and find my book on page one once more!

I’m a doubled-up page one, four-of-five starred authorating sumbitch!

Having finished the authorized bragging, please allow me to say that the previously-discussed peace and harmonies continue, unabated, at Chez Johnson ranch. One of my errands for today is to revisit the Walgreens Drugstore to get a case of backup condoms for Mr. Dave because, as Gram put it, “Yer Aunt Hilda don’t wanna be runnin’ out on Christmas day.”

I’m guessing that Mr. Dave is spreading his Xmas cheer far and wide. And with exceedingly high frequencies. I didn’t count how many individual rubbers were in the case I bought earlier this week, but it had to be at least a gross, you know, 144 individual gold foil-wrapped goodies.

I can tell you that if I used 144 in a month I’d be needing back surgery and a semen transfusion, so me, I’m applauding the old geezer’s work ethic. A man has got to be in love with sex to do that much sexing.

When I return from errand running, the animals and I will start making goodies for Sunday’s meal. I’ll rub the big pork roast with my special Xmas rub and put it away to cure (I’m doing this sour cherry glaze for that), I’ll get the super-buttery scalloped potatoes together, and most importantly I’ll be baking the buttermilk cake that Melanie found the instructions how to bake for me.

Awkward sentence structure aside, I’m very fucking excited about the cake, and will be reporting on it herein, but at a later date. OK, wait a minute. Can I say “herein” as it will be herein, when it isn’t herein now, or even after I finish this bloggie posting and post it? I’m not coming back later and inserting the cake results herein, so that adds additional layers of confusion to my musings.

Try this. At a later time, I will tell you what happened with Melanie’s buttermilk cake instructions and I’ll post that posting here, in these pages. But not these specific pages, future pages.

Clarity is my middle name and communication is my game.

Anyway. My ADHD is in full DEFCON mode. I don’t know if that’s DEFCON ONE or FIVE whichever, but I can tell you that my brain is spinning with shit. That would be why I’m stopping now at fewer than 600 words before I confuse anyone.

Please check out my book in all the many places aforementioned, herein and hereout. Manana, y’all.

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Dog Training Blues: Yoda Screws The Pooch

Thursday, December 15th, 2011

 

So. What a day. It’s been raining, sprinkling actually, for the entire week, and the furry little shitbird we call Yoda is a hot mess. The little half Chihuahua/half whippet can’t stand to get his little tootsies wet, so our visits to the great outdoors for him to make doggy piles are problematic.

For me, problematic, but not for Yoda as he says to me, “No problemo por mi, I’ll just take a giant smelly dog shit on one of your nice rugs.” That would be the Squirt’s translation of Yoda’s whispers and grunts. The owners of the puppy mill he was born into choked him and damaged his voice box, so every noise he makes is muted.

He mostly pees in the sink with Squirt, Honor and me, and, “No, Gene, I didn’t need to pee when I was at your place, so you needn’t worry about your pretty, spotless bathrooms.” I would have peed in your sink and for all of the right reasons had I needed.

I say Yoda mostly pees properly because he has taken to strike back at me when I make him go out into the rain. I take him out any time he gets up after we go to bed, and last night he woke me just as my own pee alarm started ringing. So I picked him up and put on my slippers and the two of us, nekid saving the aforementioned slippers, slid outside into the drizzle.

I love getting rained on and especially nekid when the weather is warm like now. I walked the little rat out into the grass and set him down. He said something that sounded a lot like “asshole” and he took a few steps away. Like I said, I needed to ease the pressures on my own bladder so I shut my eyes to pee. I always shut my eyes at night so that I can ease the muscles that control bed wetting in adult male humans.

I’m standing there for a few seconds before starting, start, and release a nice stream. I realize quickly that my leg is getting warm and I immediately suspect that my anxious flow has diverted from the grass to my leg. I stopped peeing, wiggled my pecker to get things back on track, and then realized that the warmth was continuing to spread.

My first reaction to this was panic—panic that my prostate had finally exploded and I’d lost bladder control. My eyes shot open and I looked down to see Yoda, giant shit-eating grin plastered to his rain-soaked face, peeing on my leg.

Would somebody please remind me why it was that I saved this white-furred mess from the gallows. If I’d been saved by some nice man in Texas and removed from an existence living in a cage two sizes too small in Oklahoma, where they beat and choked me routinely, I’d… well, I at least wouldn’t piss on the nice man’s leg. In his shoes or on any clothes he might drop on the floor, but never right on him. Unless, of course, the nice man liked it.

As punishment, I made Yoda stand outside with me until he shit and the rain washed my leg clean, both. I almost fell asleep on my feet several times before he did his duty and we returned to bed.

“Ce qui pue?” Squirt asked as I snuggled back under the covers.

“Yoda pissed on my leg and I guess it’s still in my slipper.” I got up and put the slipper outside to further wash and returned to bed again.

“Serves you right, asshole.”

I love my little puppies, the both of them. But sometimes I want to send them back to their puppy mills. Squirt, an already fully-trained dog, has been shitting on my stuff every time she thinks my ego gets out of whack over the four-of-five stars book review I got from Clarion. I’ll admit to a swelled (swollen?) ego and maybe an over-swelled ego. But you tell me. If you had written a book of 400+ pages and your book had been given a four-of-five stars review by Clarion, would you be proud?

OK, unless you’d written dozens of books—all five-of-five stars—then you’d be mighty proud of your four stars. Hell, four stars are all even the finest hotels can get, and chefs shit their pants when they even get one Michelin star. I’m a great cook and I’d be proud to get a Michelin star, but I’m way more proud of my four stars for writing.

Hell, for that matter, I actually think I’m pretty hot stuff. How many other authors do you know who have four-of-five Clarion stars reviews? None I bet. Special is as special does.

I need to go. Squirt just left me a load over by the door, and she had a sweet bean tamale for lunch. But do me a favor. Go over there ===}}} and click on the linksters for Full Rising Mooner. See what all the fuss is about. Manana, y’all.

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Hitler Bashed Gays Too; Think, Republicans, Please Think

Tuesday, December 13th, 2011

 

So. Republican presidential candidates, I have a message for you. Enough gay bashing already. Your pandering to the lunatic fringes of the far right are getting downright nasty.

And stupid.

You had better be careful from here on out as gay folks, and supporters of gay folks, are starting to tire of your antics. My sister and her wife, my ex number three appropriately named Anna the Amazon, were over to dinner last night and the subject arose.

“Why are they targeting us as the cause of all things rotten in American society?” Sister asked the table. “You’d think that at least Newt the Gingerbread Man would stand up for his own lesbian sister.”

“Now don’t you be speaking ill of Speaker Newt, Sister,” the woman I find myself calling “Mother” said. As I mature and improve my mental health through extensive psycho therapy, I find myself wondering if this woman actually birthed me from scratch.

“What?” Sister was trying to maintain mealtime decorum but her eyes were starting to bulge from their sockets. “Are you going to defend a man who ridicules his own sister’s lesbianism when he himself fooled around on his sick wife and then divorced her as she was dying in the hospital?”

When Mother failed to answer, my sweet and lovely lesbian sister said, “Really, Mother? You will defend that lying sack of dog shit, that evil… fucking… man…”

Anna reached across the table and patted Sister’s hand. “Your mother means well, honey, she just doesn’t have perspective as we do.”

“She doesn’t have a fucking conscience except for what Pastor Browningwell tells her to think. That idiot at the church still thinks you catch homosexuality, like a cold. Jesus Christ, Mother, will you ever learn to think for yourself?” Sister was pissed but hurt too, as only a child can be hurt by a calloused parent.

“Yer mother’s a asshole, Sister, don’t pay her no mind. Now pass them taters and let’s talk about what we want Mooner ta fix fer Christmas dinner.” Gram has a way that usually kills talk on unpleasant subjects, but not last night.

“Look, Mother Johnson,” Anna began, “you don’t really believe all of that hooey that homosexuals make a choice to be gay, do you? Do you actually believe that I chose to fall in love with your daughter while I was married to your son?”

Now let’s take a short pause in the storyline at this point because I have often wondered about this myself. Not that I think Anna chose to fall in love with Sister while married to me, but all of the whys and wherefores of that dealie were quite confusing to me when they happened. Many gay people get married before either coming out of the closet, or recognizing they were in the closet.

Anna was one of the latter, and I wonder which Dr. Marcus Bachmann will turn out to be. Anna knew she liked girls but didn’t know she was gay until she met Sister. Sister was traveling in Europe for a year and was, therefore, not around when Anna and I courted and wed. Not that marriage to Anna wasn’t wonderful, but I firmly believe that I would have but nine ex-wives at this point if Anna had met Sister first.

Before dinner last night, my mother had a bunch of her Baptist church ladies over for “tea”[.] Baptist lady tea is not actually tea at all. Mother and her buddies consumed six pitchers of my world famous Margarita’s made with Hornitos tequila and fresh-squozed lime juice. I love saying “squozed” rather than squeezed. They also ate about a gallon of my garlicky guacamole with salsa we canned back in May.

The drought and super-high temps killed my garden this year and out tomatoes burned out in late May, a first.

Pastor Browningwell’s wife was there, Leticia is her name, and the six women all came in the big van the church uses to haul kids around. Margaret Jenkins was the designated driver and since Leticia was there, I doubled-up on the tequila in the drinks. Mrs. Browningwell was my Spanish teacher for several years of my schooling and we have a history. Yesterday was maybe the twentieth time I have gotten her shit-faced drunk and sent her back to the church. This time with a drunk’s nasty garlic breath.

A humble man seeks his pleasures as they find him.

I went out to the drive to welcome the ladies when they arrived. “Welcome to the Johnson family ranch, ladies,” I said. “Come on in and make yourselves to home.”

“Well, well well,” Leticia said, sarcasm dripping off each well. “Everyone get a good look at Mooner here, friends. God will be striking him down quite soon I think. Let’s hurry inside for some tea before the storm clouds move in.”

I have been somewhat sacrilegious lately in some folks eyes and I’ve caught some hell for it. When politicians use their supposed religious beliefs to beat and batter already oppressed people, I find myself thatwise moody. The word is “thatwise” right? The opposite of otherwise?

But I was in a fiesty mood yesterday afternoon so I said back, “Oh, Letecia Browningwell, you silver fox you. Why don’t you ditch that boring old preacher so you and I can make a run together. I’ve been in love with you ever since I was in seventh grade, and you a handsome young woman.”

The other ladies all giggled at that remark, so I thought to add, “You know you want me. How about I change my sheets and get the tazer gun charged up?”

Anyway, by dinnertime Mother was wearing a buzz and forgot to put on her tact. “You two listen here. You have absolutely no idea the pain I suffer at your hands, the indignations that I quietly endure because you two are queer.”

I told you the Baptists like to call gays queer.

“How do you think it makes me feel when everyone at church knows that my daughter is a homo (gulp) sexual, and now she is married to my (another, larger gulp with the first blobs of tears welling in the corners of her eyes) my… (gulp, gulp, deep shuddering) my heretical, embarrassing son’s third ex-wife?” This was followed by more gulps, whimpers and at last a big sniveling of Mother’s now snot-laden nose. “The third of ten ex-wives.”

My mother took a second to adjust the fitting of her cross, I guess it was hurting her wrists and ankles, then continued with, “Don’t you children ever think about how your choices effect me? I’m your mother.”

Let me interrupt the regularly-scheduled program here to make an announcement. My dear mother is not a bad person in the classic sense of bad people. She doesn’t rape or maim or kill or steal or lie to improve her own lot in life. She is actually kind hearted, honest and hard working. What my mother is though, is the worst kind of bad I think there is.

Mother is a blind follower. A person who does evil out of their acceptances of another’s preachings or dogma. My mother is one of the blind followers who believe things “just because”[.]

Mother is one of those people who have blind faith in something and refuses to be stirred by reason, logic, humanity or facts. Mother is an evangelical Christian and believes any fucking thing that Pastor Browningwell tells her to believe.

That, dear friends, is a belief system that mirrors—and precisely so—the thinking of Nazi supporters in the middle of last century. Millions of Germans persecuted millions of Jews and gays and communists in their blind faith of Adolf Hitler. Today’s Modern American Evangelical Christians are doing exactly the same things in their blind faith.

Don’t believe me? Go do some research and listen to or read some of Hitler and his cronies speeches on the subject of those groups. “Aberrations, mutants, evil, Devil’s workers” are all names and terms used in the 1930′s and 1940′s to describe the named abused groups. Those people were blamed for what was wrong with Germany the same as the Republican Christian right blames them now.

And guys, the rhetoric is getting the ratchet treatment now just as it was back then. Go listen to Rick Perry’s Iowa TV commercial and then tell me I’m wrong. Listen, if you can stomach it, to some of Michele Bachmann’s comments on the subjects. The strength of accusations is growing.

So again, I ask the Republicans to stop this bullshit.

Which reminds me. As you all know, the Squirt has been afflicted by three infections at once. Two broken-tooth abscesses now removed, a single infected anal gland and a hurt tooter. She hasn’t been what you would call sick, but she hasn’t been her usual chipper self. She’s been spending more time sitting than running and I’ve caught her napping often. So I bought my book, Full Rising Mooner, and put it on her Kindle so that she could read it.

She has agreed to do a book review when she finishes. She can’t believe that Clarion gave me four of five stars because, as only Squirt could say it, “Sie, Mooner, sind ein Arschloch.“

I guess that in the Squirt’s eyes assholes can’t get four of five stars from Clarion, and that reminds me of something else.

Hey, all of you foreign fuckers who come here every day to steal my shit—yea you, shitheads, you know who you are. Can you man-up just a little bit, and compensate me a touch for all of the content you steal from me, by purchasing my book. Click over there ====}}}} and link-up and buy one. It’s the right thing to do. The book is full of content you can steal, and I won’t be pissed at you if you buy the book.

OK, I’ve got errands to run and Carta Blanca beers to drink after. Manana, y’all.

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I Say Floriduh, You Say Tomahto

Tuesday, December 6th, 2011

 

So. Call me crazy, but I think the Republican Party’s slate of presidential candidates is funnier than a three-peckered cat at a rocking chair convention. Each rises to the top of the heap as if fired by a rocket ship, then soon explode in a fiery ball of tears and spilled guts—the results of self-inflicted wounding. I can hardly wait for BJ and Squatlo to post the latest videos from J. Stewart and Rachael M. and Colbert. This is seriously funny shit, guys, and we were here to watch it live, and in real time. We’ll look back on these times and say to anyone who’ll listen, “I was there.”

BJ has been posting music videos over to his place at Dumb Perignon aka Un-Original Thoughts, which is available for your viewing pleasure by clinking onto the linkster over there ====}}} to my Bloggie Roller, and at the very top. BJ has great taste in music, and pork products as well, and I find myself downright nostalgic when I visit over to his place.

Squattie, also over there ===}}}, has recently posted some of the sillinesses of Fauxed-up Newbs. The heros at F-uped Newbs have decided that the Muppets are commies and anti-capitalist instigators training our kids to be moronic liberal future voters. To hear the pompous, big-haired Fox announcers speak of this horrible Muppet affair is hilarious. Sad as well, but hilarious.

Which reminds me. I have spent numerous hours over the last week working on the thirty-second video trailer for my book, Full Rising Mooner. And having said that, I find myself reminded that when I went to the Amazon site that sells self-same book, a situation that occurred when I clicked on the linkster over there ===}}} marked “Full Rising Mooner- Amazon Sales Linkster”[,] I discovered that there are six different places to buy my silly fucking book.

At first I was impressed with myself, and quite so. “Look at me,” I said to the Squirt and Yoda, “not only am I a published author but I’m on sale in six different places.”

The two adorable puppies were each perched atop my desk—their standard position when wanting to bug me. Squirt sits and gives me the steely-eyed stare she’s perfected from watching old Oz reruns on HBO, her brown eyes burning holes through my soul. Yoda takes a more direct approach as he romps across the desk, stomping on my keyboard and stuffing his snout into whatever drink I have sitting desk side. They wanted to bug me for their “pick-snack”[,] what they call their before bedtime morsel of food.

“Holy shit,” Squirt exclaimed when I got her eyes diverted to the computer screen. “Someone is charging $47.00 for your silly fucking bibleo!”

She was right. “Anyone willing to pay forty-seven bucks for my shit needs to contact me directly.” If someone makes ridiculous profits from Full Rising Mooner, it should be me. And that reminds that I also saw where there are three books titled “Full Moon Rising” and by three differing writers, all for sale at the same time. That, dear friends, is ridiculous.

We logged off the Amazon sales site and back into the video trailer linkster so I could make final choices and click the “SUBMIT” button. I had to choose photos, short videos, music, and “style” selections from the multiples of each given me by my video team. They did a nice job of choosing choices for me, and the dogs and I did a nice job of selecting final choices.

I love the music we chose and if they will tweak the visuals as we requested, we’ll have us an award-winning thirty seconds of book trailer magic. I’ll post it here as soon as it’s ready.

The weather turned brutally cold while I was in Floriduh, and Yoda fought with Gram about taking his shits outside. Everybody peed in the sink and Gram remembered to flush with adequate frequencies, but the funky-looking bat wing-eared puppy seems to have a strong dislike for standing in icy-wet grass. He left several loads on carpets, and always Navajo carpets.

I’m either worried that Yoda has a Navajo prejudice, or proud of his good taste in woven art. Raising kids is a series of risky decisions and I try to never jump my conclusions and act foolishly. So I scolded him for shitting on his tastefully-chosen spots.

Oh, and get this. I got an email from this fuckball down to Floriduh—some shithead calls himself Gator Bill. Seems Gator Bill takes offense to my calling it like I see it by saying “Floriduh”[.]

To rest my case, please allow me to paste Gator Bill’s literal wording: “You Texas shits think your so fucking smart. If you dont stop calling us DUMB and RIGHT NOW I’m coming to Teaxs to kick You’re ASS!!!! I’ll feed you’re dogs to the gators and fuck you in the eye sockits.”

Hey Billy… Floriduh, Floriduh, Floriduh!!!

Seems Gator boy and I suffer the same needs for editing.

Anyway, I’m headed out to take my collection of animals on a walk. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are both rather pasty-faced from spending so much time in the closet. My pet pig and ostrich need what little sun is peeking from behind the clouds. I’ll likely need to carry Yoda since it’s still cold, and I’ll have to find the fucking cat. Honor left the house early this morning to hunt birds and hasn’t shown herself since.

You should hear the Squirt calling for the cat. “Vinir aqui gato, gato, gato. Kommen hier kitty, kitty, kitty. Come the fuck ici votre asswipe chat!”

Some people say I’m a bad influence on my little dog, what with all of her cussing and rude behavior shit. But I limit her Carta Blanca beer drinking and refuse to buy her cigarettes. In my world, that’s good parenting.

Anyway, manana, y’all, we’re walking.

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Magic Mushroom Mania; Squirt Skirts Issues

Monday, December 5th, 2011

 

So. Where to begin? So many things have happened in the week I’ve been gone that I don’t know where to begin. OK, wait, also things happened before I left that I had no time to share with you, and I also have plans for after I’m now returned, and my head is swimming.

That was a redundant statement. More accurately, please allow me to say that my normally-swimming ADHD-addled brain is in further turmoil due to the additional burdens of deciphering the importance of which things to share first, then second and so on, and which events are chaff to be pitched out with the bathwater.

As a writer, the burden of selecting subjects carries as much weight as the accurate telling, which carries the same weight as doing the telling interestingly.

OK, now how fucking confusing was that?

Look, when I left on my trip to Floriduh, the Squirt was dealing with a three-way infection, and not dealing well. Her adorable little tooter, two abscessed teeth and one of her anal glands each contained conflagrations of infectious temperaments. Upon my return, she has made some improvements with the infections but I fear that her personal habits might be in regression. Digression, maybe.

As you know, Squirt requires a twice-daily dosing of antibiotic pill and a similarly-paced swabbing of her sore tooter with a medicated and stringent pad. The pills are no problem as we agreed, together, to encapsulate them in cheese and she would take them. Since I am a lover of all things cheese, my sweet puppy has become likewise enamored with spoiled milk byproducts.

“Yer lucky ya got home on time, Mooner,” the weathered old gasbag I call Gram told me as I walked into the big kitchen at the ranch upon my return last night. “Iffn I had ta make one more trip ta buy stinky cheese fer yer little rat, I’d a bagged and drownt the bunch of ‘em.”

I guess that meant that she was frustrated with the entire menagerie that comprises my animal husbandries, and for some reason my grandmother’s solution for anyone causing her distress is to stuff them into a gunny sack and sink them in the lake. With the water levels of the lake at historic lows, I’ve been worried that evidence of her follow-through on prior threats might be discovered. I’m especially worried about a particular Fuller Brush man, a man who might have saved my life but interfered with my Gram’s plans.

The Fuller Brush man might have saved my life as a young three-year-old boy when my pecker was zipped tight into the bent and rusty zipper of some old coveralls. That story and much more is contained in my recently-published book available in paper form by clicking over there ===}}}}} on the Bloggie Roller where it says, “Full Rising Mooner- Amazon Sales Linkster.” If you’re a Kindle operator, go likewise to the Bloggie Roller over there ====}}}, but you need to click on the next dealie and click, “Full Rising Mooner- Kindle Sales Linkster.”

I’ve been trying to get some fucking body to fix my Store and other crap here to my webber, but everybody is, “Too busy, Mooner,” to help me. If I didn’t know better I’d think the I-net webber-fixer community was conspiring to fuck with me. It seems improbable that sixteen separate computer gurus would make the precise and same three-word response to my request.

Which reminds me. I can’t say who (whom?), but a person visited by me in Floriduh told me this: “Mooner, your writing is way too dense and it is completely over done. You over-modify, over-hyphenate, over-curse, over-pluralize, and overly-repeat yourself. I sometimes have to read a sentence seven or eight times to try to understand what it is you are trying to say, and often I’m still confused.”

What I said in response was, “Too fucking bad.” What I was thinking was, “Well duh, asshole. Join the fucking club.”

Which reminds me of where this particular train jumped the shark. The problematic aspect of the Squirt’s treatments lies in the medicated pad cleansing required on a twice-daily basis. I’m guessing that it burns the little lady’s girl parts. Her words were, “Let me scrub your pecker with coarse grit sandpaper and then stick it in a bottle of alcohol, asshole. Then you can wipe me with those medicated pads.”

I think the miniature puppy overstates somewhat, but I do get her sentiments. So we agreed to allow her to have a quarter-cup of Carta Blanca beer as a bracer for each wiping. That’s a half-cup per day and a considerable dose for ten pounds of puppy meat. This fact forms the basis for what I need to tell you.

My Gram, in her infinite wisdom, decided that it would be far better to keep my little dog stoned on magic mushroom juice than turn her into a beer drunk in the week I was gone. “Little shit’s got a taste fer tha shroomers. Mooner,” were Gram’s precise words. “She does that ‘sit pretty’ dealie ya taught her and begs like a them gypsy girls over to Rome.”

I’m just glad that psilocybin mushrooms aren’t addictive. Habit-forming, yes, but not addictive. I’m trying to decide if the mushrooms are really a problem for the Squirt. She’s far less abrasive and much sweeter when stoned than when drunk.

Anyway, I’m back and I’ll get caught up on shit soon. Herman Cain finally quit his ill-fated run for the Presidency, which makes it four down and six to go in the Republican burn-out contest. The new front runner is the Newbt, the candidate with the most unflattering history of any of them. He’s likely the one with the highest number of active brain cells, but he’s also the largest asshole among them. I was hoping he’d be last in line to move to the head of the line so that the Democratic Party would spend millions to plaster his history on TV.

Now, the other Repubs will crush his balls for us, a less satisfying solution, but satisfying none the less.

Look, I need to go to the cheese store. Squirt has demanded a Stilton of particular branding that is carried by but one place in Austin. Manana, y’all.

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Squirt Dislikes Florida- Refuses To Make Trip

Monday, November 28th, 2011

 So. Unless I find myself with more time on my hands later today, this is the last you will hear from me until next Monday. First, please allow me to say that this pisses me off, and for several reasons. It isn’t that I don’t love and adore the family with whom I’m heading to visit in Florida, it’s Florida.

Simply put, I do not like Florida. The only thing in, or about, Florida that I give a shit about is my family. And I also have much to tell you that I’ll forget to say while exiled in the swampy hell of central Florida.

Ick. (Ich?) Even the stupid state’s name turns my stomach. Should be Floriduh.

Second, and the last of my numerically-phased and organized thoughts for today’s post, is the three-way infections update on the Squirt’s health dealie. When first telling you about her issues, I neglected to say that her anal gland issue was not a surprise. I have long done self expression of anal glands for each of my dogs, the habit and learning both taught me by my Gram.

The first family dog upon whom I learned was Trixie, great grandmother of Dixie—my now and mostly retired Golden Retriever who spends all her time with Streaker Jones. With Trixie, and each of her successors since, I practiced the anal gland expression method known as “finger up the ass”[,] wherein the expresser runs a hopefully-rubber-gloved finger inside the dog’s butt and gently presses each gland to expel the nasty-assed fluid that builds up.

If you were to poll people and ask which animal expels the nastiest-smelling fluid out its ass end, they’ll tell you it’s the skunk. That, dear friends, would be wrong. It’s a dog’s anal gland juice.

With Dixie, I could get my fat finger inside and do a good job of cleaning her out, but the Squirt’s adorable little butt is way too small for the in-situ expression method. With her, I am required to do it from the outside, and while that is a much less invasive method, it is less successful all the way around. The last several expressions have been fruitless and, therefore, potentially problematic, as a little juice she express with semi-regularity.

And now I’m wondering if this might be why Dixie has chosen to spend her time with Streaker Jones. I’m also wondering if maybe I’ve figured how to air-out my mental passageways while I’m gone. Whenever I get a chance, I’ll find a computer and make a comment to this posting. That way I won’t forget as much stuff as otherwise I would.

OK, wait. How will you know that it’s me? And How will I get my comments posted from remote locations when each new commenter has to have their first comment approved through the Admin functionaries over to Moonerville? And what about the frauds and fakers who might pretend to be me just to fuck with you? What if all of those Catholic fuckballs start mass commenting and screw things all to hell, and back?

Ugh.

I’m not taking the animals with me to Floriduh because they each refuse to go. Squirt’s actual words were something like, “No voy a Florida, asshole. Ich liebe deine Familie und alles, was La Floride est l’enfer sur terre.”

How could I force her to go when her sentiments are a precise fit with my own?

But I’m excited to see everyone down there even though I can’t tell you anything about them. And one last thing while I’m here. The linkster to Brandon’s book review of Full Rising Mooner, the newly-published novel by soon-to-be best selling author, Mooner Johnson, is:

http://www.lostinidaho.me/2011/11/book-review-full-rising-mooner-by.html

Take a minute and check it out, and read some of Brandon’s stuff while you’re there. He’s a very nice man. Manana, or sometime soon, y’all.

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Triple-Infection Thanksgiving; Squirt’s Tooter A Mess

Sunday, November 27th, 2011

 

So. I’m back from my short stint up to Dilly-Assed Dallas and I’ll be here to home for but two days. Then, I’m off to Lakeland, Florida to visit a son and family. I’d tell you about this next trip, but I have promised my kids and their mother (the infamous Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson) that I will forever keep the intimacies of my offsprings’ lives off these pages.

So just know that I will be gone again from Tuesday until Monday a week from now. Enjoy your vacation.

The final hours before leaving for Dallas were problematic. I took Squirt and Yoda with me mostly because the three of us had managed to offend Mother so badly that her martyred deep sighing was physically oppressive. Any of you who has a martyr in the house knows exactly what I’m speaking to. For those of you who do not, imagine the same nerve-grinding noise that emits from the raking of well-manicured fingernails on a big chalkboard, with the added attachments of deeply-sad eyes, and a disappointed countenance aimed directly at you, and your actions.

I wish I knew what my mother actually thinks and believes about the serious aspects of life. Really. I have no fucking idea what her true thoughts or feelings are. Since her only comments on any issue are straight from the Southern Baptist party line and official Baptist fucking Hymn Book, the human who is the actual person I call Mother is a mystery to me.

Take the abortion issue, for an example. Baptists are now saying that life begins when an egg first greets a sperm. Sort of like how I was taught by her at age eleven that if I touched a girl’s tooter or allowed her to touch my pecker, she’d get pregnant and my mother’s life would be ruined. It wasn’t long after that I was raped by my Boy Scout Leader, which caused me to wonder what was going to happen to my mother resultantly. Then a year after my first sex with a man, I did me some touching of the infamous female tooter.

OK, now first, please allow me to say a couple things about having been a child who was raped by a man. There might be no experience that will fuck up a person’s life more than to be raped as a child. I didn’t watch as my family was butchered by the Khmer Rouge, so I have no certainty as to which experience would have more far-reaching importance. But I can truly say that rape was a significant negative factor in my own, quite personal life, and in thinking about this further, I guess maybe the rape was less bad than that Cambodian dealie. I guess that if allowed to choose between getting raped or having my family killed in front of me, I’m choosing rape. I’m speaking of having my ENTIRE family butchered and not several as individuals.

Now, I actually feel grateful for my molestation. Thanksgiving is a very confusing holiday for me.

I touched a girl at age fourteen, and with her permission—actually her encouragement—and then I spent months worrying that my mother would die of a heart attack or some fucking thing. When Mother seemed no worse for the wear, I did me some more tooter touching, again with no visible negative effects to my maternal parental unit.

I am glad that I had no actual sex with Gloria Muckleroy as she would have become my first now ex-wife. Gloria married Walley Smally, and that pair play important roles in my book. Except for the professional ladies I met down to Mexico as a kid, I married the first ten women I intercoursed with. I didn’t actually intercourse with Gloria, so we have no ex attached to our relationship.

Holy shit. My AD and HD have grabbed me by the balls and shaken us silly. I wanted to tell you about the Squirt’s trip to the vet. When I was packing the car to leave Friday morning, she was listless and pissy. “Yo no fucking feel too bueno, Bwana Mooner.”

“Want to go see the doc, sweetie?” I asked her. She could only nod her head.

Anyway, when we got there to the vet’s, he looked her over and then ate my ass out. “Oh for Christ sakes, Mooner. She’s got an infected vulva again, her anal gland on the right side is impacted and she’s got two abscessed teeth.”

He left the examining room and quickly returned with a bottle of pills. “Give her one of these twice-a-day, wash her vulva with the medicated pads the receptionist will give you, and schedule her for a teeth cleaning in a few weeks. You disgust me, Mooner. Listen to your pets when they tell you they are in pain.”

Why was he eating my ass out? “Why are you eating my ass out? I asked her if anything was bothering her and her only answer was to say, ‘Just you.’ How am I supposed to translate that into a three-way infection?”

He shook his head and sighed deeply at me as he left the exam room again. Maybe he has a touch of Mother’s martyr shit.

The pill part of Squirt’s medical regimen is easy. “Put it in queso, unt Um take it, Asshole,” were my specific instructions from the furry flower known as Squirt.

Washing a sore tooter—not so easy.

“I’ll tell Yoda to piss in all your shoes if you even come near me with those fucking medicated pads again,” were my sweet puppy’s actual words.

I put all my footwear on the top shelf of the closet and got out a fresh cleansing pad. I then spent an hour chasing her ass around the house as we each hurled curses and other invectives at-will. “Come here so I can do this, you little shit bird,” was likely the nicest thing I said for sixty minutes.

“Comer mierda y morir, asswipe,” were likely the kindest insults hurled at me by my dog. Telling me to eat shit and die might be her favored method to tell me “No”[.]

The final compromise was for me to give her a quarter-cup of Carta Blanca beer before each tooter cleaning, so I loaded an extra sixer into the cooler and we finally headed out to Dallas. Finally.

The goofy thing we call Yoda thought and thinks the Squirt’s medical issues as an adventure. His Whippet blood allowed him to bounce around like a gazelle as Squirt and I ran around knocking shit over. The Chihuahua blood he carries caused him to curse at me in concert with the other half-Chihuahua that infects my life.

Anyway, the three infections are in-treatment, and I’m now growing concerned that I’ll need assistance breaking Squirt’s half-cup-a-day drinking habit. My actual concern is that I’ll be required to deal with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson for the alcohol rehab treatment, and NOT turning her former puppy into an addict was one of the conditions of the trade that makes her my puppy.

Ugh.

Anyway, Brandon over to Lost In Idaho, a funny and interesting man in his own right, has done a review after actually reading my entire book. He’s the Lost In Idaho over there to my Bloggie Roller, over there ===}}} to your right. Since the book review won’t be the first thing to pop up, take some time to read and comment on his site. It’s worth it.

It’s now time for the second cheese-covered pill and medicated pad tooter washing. Have I ever told you how adorable Squirt’s tooter is? For awhile I was worried I might have something wrong with me for finding it endearing. But quite frankly, I really don’t give a shit. Manana, y’all.

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Erectile Enigmas; Mooner’s Book On Sale

Wednesday, November 23rd, 2011

 

So. After spending most of this week checking BJ’s site at the Dumb Perignon and cussing him for going silent, I remembered that he was heading off to Carolina to see his folks for T’giving. Add to that confusion the fact that I need to make an effort to maintain my editorial accuracies, so allow me to say that BJ’s site is now called Un-Original Thoughts—a second misnomeration in, and of, itself—but one of BJ’s making and not my own.

OK, stop the presses. Am I the only one who has no fucking idea what I just said? Since promising to not lodge another complaint until after the holiday passes, my ADHD-possessed brain can think of nothing but my complaints. Like when we’re driving down the highway approaching a bad accident and I tell the Squirt to turn her eyes away. Blood and gore make her weak at the knees and usually causes her to puke her little guts out.

Since these events are happening in my car or truck, or on rare occasions inside the little hot-red Ferrari Streaker Jones gifted to my Gram, convincing the mini puppy to turn her head has values—both social and practical.

Yet alike me promising to not bitch or whine is first cousins with telling Squirt to not look, each is difficult to practice. The only real difference is that I don’t usually puke when I bitch and complain.

So, I’ll not whine about stepping my bare foot into a steaming and sticky pile of dog turd at five this morning when I got up to feed both the innocent and guilty dogs. Squirt has the bathroom habits of a lady of the court. Always timely, always in the proper place, and done as daintily as if she were on camera.

Yoda, on the other and off-hand, has the bathroom manners of a fucking dog. He’s nearly house trained but still has “mistakes” wherein he leaves loaves of used dog food in all the wrong places. The Squirt tells me that he chooses his spots carefully so that I can find them before Gram does. Me, I think he chooses his spots with the same care and thoughtfulness as the Viet Cong placed trip wires in the Delta forests back to the 1960′s and 70′s.

Why would anybody cross breed a Whippet with a Chihuahua? Wait, let’s back up. Why would anybody breed a Whippet with anything but extinction in mind? Have you ever been around a Whippet? Imagine an over-wound fifteen-pound rubber band toy with a fresh lobotomy.

On the sexing front, I’m finding myself lucky that I like myself. SAC Ellen is traveling so much that I never see her, and the only time she was here overnight she fell asleep on me. We had a nice dinner—I fixed her favorite pasta dish, a smoked paprika hand-made noodle with under-cooked tomato sauce—and after relaxing with a glass of Sambuca, we retired to the boudoir.

She sexily undressed and lay on the bed, and I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I returned to the not-so-gently snoring Special Agent for Homeland Security. As horny as I was, I revisited the bathroom and my bar of Ivory soap rather than risk startling her awake.

Why didn’t I awaken her? Mooner’s first rule for dating an armed and dangerous woman: “If your lady sleeps with a loaded gun under her pillow…”

Like I say, I’m glad I like my own company. Then there would be all of the silliness surrounding my book. I had lunch yesterday with the man from the literary charity that I want to sponsor with both a book launch party, and also from whatever profits the stupid book might generate. That went quite well if I say so myself. But after lunch I started thing about timing and accuracies of statement.

The book has been on the shelves and for sale for ten days, but the book launch isn’t until January 12th, two month’s later. How can you launch an already-sailed vessel? This seems an inconsistency that promises to sink my Good Ship Honesty. Rip the sails from my mighty mast. It’s like Christening the Titanic two months after it set sail for America.

OK, wait a minute. A post-sailing Christening would have saved the Titanic, so maybe this is a good sign for my silly book.

Why do I suddenly have an erection?

Ugh. I need a Carta Blanca beer and some time alone. 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:

http://www.amazon.com/Full-Rising-Mooner-Inappropriate-World/dp/1456339869/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319551191&sr=1-1

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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Hoof, Hoof and Hoof; ADHD Kills

Friday, November 4th, 2011

 

So. It’s Friday and who really gives a shit? I’ve got so many tasks to complete before I can head out of town on Monday that it might as well be Tuesday. Or Wednesday, or even last Monday. I’ve got more stuff to do than usual because I have 2.5 weeks of jobs to complete in one week.

The worst of these tasks is that I need to go over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s place and mow the lawn, and clean and adjust the chemicals in her pool. Performing those duties is an effort by me to reduce my total mental health care expenditures, from the cash perspective. Gnat, as my bookkeeper, tells me that the actual cost for me to do those chores far exceeds the cost of hiring a lawn and pool service to do them. But it’s the principal of the whole thing to me. Wait, it’s the principle.

I actually like pushing the electric mower around and the kids like to swim as their reward for assisting me. Squirt has the most experience so she’s my best helper. Her new role is to direct Yoda and the fucking cat. Mostly what she does is tell them to stay out of my way.

I didn’t know that cats like to swim, and likely most do not. Honor, however, might not be 100% actual cat. Or maybe she’s spending so much time with the dogs that she’s starting to think like a dog. When Yoda barks, it’s a heart-breaking, but hilarious event. Someone at the puppy mill must have choked him or kicked him in his throat because his bark is quiet and hoarse. What he lacks in volume he more than makes up with his enthusiasm.

Yoda puts his entire being into each “Hoof” he barks. With each hoof he throws his head straight back, like when a wolf howls, and he looks like a cuckoo clock birdie. “Hoof, hoof, hoof,” he goes, and he does so with his bug eyes glaring.

Now the fucking cat has a right close imitation except that she does it from a sitting position, and in a distracted manner as well. Like she’s mocking him. Squirt tells me she isn’t mocking him, it’s her way of being supportive. I say Honor is a fucking cat and can’t yet be trusted.

Oh Christ with a bum knee, my ADHD has driven me waaaaay off course. The reason that mowing and pooling is the worst task this week is because I have to drive by the Planned Parenthood offices, twice, in order to get the tasks completed. And I don’t have time to stop and anti-anti-abortion protest.

And I really don’t have any time for jail. My buddy the Sheriff would keep me over the weekend just to screw with the departure date for my Bloggie Posters’ Tour.

As a matter of fact, I don’t have any time for this shit either, so I’ll see you manana, y’all.

P-fucking-S- please buy my book. The linkster is:

http://www.amazon.com/Full-Rising-Mooner-Inappropriate-World/dp/1456339869/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319551191&sr=1-1

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Double Dose Of Two-Faced Rick Perry; Texas Gov Still An Asshole

Friday, October 28th, 2011

 

So. Sometimes I hate when I love that I was right. Wait. I love when I wish I was wrong and I wasn’t. How does a person properly provide elucidation to unpleasantness?

Ugh.

I made two predictions about the pompous prick Rick Perry, and my newspaper confirmed my presciences in today’s edition, and I wish I’d been wrong. I hate when people have nasty predictable tendencies. In articles almost side-by-side, the Austin American-Statesman had Pricky Perry stories that should provide coffin nails for his presidential candidacy. Yet I fear that the national right-wing Christian Republican fan base is no smarter than their brethren here to Texas.

The first story was about the new upper-level management salary structure for TxDOT. I was telling you guys about how Perry had appointed a former aide and lobbyist as the new head of TxDOT and had doubled the man’s salary from what his predecessor had earned. Out of one side of his mouth, our governor preaches financial restraint and slaughters our education, social support and environmental services budgets.

Then out of his other mouth, the two-faced former Texas Aggie yell leader showers his one-percenter buddy with a reward at taxpayer’s expenses. That was a month ago. Today’s story quotes that new head of TxDOT as saying that he wants to almost double the salaries of the next-in-line management positions at TxDOT so that he can, “Attract top private industry talent.” Read that to mean “more of the Governor’s ass lickers”[.]

In the several positions mentioned, if those salaries were kept level, and the new Texas Roadway Kingpin was paid as the last, we could hire three professional engineers and a half-dozen base-grade workers with the listed salary increases. To me, this situation says everything you need to know to have a keen understanding of who Rick Perry is, and how he runs his elected offices.

The second article was telling us that little Ricky has decided to take a pass on some/all of the remaining Republican debates. Since he is, as his staff will tell us, “Not a good debater,” he’ll just do what he did in Texas last gubernatorial race, and refuse to debate.

Like the rich kid in the neighborhood who owned the one football, Perry only plays when he feels he has the advantage or he takes his ball and goes home. Too bad the little shithead hasn’t got any balls, and too bad he’s so stupid he doesn’t realize just how dumb he is.

Rick Perry is Forrest Gump without the kind spirit. Wait, that didn’t quite get there. Rick Perry is a mean spirited man. He is one of the misguided Christians who feels that his faith and prayer should make him lord and master of the realm. He thinks that God has ordained him to be President of the United States, and he’ll do ANY-FUCKING-THING to make it be true.

Rick Perry is a two-faced weasel who panders to his financial backers. And he gets elected.

Ugh, ugh, uggga-ugh.

At least it’s Friday. SAC Ellen will be back in town and I’m having me some sex tonight! I’ve got an appointment down to Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium to get my ass prepped for tonight’s events. I’ve decided to go with a Halloween theme and get my ass plucked and dyed to look like a Jack-O-Lantern, and I think I’ll get my front side all done up to look like the Grim Reaper. Gram is knitting me a wool scythe blade to put on the end of my pecker.

Squirt and Yoda want to be Harold and Maude. We watched that great old movie last night and it sealed the deal. Anyone have ideas about just how this will work? I can’t think of anything but makeup and clothes to get them into character. When I expressed my concerns, Squirt said to me, she said, “Vous pouvez nous acheter un Jaguar XK twelve banger.”

I looked at her like she was crazy. “Are you crazy? That’s a $75,000 car. I’m not spending $75,000 on your Halloween costumes. You, little lady, are out of your mind.”

That was at breakfast, and at 8:30 am, a terrific breakfast time of day. A time previously negotiated by me in exchange for doing anything the dogs want to do one day a week.

After we finish at Ingrid’s, we’re going bone shopping.

It’s Friday, so drink your Carta Blanca beer cold, and responsibly. Manana, y’all.

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FullRisingMooner Finally Out!: Proud Author Repeatedly Shits Pants

Tuesday, October 25th, 2011

 

So. OK, drum roll: “Ttrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…”; cymbal crash: “Crashshshshshsh!”

My book is out! That’s right folks, my book is finally out. (Sound of Mooner so excited he shits his pants)(Twice already). When I got a copy of the press announcement late yesterday afternoon, I started jumping up and down and squealing like a little girl.

Then I paraded around the house singing “My Book is Ow-out” and “I’m A Published Au-thor” songs. My entire menagerie of mostly-domesticated animals were part of my parade band. Squirt and Yoda danced around my feet and Rush Limbaugh snorted a decent rendition of a rap DJ. I’ll admit that his grunting and squealing closely resembles the sexing noises I hear coming from my closet at all hours of the day. I just hadn’t made the connection with rap music DJ background sounds before.

My big pig’s gay lover, the ostrich Rick Perry, “sang” along with me. Eerie sounds, that. Maybe it will take those ostrich breeders among my readers to fully understand what I mean when I say “Eerie sounds, that”[,] but the rest of you need to trust me on this one. Maybe I should have said, “Eerie sounds, those.”

We marched around, moving from wing-to-wing of the house. It was when we got over to Gram and Aunt Hilda’s place that I shit my pants the first time. That one was not fully my fault. When I told my fraternal women elders the good news, Gram squeezed me so tight a little accident squirted into my undies.

I always marvel at the strength of that old broad. She can’t weigh a hundred pounds, and you can see the outline of every bone in her body. A testament I can personally make, and embarrassingly so. She went fishing with us one day last week and got bored with my catching so many fish. I am the luckiest fisherman you have ever met. I have near zero technical skills as a fisherman, but I load the stringer or fill the live well anytime I go.

I’m told I talk too much, fidget too much, move my bait and equipment too much, and I’m often told that I aggravate my fishing partners waaay to fucking much. But I always catch fish even when I’m the only one catching them.

“Yer pissin’ me off, Mooner. Ever’ time I try ta sling my popper ta tha right spottie, yer jumpin’ all over tha fuckin’ place.” And with that my Gram laid her spin cast reel on the dock. “I’m takin’ me a walk,” and she turned on her heels and walked off.

She walked off to hike along the banks of our creek where the vegetation has turned fresh and green with the recent rain. Fresh, tall grasses and full of fresh-hatched chiggers. I watched her as she made her way around the deepest part of the fishing hole and lost sight of her behind a big cypress tree.

I put my empty bottle in the cooler and grabbed a fresh and icy-cold Carta Blanca replacement, and shut the cooler lid. After popping the cap, I leaned back in my chair and took that first, big swig of my fresh beer. I always start a fresh beer with a big swig. I’m not a head man when it comes to my beer, I like it best when fully carbonated. That first swig is always the best of the bottle.

I heard cussing and turned to where Gram had disappeared. She was doing her rendition of running with her pants on fire. I couldn’t understand what she was yelling but I got the idea.

“Did you sit in some fire ants, Gram? Do you need some Benedril?” I yelled.

I didn’t get an answer right away, but she started shedding her clothes before she even got to the dock. “I’m covered in chiggers, Mooner. You gotta git ‘em off’n me!”

By the time she had gotten to where I sat on the dock, she was buck-ass naked and scratching like a maniacal monkey—all bony arms and legs akimbo. I was dumbstruck. I hadn’t seen her naked for decades, and the last time was when Granddad was still alive. I don’t remember that she shaved herself to bald as a baby’s ass back then, and I know she didn’t have the tattoos.

“Pick ‘em off’n me, dammit, pick ‘em off!”

I swallowed hard, and started trying to pinch the pesky critters from my grandmother’s leathery carcass. I was having images of the word “payback” flashing in my brain. Many was the time Gram would pluck me free of fleas and chiggers and ticks as a kid.

I had cleaned off most everything not considered my Gram’s private parts, and I gulped and took a deep breath. I closed my eyes and gulped another deep lung full of air, and prepared to finish the job. When I opened my eyes, it was to a very curious site. My big flightless bird was preening my grandmother with his shovel sized beak. He was gentle and careful in a way that I thought impossible. His beak made a “click” as he nibbled each tiny bug from her skin.

I studied this process for just a minute and said, “Be very careful, Ricky. You don’t want to pinch that little thing that looks like a…”

OK, stop the fucking presses. I’m wanting to tell you that you can finally buy my book. Let me set up the link for you. http://www.amazon.com/Full-Rising-Mooner-Inappropriate-World/dp/1456339869/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319551191&sr=1-1

I hope I did that right. Anyway, go check it out and let me know what you think. Buy it if you would like but don’t bitch at me if you don’t like it. I don’t need your money but I’m keeping it after I get it. But I do want you to give your reviews, whether good or bad. I promise I’ll post every one of them. Make a comment and I’ll post it.

Maybe I’ll get my shit together pretty soon and get stuff organized to make a more professional presentation here. But when I called Dustin, my webber and bloggie technical guru, to set it up, I got that “Oh, I’m sorry, Mooner, I’m tied up for the next twenty years” crap.

Just tell me that you can’t work with me anymore and that I don’t have enough money to pay you to put up with me. I get that.

At least he’s willing to give me a referral to somebody he knows. Then again, I’ll need to determine which of us Dustin wants to punish—the new guy, or me.

So. Everybody please raise your glasses and drink a toast to Mooner Johnson, published fucking author! Manana, ya’ll.

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Breakfast Special: “I’ll Have The Sausage Rare.”

Sunday, October 23rd, 2011

 

So. Yesterday was an interesting day here to Loony Land and today has the beginnings to be loony-more. I have been working hard to get the two miniature puppies who share my bed, and control my life, to eat their breakfast at a reasonable time. To me, 5 am is not reasonable, and will be even more unreasonable two weeks from today when 5 am becomes 4 am.

A reasonable breakfast hour would be wheneverthefuck I get up for my breakfast.

I have been ignoring all of the shenanigans pulled by the two half-Chihuahua dogs for the better part of a week. I have been delaying their breakfast schedule by 15 minutes each day in my efforts to get them eating at what will be 7 am when the regular time hits. That’s when the rest of the family sits to eat and I figure, “Why not the entire family?”

The sleeping arrangements in my personal bedroom make this rescheduling difficult. With the Squirt nestled between my legs, she starts with the deep sighs at a quarter to five and then begins resettling herself after five minutes. The resettling is gentle shuffling from one side to the other at first and escalates into her throwing her little sausage body from side-to-side. If you sleep with a snorer you have done some of this frustrated body repositioning yourself.

Historically, I have put up with that shit until 5 am, then get up and feed them. The three of us have been discussing this for several weeks. I have told them that the early breakfast is screwing my internal clock and making me crazier than I need be, and it needs to change. I’m not getting any younger.

On the first morning of rescheduling, I endured the usual pre-five-am bullshit and then the grumbling and growling and cover tugging of the following fifteen minutes. At the moment I decided to give in and feed them, Squirt worked her way from between my legs to stand on my chest. Somehow she managed to put her entire eleven pounds behind each paw as she purposefully stomped rhythmic steps to my face.

This where she usually comes when she wants what she calls “loving” from me. Whether I’m sitting or laying down, she comes sit on my chest with her head nuzzled under my chin. But this time it wasn’t loving on her mind.

“Oh for shit sakes, Squirtie, it’s just fifteen minutes,” I told her as she slammed her head to a rest ON my chin. “And all your stomping has made my kidneys ache.”

“You, Bwana Mooner, are an asshole.”

I laughed at the drama and then told her, I said, “Look, you’ll hardly feel a thing and you might as well get used to it. I’ve made up my mind and that’s that.”

Squirt laughed back at me and said, “We will break you, motherfucker.”

I laughed again because all of that intimidation from a pint-sized puppy is, well, funny.

“Go ahead and laugh, you giant hairy asswipe dog-starving shitheaded ADHD-addled goat fucker. We’ll see who gets used to what.”

How crazy am I that I was so proud of my puppy’s descriptive inventions that I missed the inherent threats in the words? I should have been on high alert when she spoke to me in English only. OK, except for Bwana, but she calls me Bwana all the time.

The tortures and torments have been quite inventive. They’ve played Tug a War with the covers, they stage fake dog fights and Yoda even pretended he was going to shit on my head. I think he was pretending. Yesterday, they dragged their duckies into bed. I get them these Mallard duck squeak toys that are as big as the dogs. They love the “quack” of the ducks and they race around the house playing with them. Yoda likes to bite to his make it quack, but Squirt likes to pound hers on the floor as she runs making it, “Quack, quack and quack,” as she races around.

All the dog slobber has them smelling like dirty ass after a week. And Friday, I was awakened to a smelly duck quacking serenade at 3:15 am.

“It’s not going to work, kiddies,” I told them, so they moved from the foot of the bed to my face.

“Quack, quack, quack….” was the racket, sounding like a flock of crazed ducks taking flight.

Yoda pushed his smelly duck right in my face, I guess in frustration. Since I had sleepy mouth-guard mouth, a taste not dissimilar to smelly Mallard duck toy, I decided to compound their frustration, and I took the proffered toy between my teeth and gave it a “Quack”[.]

OK, first, I will NEVER do that again. Second, I ended up feeding them at 4 am, just after the nausea and vomiting was under control.

Yesterday was somewhat uneventful until they started barking maniacally at a quarter of six. “Progress,” I thought to myself. “Take baby steps, Mooner my boy, and we’ll get through this.”

Last night at bedtime, we were discussing our day today when I told the dogs, “Look, guys, if you can wait until 6 am to eat, I’ll take everybody fishing and then we’ll make some liver ice cream.” They love them some liver ice cream.

“No… fucking… way,” was Squirt’s response. “We eat at 5 O’clock, shithead, and not one minute later.”

“We’ll see about that, little lady. No go to the bathroom and suck on the Ivory soap for two minutes. You have gotten quite a potty mouth on you.”

She grumbled angrily, something about just how sorry I was going to be for this, and got up. She returned a short while later smelling of the fresh, clean scent of my favorite soap.

Thinking I had finally gotten through, I fell to sleep like a rock. I was having a dream where Hannibal Lector was teaching me how to butcher a human and he was planning to teach me by carving me up in front of myself. “I always start with the sexual organs, Mister Johnson. I like to grind them into a spicy sausage and enjoy them with Stella Artois beer.”

I started telling him that he needed to switch to Carta Blanca, when he put his hand on my chest, placed his sharpened knife on my pecker, and got right in my face. He said, “I’ll be deciding what time I eat breakfast,” when I awakened to the Squirt, sitting on my chest with her face right in my grill.

“Wha, wha what is it, little lady?” I looked at the clock and it was five minutes to five.

As I turned to read the clock, I felt wetness and pinpricks emanating from my pecker. It reminded me of what I imagined advance-stage gonorrhea would be like when we watched those films in health class back to Seventh Grade.

“Don’t move, Mooner,” Squirt said, her voice sounding like a serial killer to a victim trussed for savaging. “Yoda, wiggle your head.”

He did. Huh?

“Huh,” I said. “Yoda, you spit out my pecker, and right fucking now!”

“Yoda,” Squirt advised, “give it a little squeeze.”

He did.

“OK, guys, this is not even a little bit funny. I said put the pecker down and go back to sleep.”

That’s when Squirt said, “OK, Mooner, you were warned. You have until the countdown from ten to agree to feed us at 5 am. If not, at least Yoda will have a little snack at Five O’clock.” She paused to look deep into my eyes, shook her head when I didn’t agree, and said, “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four…”

I haven’t been able to go back to sleep, but I’m starting to realize how much work I can get done when I get up at 5 am. I’ve fed all the animals, dug the fishing worms and the liver ice cream is in the freezer getting hard.

Maybe I’m the one needing some adjustments. Manana, yall.

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Rugs Vs Carpets; Who Gives A Shit?

Wednesday, October 12th, 2011

 

So. I decided to take the kids down to the Occupy Wall Street protest site at City Hall. Our visit to anti-anti-abortion protest was such a dud that I wanted to give my pets a better experience. I had the designers over to our hemp clothing factory make everybody “I’m mad as hell and I’m not gonna take it anymore” tee shirts.

We have almost perfected imitating the soft cotton fabric of tee shirts fame, but almost is the operative word. I still wear a wife-beater undershirt with my tees to keep from getting rock-hard nipples that then chafe as they rub against the shirt. I hate sore nipples.

The Squirt told me she likes the feel of the semi-rough cloth as it rubs her eight little nubbins. “Closest thing I get to sex since you cut my goodie box out of me. Mooner, you are an asshole.” The Squirt forgets that it was Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson who ordered the female castration. I merely delivered her to the vet for the mutilation.

At breakfast this morning, we got into this big debate about “It’s a carpet—no, it’s a rug, no, Gram, it’s a carpet, it’s a fuckin’ rug, Mother” between Gram and Mother. I suggested that we get several of our “rugs” cleaned, and would Mother please take care of it so that I would have time to teach the guys how to protest. Peaceable protesting is an art, and one best taught to our young while they still are. Young, that is. When people are passionate about shit, those passions can often boil into non-peaceable protestings. Protestations?

Not that I think the occasional non-peaceable event has no place in American society. Civil rights would still be at the “painted rock” street sign stage if some protests hadn’t gotten violent. We Americans have really hard heads about some issues. It’s just a shame that it’s usually the downtrodden whose heads get hammered and not the downtrodders. And fuck Spellcheck. If downtrodders isn’t a word it should be.

I always attempt peaceful protestings and usually reach that goal. I never instigate any aggressive behaviors, but I do seem to have a propensity to start them. If you really don’t want to hear what I have to say about something, then maybe how about you don’t fucking ask.

We have many rugs spread on the floors of our ranch house. All kinds and shapes and sizes. The ones needing to be cleaned are the ones inside the entry doors. Seems it’s been so long since we had rain that everyone forgot that wiping your feet was a function performed best on the outside mats.

So I say, “Mother, would you take the rugs by the outside doors in for cleaning for me. I’m taking the guys downtown for a little protesting and I don’t have time.”

“They are carpets, Mooner,” my mother informed me.

“They’s rugs, Mother,” Gram said through a mouthful of oatmeal. It actually sounded like, “Thphs phugks, Mumthr.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Gram, don’t speak with your mouth full,” the woman who is my actual mother, named Mother, advised.

Gram swallowed her mush, washed it down with the glass of whole milk laced with a shot of corn whiskey she gets in trade for her potions. She drinks a glass at every breakfast to “get her innerds all stirred up”[.] “They’re fucking rugs, Mother”

I thought that I would whip out my Webster’s unabridged and settle the dispute, but since a carpet is a rug, and a rug is a carpet—and both by definition—I was unable to settle anything.

Then the phone rang and it was Dr. Sam and she asked me to bring the guys over to her house to mow. Seems the weekend’s rain made the grass grow and I have been the lawn man over there ever since our divorce. We had fun mowing except for the incident with the squirrel, but I got the blood cleaned off the white stone of the house before it dried.

How was I to know that some squirrels have death wishes?

Anyway, it’s Carta Blanca beer time, so manana, y’all.

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Teach Your Kids To Protest; Not A Camel Toe Story

Tuesday, October 11th, 2011

 

So. It’s been an interesting week and it’s only Tuesday. The commenter not named Theo has been commenting like crazy on my and several of my buddies’ blogs, and he has actually started making some points. Stan-Ann says he’s going to fire-up his own site and post some of his sentiments and let us take shots at him.

Doing that is the only way to convince me he/she isn’t Theo.

Then there’s my buddy BJ from over to the Dumb Perignon. BJ might be one of the smartest guys I know. And just like almost every other friend I put on my Bloggie Roller, he’s already changing his shit around. He’s talking cryptic language about changing formats and shit, but then he says he’ll give us a link. I have no fucking idea what he’s saying and I’m glad I’m visiting up to Tennessee next month so I can get him to explain this stuff to me.

And yesterday I got to feeling frisky, so I loaded up the Squirt, Yoda and Honor the cat and we headed over to the Planned Parenthood place on Anderson Mill. It’s just off US 183, which is called Research Blvd. through there. It was named Research Blvd. because IBM and 3M had big research facilities there. But those facilities are gone—moved out years ago—so I’m calling it US 183.

Like I said, I was feeling frisky and felt like fucking with Catholic anti-abortion lady. I’ve had anti-anti-abortion sandwich boards for several years and I like to wear them as I mingle among the single anti’s in attendance at Planned Parenthood. My current favorite says”I’m an abortion and I’m OK” on the front, and on the back it says “FUCK RICK PERRY!”[.]

I had little halters made for the dogs that advertise Carta Blanca beer in four languages—English, Spanish, French and Chinese. The fucking cat won’t wear one. And answer me this. Why does advertise not have a z in it, like this “advertize”[?] That, dear friends, is a z-word if ever there was one.

When we got to our destination, Catholic anti-abortion lady wasn’t there, but there was a blond lady with her two kids, an older guy who I think might have escaped from the Alzheimer’s Home a couple miles away, and this solitary woman who simply stood there. This lady stood, facing the road, and stared.

She was maybe 5′ 7” tall, she was quite thin and had long, stringy black hair and an ashen skin tone. She didn’t hold a sign or say anything, she just stood there and stared blankly at traffic. When we first walked up to the protesters, I thought somebody had propped-up a cadaver or a wax figure. But when I got close I could see that she was breathing and twitching. Tiny muscle spasms that raked her body in little waves.

Twitches moved across her face—up and down and sideways and in circles. I wish I could do that. There was a man I met over to the loony bin during one of my incarcerations there who could do the same thing. Semi-comatose Carl was his name, and Thorazine was his game. Old SCC, we called him SCC, was a hoot. He liked us to dress him up like a manikin for holidays and sporting events and shit.

At least I think he liked it. He never complained.

Anyway, so without Catholic anti-abortion lady there, I had nobody to engage in angry banter. CAB lady hates my guts and gets angry at the thought of me. This I know as she has told me so, and often. Our encounters always draw crowds and often attract officers of the law. But yesterday, I couldn’t get any of the others to engage me. The mother would turn her back each time I approached, huddling her children close at her feet. The old geezer kept asking if I was Bob.

And the cadaver lady just stared.

“I’m an abortion and I’m OK!” I shouted as I passed the animals.

“Questa mucca morde merda, Senor Mooner,” Squirt remarked to me as we passed each other on the next circular pass. I like to have the animals walk in clockwise circles and I walk counter-wise and we like to chant each time we meet. “Ou’ diable est Catholique dame anti-avortement?” Squirt added.

“I don’t know where the Catholic lady is, kiddo, and you’re right. This does suck cow patties.”

I loaded us up after less than an hour’s protesting and headed to the house. Everybody was grumbling about the wasted protesting efforts. “Look, guys, protesting is all about the effort,” I told them. “If your heart is in the right place, any effort goes un-wasted. Maybe we’ll go down to march with the Take Back folks later this week.”

I think one of the important things I can do as a parent is teach responsible protesting. Which reminds me. My very first protest was when Mother tried to get me to wear white buck leather shoes to school in third grade. She found a pair of those ugly marching band shoes on sale at the Payless or some fucking place, and tried to get me to wear them.

“I’d rather go to school dressed as a girl,” I instructed Mother and Gram as the former tried to put those ugly-ass shoes on my feet while the latter tried to hold me down.

I liked the way the wind blew up and under my dress, and dressing like a girl made it really easy to shoot a moon. Right thumb in the waistband of my frilly lace panties, back hem of my size ten, A-line halter dress quickly hoisted with the left hand. No buttons or belts to screw with, and no jeans slipping to your ankles and tripping you.

I wonder what my dress size is now?

Like I say, it’s already been an interesting week. Manana, y’all.

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Who Gives A Shit; Road Trip High

Thursday, October 6th, 2011

 

So. All of this political crap is happening and I’m wanting to get all angry and shit, but I’m having trouble getting a mad on about much of anything. For the first time in decades, I’m taking a road trip all by myself. No wife, literally no wife, nor girlfriend nor any pets are loading up with me to head East. I’m not taking the Squirt or Yoda and I’m for certain not taking the fucking cat.

I’ve told you guys about the sleeping arrangements here to Mooner’s pet emporium, right? I have a big California King-size bed and a giant closet both, and each are filled to capacity with animals. The closet holds Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, closeted gay lovers in both the figurative and literal senses, and the over-sized bed holds the Squirt, Yoda and Honor the fucking cat. I don’t need to make room in the bed for the gay ostrich and giant pig, and for that I’m grateful.

When I sleep, I have three specific positions through which I rotate through the night. OK, I need to throw one of those throughs away. Try this: During the night I rotate through three positions. Position Number 1: Flat on my back, arms straight by my sides, hands flat and palms down, feet with toes pointed slightly down. This is my “start sleep/restart sleep” position. It is vitally important to not tuck the sheets into the bottom of the bed to keep pressure off my big feet. I cramp and have nightmares if my feet feel clamped-in by the covers.

This position is where I do my final thinkings of the day and practice my relaxation techniques to get calmed and sleep.

Position Number 2: I lay on my right side with my hips perpendicular to the bed, arms bent and flat on the bed under my pillow edge and with my head turned laying flat and looking at my right palm faced up, and my left palm down. The hands are side-by-side, my head is cradled in my pillow—the one with the rolled edge and cupped center—and my legs are casually bent. As I sleep, I’ll bend my legs more, or less, to ease any strain on my back or neck.

This position is the one where I spend most of my sleep time.

Position Number 3, AKA “The Fetal Position”: Always on my left side and always curled perpendicular to the bed. This is the position I lay in when I’m frustrated and aches and pains hit, either physical or otherwise. Since my brain always hurts, Position Number 3 is frequented.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Jesus, Mooner, who gives a shit how you lay when you sleep?” Right?

The reason I told you all of this is because how my body is positioned has lately become additionally encumbered with modifications required as the result of my sleeping with a small female dog, a slightly larger yet still small male dog, and a fucking cat. Each of them loves me and I love them back, and each wants to stake a claim to differing patches of my naked carcass as we sleep.

Squirt gets first dibs since she was here first. She like to be between my legs as I lay in each position. As time has passed, she’s learned to anticipate my shiftings to avoid serious injury. Honor the cat has second choice and she seems to want to be near my head. She tries to lay on all of my pillow that is not covered by my own head. Sometimes this requires her to lay across my neck or over my head in order to put furry cat parts on exposed pillow case.

Yoda takes his choice from what of me is left. His usual choice involves him curled in a tight ball anywhere that he can poke his nose to the crack of my ass. I’ve learned to ignore his breath as it tickles the hair on my butt, but I still jump at his occasional lick.

These sleeping arrangements have caused me to totally lose respect for The Princess and the Pea. “Fuck you, you spoiled little bitch. Shut up and go to sleep.”

So I’m sleeping last night just after the 3:30 am trip to the back yard to take Yoda to pee. I had awakened with mild night wood, so I was able to pee in the back yard with the dog. We climbed back in bed and I lay flat on my back in Position Number 1 to restart my sleep. I bumped into Squirt and she cursed me and moved to my feet, Yoda wedged himself to have his snout at the crease of my left butt cheek, and the cat hissed at me and jumped off the bed.

“Hang your ass all the way over the sink, little lady. Don’t be pissing on my tooth brush again.” I’m finding cats to be somewhat more difficult to potty train than dogs.

Anyway, I’m finally back to sleep and I’m having a sex dream about Roshandra, my ex-wife number five. Roshandra is the only one of my wives I have sexed up post divorce, and she likes me to play “human vibrator” for her. Since that is in the book I can’t elaborate, but let me just say the she and I have a buzzing good time.

In the dream, Roshandra has decided to return the favor, and she’s vibrating on me. She’s got her face buried in my crotch and she’s running a Rabbit of some other vibrator over my pecker and balls. It must be summer in the dream because I’m sweating. After a few wonderful minutes of this play, Roshandra looks up at me and says, “How about a little pain with your pleasure, buzzy boy?”, and she starts pricking my scrotum with needles.

That would be when I awakened from the dream to find the cat laying in my lap, purring like a mother fucker and kneading my scrotum. I blame Squirt for vacating her spot.

Should I be worried about this? What would it have meant if I hadn’t awakened before Roshandra finished the job? Is it bestiality if the animal sex is dream sexing?

I’m thinking that so long as I don’t start fantasizing about it and have cat dreams that I’ll be OK.

But what I wanted to tell you is that even though all of this silly political shit is raging around me, I’m too happy about my road trip to get mad. I won’t need to worry about anyone but myself and I’m going to meet some great people. Friends who (whom?) I have never laid eyes upon.

So, FUCK RICK PERRY and the rest of them too. I’m spending the day fishing and drinking Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Do Women Get Nighttime Wood? Today’s Mooner Needs To Know

Monday, October 3rd, 2011

 

So. I’m still mired in the nighttime poop habits of a partially-trained dog. Yoda, the bugeyed half Chihuahua/half whateverthefuck, still needs to get up in the middle of the night for bathroom trips. I’ve got him peeing in the sink, but his nighttime routine includes pooping, so I cart my naked and groggy carcass outside with him each time he jumps from the bed and shakes himself silly the way dogs do it.

Since I need to pee almost as many times nightly as the little dog, we just pee together when I take him out. I have a patch of well-tended lawn that sits in the courtyard off my wing of the ranch house. I always have night wood when I’m awakened, so I’m forced to go through the frustrations that are night wood pissing.

OK, let’s back up a bit and discuss night wood for whomever (whoever) reads my silly shit without either direct or indirect night wood knowledge. Sexually matured males of our species get boners when they sleep. Said night wood, also called dream wood, nighty-night boners or Marilyn Monroe midnight hard ons, are typically based on either/and two physiological happenings.

The first is to stem urine flow when a full bladder lacks the ability to awaken the male person. An auto-immune response to wetting the bed, a guy’s body creates a hard on to keep the urethra pinched tightly shut. The second pecker stiffening comes about as part of sexual dreaming. These woodies are prelude to wet dreams, middle-of-the night booty calls and such.

Having said all of that, the informative point is this. When you’ve got a full bladder and a rock-hard stiffie, taking a leak is problematic. You can’t get the first drop to drain by force or rubbing or threatening. The only way is through relaxation. You are required to get your pecker to relax enough to release your pee line for action.

Every adult man has his own methods to get relaxed. Me, I use yoga breathing, humming and mental image techniques. I close my eyes, imagine I’m sitting submerged in a steaming hot tub, take clensing breaths and then hum. The hum needs to be a slow, deep rumbled “Huuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmm”[.]

Other than lost sleep and interrupted dreams, this Yoda pee business hasn’t been especially problematic. As long as I can pee as quickly as he does, we each wet our portion of grass and head back to bed. When I can’t get relaxed in time to match Yoda’s progress, I just walk my naked ass back inside and go stand at the sink and finish my business. Until last night, none of this was a problem.

Have I told you that I was a serial sleep walker from childhood until I was well into my thirties? First discovered when I was four years old, my sleepwalking was a routine occurrence until I graduated from college. Streaker Jones and I lived together during college, and he made me dress for bed in accordance to the weather.

“Ya don’t needta catch a cold at finals time, Mooner,” Streaker Jones explained to me. “Jist dress fer skul and yer ready fer classes when ya take off.”

Good advice from my best friend. I often awoke, groggy and confused, in the strangest places when I was at the University of Texas. But I was always dressed appropriately and missed no classes for inappropriate clothing.

My sleepwalking was discovered when Gram took her favorite ostrich skin dress boots from the hall coat and boot closet to wear to a dance with Granddad. She stuck her foot into the left boot and said, “What tha fuck?”

She pulled her wet foot from the boot and sniffed it. “OK, who’s the smarty mallet done pissed in my good boots? I’mma kill somebody.”

Turns out it was me. I was captured by Gram after her third night staked out near the closet. Seems I was sleepwalking around and taking a piss wherever I managed to land. I was too young to get night wood and I didn’t wet the bed.

Do women get nighttime woodies? Do you guys have muscle tightening responses to control your bladders like we men? I’ve always wondered but never investigated.

Anyway, we had a big crowd to dinner last night because I cooked goat. I cook great goats and cook them well. Half of good goat cooking is choosing the right goat. Prep and actual cooking the other half. I drank copious quantities of Carta Blanca beer starting from when we cranked up the fire pit and until bedtime. I usually spit cook goat, but BJ over to the Dumb Perignon suggested a pit cooking.

When I finally went to bed I was beer saturated, bloated and fully food sated. I took the guys in to brush our teeth, floss and take a final pee in the sink. Until I awoke this morning, the last thing I remember was Squirt saying, “Good night, John Boy.” Yes, it’s stupid as all shit, but my pet’s and I do a Waltons’ goodnight dealie every night.

The previously-mentioned awakening was as I half stood, leaning against the outside kitchen door, naked as a jaybird. I had goose bumps the size of golf balls covering my entire body and I had a big old nighttime woodie clenched in my right hand.

“Mooner, godammit!” my Gram startled me awake. “Iffn you pissed in my good boots I’mma blast yer ass, an’ good.”

“Huh?” It was all I could muster.

It took me forty-five minutes to get the swelling to go down enough to pee, and my back hurts, my feet are swollen and I still can’t feel my pecker.

Now I’m late for my early psycho therapy session. 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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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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