Archive for the ‘Squirt’ Category

Happy Holidays; An Xmas Story

Sunday, December 22nd, 2013

 

So. It seems that I have become one of those missing-in-action blog posters about whom my friends bitch—a once prolific writer of obnoxious drivel posting daily entries into cyberspace now posting monthly at best. Having just mistyped “cyberspace” as “cyber space”, I’ve been informed that cyber isn’t an actual word yet, and alas, cyberspace is.

OK, whatinthefuck is that all about? How can a nonexistent entity not exist yet have space? How can nothing occupy space? Other than in situations like Rick Perry or Sarah Palin’s brains, wherein skull vaults contain empty emptinesses.

Which reminds me. My across-the-street neighbor—a most interesting woman born in Holland and Americanized for the last forty years—invited us over to a dinner party last night. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson is in town for a visit, so when I say, “…invited us…,” I mean the brain doctor and first Mrs. Mooner Johnson joined me for the party, not the dogs. The dogs are pissed to be left at home alone when Agnes, said and same neighbor, has a party.

“Look, shithead,” the Squirt said, “Agnes has the most interesting friends, and the goat dog needs some socializing with a refined cultural element. Take us with.”

“No, little lady,” I told my tiny brown puppy. “Things will be too crowded and you’ll be under foot.”

“Fuck you, asshole. You’ll pay for this one.”

Am I the only parent who finds themselves revisiting the quality of their parenting skills at constant intervals? I raised three well adjusted, interesting, honest and productive kids as a much younger man, and yet, with the experience and maturity of an older man, the net results of my efforts to properly raise this miniature dog have resulted in the Squirt.

I was asking Dr. Sam earlier this morning, I asked, “Why is the Squirt so fucking headstrong, demanding and why does she stick to her principles like Gorilla Glue? She is the most exasperating person in my life.” I was taking advantage of my lovely ex wife’s visit by attempting to sneak a little free psycho therapy action into coffee time.

She answered, “For starters, buster, I just punched the clock and I’m now charging for out-of-town, weekend, holiday, emergency and crisis rates. Those rates are charged by-the-word at $25-per word. After I tell you that you have somehow managed to parent a formerly sweet young dog into a mirror image of yourself, know that if I stop now, you’re bill for this morning’s session has already cost you $1,775.00”

I thought for a moment. “Jesus Christ, Sammie, you’re charging me for prepositions and pricing contractions as two words! You are such a bitch.”

“And you, my dear ex husband, are a nut case. My free diagnosis of the day.”

Anyway, and before my ADHD drives this train into a gorge, we went to the party last night and had a ball. Everyone in attendance not named Mooner Johnson was an interesting and spiritual person and an actual artist producing incredible art, or an interesting, spiritual and renowned psycho therapist. The entire roomful of us thought Rick Perry is a brainless sack of shit, and when I said, “Fuck Walmart!” the room cheered.

Which reminds me. Dr. Sam I. Am is crazy about this private label Chardonnay wine from Costco. Since Costco is the polar opposite of Walmart—treating employees with respect and dignity while profiting still mightily—I was happy to visit Costco for a case of the wine when I was in the ABQ. I’ve agreed to help write and supervise the implementation of a five-year business plan for my buddy who owns the roofing company, and I’m in New Mexico’s largest city often.

Costco was crowded with holiday shoppers, and after bumping and bustling through the store to get the case of wine and industrial-sized buckets of red pepper flakes, smoked paprika, and olive oil, I went to check out. The shortest line had six overly-filled baskets waiting and I took my place at the rear. There were two, or more, persons with each basket, save-and-except the one immediately in front of mine. That immense and spilling-over cart was unattended. I looked for its keeper and finding none, moved it ahead of me as the line shortened. Nosy bastard that I am, I spent my time waiting in line searching the store around me and guessing who, and where, the cart user might be.

OK, I was also thinking about the five-year business plan, wondering what item from my Costco shopping list I had forgotten, trying—unsuccessfully—to not look at the ample bosom spilling from the holiday sweater on the lovely lady in the line next to me, and likely spurred by the ample bosom, was wondering if I was clever enough to talk the good doctor into joining me in an evening of sack time. For those of you interested in my sex life, the answer is, as it always is, “No, shithead, your ex wife is far too well adjusted to sex it up with the likes of you.”

I was now at the point where I had to either push the abandoned cart aside and start putting my own basket’s contents on the black rubber conveyor belt for pricing, or wait and piss-off the now seven carts-worth of shoppers behind me. Just as I had grabbed the cart’s handle with both hands to lift it aside, a short, plump Catholic woman walked up and said to me, “Oh, thank you, sir.” She started putting her items on the black rubber belt and added, she said, “And Merry Christmas.”

You might wonder how I knew she was Catholic, right? For starters, she had maybe seven crosses hanging from chains around her neck, I saw the edges of a wear-worn Bible poking from the giant purse she’d left in the basket, and pinned to the breast of her sweater was one of those little buttons that show a pair of tiny feet. With the personal experience and knowledge that that particular button is a favored demonstration of a violent Catholic strain of anti-abortion fervor, I pegged the lady as Catholic.

“Happy Holidays,” I responded, full of holiday cheer and proud that I hadn’t pushed the nice lady’s cart aside.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, and again.

Thinking she hadn’t heard my first response, I responded with a somewhat louder and quite more cheery, “Happy Holidays!”

Wait. Would I have spoken more cheery, or would it be more accurate to have said my louder voice was cheery more? As accuracy and crystal clear communications are my life’s goals, me, I’m going with Cheery more.

“Merry Christmas!” she said, and again, this time through gritted teeth and with not a small level of menace.

Oh, now I get it. This crazy bitch is worried that America is killing her sacred holiday.

“And a Happy Holidays to you and yours,” I said as delightfully as I could say it.

“I saaa-i-ud Merr-ry Christ-mas.” Christmas was said as two words with a heavy emphasis on “Christ”. Her eyes had turned feral, like in a horror movie when the Devil posses to scare you into pissing your pants.

“Happy Holidays,” brightly said by me, and merrily so. It has been many months since I have enjoyed the special pleasure it is to poke and prod Catholic Anti-abortion Protest lady into spitting at and slapping my ruggedly handsome face. I do miss those times and felt this the perfect chance to push another silly Catholic woman off her kibble.

“How dare you blaspheme my sweet Saviour’s birthday!” she snarled. “He!!!” shouted now, “is the only reason you have a holiday and I will not let you disgrace His name.”

I was winding up my favorite three words for an occasion such as that when the Costco clerk managed to pry the angry woman away.

“Fuck your Jesus.” I whispered my anti-Fuckhead Christian mantra to myself in true holiday spirit. I always emphasize the “your” part to distinguish the various Jesuses apart. Some Jesuses are loving and accepting while others must be total fuckbrains, and often the lines blur for me.

After a fantastic party and great time, Sammie and I walked back to Casita Johnson de Santa Fe and opened the door to a frightful sight. The entire living room was covered in the shredded remains of a week’s worth of newspapers. Two piles of dog shit had been deposited on the laces of my snow boots that sit by the door, and everything that formerly sat on top of the coffee table was strewn amidst the shredded paper.

“Happy fucking Holidays, Mooner.” It was the Squirt. She and Yoda were sitting on the rug that sits half in the dining room and half in the kitchen. They were wearing the jingle bell collars that are my Xmas decorations. “Fix us some eggnog and light the fire, Bwana. Lets get in the spirit.”

I love my puppies, New Mexico and good friends. Happy Holiday, y’all.

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Impulse Controls; “Hey Mikey–They Really Like it!”

Saturday, October 12th, 2013

 

So. The dogs and I spent last Saturday night over to some friends house in Albuquerque so that we could watch the big Balloon Festival. They live high on a hill in Corrales that is maybe four miles from the Balloon Park. As the ABQ is perfectly located for hot air balloon flying—what with its daily “box wind” phenomenon—the largest city in New Mexico draws people worldwide to attend the annual Balloon Festival.

The box wind dealio is because of the mountains around ABQ and the fact that the wind blows every which a direction as you ascend to different heights. So, basically, you can fly in circles by moving to higher and lower elevations. In spite of the rough landings that broke legs, and the one balloon that hit high power lines and burst into flames, it was fun to watch.

Before we left Santa Fe Saturday afternoon, we winterized the GTO—parked and covered and got it ready for a few months’ nap. The grand old girl is heady fun when it’s warm, but Winter’s cold and slick roads are anything but fun. Which is what sparked me to write today.

The other car previously holding the second slot in the fleet here to La Casita de Santa Fe was a rather large Chevy SUV. Big enough to carry 4′X8′ sheets of plywood, the oversize SUV was a menace on my adoptive hometown’s narrow streets and skinny parking slots. It was likewise a little clumsy in the mountains in spite of its four-wheel drive system.

The big Chevy met its demise two weeks ago when we drove it to get veggies from the Farmers’ Market. We were later in the morning leaving than usual and all the prime parking spots were already filled. I finally found a target space on Guadalupe Street, but some asshole in an Audi had parked over the back line of my assigned spot. The driver had not only parked over the line, but had done so quite crookedly. As I cursed started to drive off, Squirt said to me, she said, “You can fit it in, Mooner, I’ll guide you.”

I unhooked the diminutive brown ball of piss and vinegar from her harness and she jumped from front seat to back, and then over to the rear deck. I watched in the mirror as she surveyed the situation, pacing front-to-back and mumbling to herself, as she laid her backup plans. “OK, shithead, pull up at an angle and start backing up. Slowly.”

I started backing, slowly, and after we traveled maybe ten feet I heard, “Hard left!” and I did, and then, “Straighten her out,” and I did again.

“Slowly, slowly… slowly” Squirt cautioned me as she guided me with her muzzle pressed to the rear window. Her tiny face was squished to the glass as she gauged the distances between curb and Audi bumper. “OK, cut it hard right! No, shithead, the other right!”

After maybe fifteen minutes, the two of us managed to wedge the rear tire of the Chevy tight against the curb, and our ass-end to the Audi in a way that made it impossible for the Audi to move without dragging against the back of my car by snagging his bumper against the sharp, truck-like edge of mine.

The Squirt had the goat dog take a pee on his driver’s side door, and we left the two cars to defend for themselves.

“You need to send that monstrosity back to Austin and get us a proper New Mexico winter car, Bwana Mooner. Yoda and I plan to spend way plenty time exploring this snow season, and we want a fun car for it.”

“What do you have in mind, little lady? I haven’t car shopped for years now and I don’t even know what’s available.”

She and Yoda conferred for a bit. “Well, I want a Porsche and that silly shit wants a horse. He said that would be the historically correct choice of transportation.”

I’ve been reading Santa Fe histories to the dogs to help them get a feel for our magical hometown. The original roads in town were built to be only two horses wide, an effort to make invasion a quite difficult task.

“No Porsche and no horses. Too expensive, too much trouble, and uncomfortable for three to boot.”

We were walking along the railroad tracks that meander from Santa Fe to the ABQ like an umbilical cord sprung from my new hometown’s belly button, the Rail Yard. Squirt stopped at one of the many benches where she and Yoda jumped up to perch. “Sit down, Mooner, and let’s get serious. This can’t be a knee-jerk decision. Cars cost a lot of money these days and you need to take your time. The goat dog and I have a wish list—all wheel drive, roomy, dependable, panoramic sun roof, stain resistant interior all around, and a really great sound system. You can’t just be buying the first thing that catches your eye.”

She was right, you know. I can’t choose new cars with the same impulsive decision making process as I have with the wives. I keep cars for twenty years or longer.

We did our market shopping without too many distractions and returned to Guadalupe Street to find the Chevy SUV sitting on four flat tires and a full dozen Daisy’s Farm Fresh Free Range eggs dripping and sun-drying on the finish. I’m pretty sure they were Large, and I knew they were Daisy’s because of the color of the yolks. We buy a couple dozen of Daisy’s finest Large each trip to the market.

Anyway, the Audi was gone and I got pissed and after getting the car cleaned and tires inflated, we went car shopping. The three of us drove through every fucking car lot in town as we window shopped. The kids would “Oooo,” and “Ahhhh,” at all sorts of shit, and the Squirt was a running string of car commercials as we passed her favored models.

“What’s the matter, asshole, you haven’t stopped to see a single thing. What could possibly be wrong with the Acura MDX? It’s been totally redesigned and made for mankind! You don’t seem very excited about any of this.”

She was right. I just couldn’t get into it. “Let’s go down to the ABQ and get some hot dogs at Der Weinerschnitzel.” We love Der Schnitzel dogs, the three of us do.

So we did, and we exited at the wrong street and were forced to drive the access road to get back on the freeway. “Oh look, asshole, it’s the Mini store! Let’s check them out,” Squirt exclaimed.

So we did. Bought the first thing we saw—a Mini Countryman S All-4 with six speed manual transmission, no panoramic sunroof and a basic stereo system. It’s the ugliest thing you ever saw, and we love it.

Which reminds me. Has anybody thought to say that the reason the Affordable Health computer systems crashed from overuse is because the silly fucking Repubbies spent so much time promoting Obamacare? Planning for the best from a soft opening, Government computer systems planners felt that as many as 50,000 people would be logged on at any given time. Since all the systems were new, no real advertising program was planned and when you give the great American populace three months to do anything, the great bulk of us do it on the next-to-last day. Plan was, get the glitches worked out in early October, fix those glitches, and then be ready for the rush with a proven system.

But—thanks to those silly boys and girls who wish to take affordable health care away from the rest of us—the months of heavily vitriolic anti-Obamacare rhetoric spurred huge numbers of visitors to the site. More than 250,000 at a time, or five times as many as expected in the wildest dreams of the planners.

And guess what. When people take the time to look at the actual data, they like it. Even the bigoted and greedy, close-minded assholes like it. It’s like that old cereal commercial. “They like it!”

Thanks, shitheads, for selling a great product. Manana, y’all.

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When Bison Speak; Fuck Republicans

Monday, September 30th, 2013

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m pretty stoned, kids.”

Have you guys tried Noosa brand yogurt? Spectacular!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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More Gun Mania; Lessons From Crows And Ravens

Wednesday, December 19th, 2012

 

So. This morning I was sitting in the office here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe where my computer desk is situated to provide me the full view out the window. What I see on any day is first the sharp angle of the stucco corner of the master bedroom roof which is backdropped by the largest of our Ponderosa pine trees. Sharpen my eyes to mid distance and I can see the rooftops of homes and other buildings as the topography rises towards the mountains.

When I focus my sight to the distance, I have a clear view of the ski mountain—Santa Fe Ski Basin. On any day my view of the world as I write to you is nothing short of spectacular.

Today, however, my view was something beyond that. It was snowing again this morning, a light, fine crystalline ice crystal snow that was falling straight down in windless air. Since everything is already coated with the week’s fluffy snow, this looked like when I would shake off my shirt onto a white granite counter top that time I had a terrible case of dandruff—the tiny flakes just disappeared into the already-white landscape.

The neighborhood crows and ravens have decided to grace us today, likely because I set a big loaf of bread on the roof of the portal for them. For the life of me I can’t tell them apart—ravens and crows—but Google tells me that ravens are the larger of these two majestic birds. But whichever ones these are, I have fallen in love with them. At least I am in love with what they seem to be to me—calm, thoughtful, playful, smart, communal. They seem to take life as it comes without complaint while honoring each other’s existances.

While the starlings and sparrows and other birds squawk and twitter and fight over every scrap of food and territory, the bigger black birds share, and even seem to invite company. The first time I put bread out, a lone crow (raven?) flew in to look things over. He pecked at the bread’s hard crust, scrabbled it with his beak, then turned his head like birds do to peer a large orange eye at the bread. After maybe a half-minute of peering, he, “Caw-caw-cawed,” and stood there.

He just stood and turned his head in the circles that birds do, and he, “Caw-caw-cawed.”

Other crows and ravens began their fly ins and I soon had what I guess was a flock of them. Ten birds by my count, sharing the loaf of bread. It was a big loaf, a rustic Italian sour dough three-pounder that I had forgotten and allowed to go stale.

Any of the other birds that visit the yard would squabble and fight over every crumb, but these guys shared. There appeared to be some sort of pecking order but I had no sense of their priorities. Having watched them many times since, they seem to have a societal sharing structure based on need. Whichever bird’s needs are greater gets to peck first and most often. There is one bird—the largest and most weatherbeaten—who is usually the last to fly in for dinner. As soon as he lands and settles, the others make room for him to eat. I named him The Old Man.

They wait while The Old Man spears a first chunk and swallows, and let him get a second bite before they resume their dining. It happens that way every time. Every fucking time.

I say all of this to you because when I first sat down to write to you about my retained anger over last Friday’s massacre of school kids, I was looking out my office window at the aforementioned view, pissed at the world. I was staring over the sharp angle of the master bedroom wall, over the roof and into the snowy pine tree. There was motion from deep inside the pine’s snow-weighted mass, motion moving from the far side towards me.

I realized it was a big bird and I soon saw it was The Old Man. He was branch hopping from way up in the far side of the tree towards me. He flew out of sight for a minute and then returned to the same branch with a mouthful of bread. He perched for a moment on the largest branch closest to the house then flew the one wing flap distance to the master bedroom parapet—the tip of the angular wall now thrice-mentioned.

He gripped the stuccoed wall with huge clawed feet. I was surprised at the look of his claws and stared at them in what might have been awe. This angular wall is maybe ten feet from my window, and from that short distance the bird was a giant. I knew then that The Old Man is a raven.

He set the chunk of bread on the wall and “Cawed” at me. He looked straight at me from his wall perch, and “Cawed” at me again. My desk phone rang and its jangle broke the moment. The Old Man jumped to lift off in flight and I answered the phone.

It was Mother. “Hi, Mother, how are you?”

“I’m just sick to death over this gun control business, Mooner. Where are you?”

Here we go again. “I’m in Santa Fe, Mother, just like the last hundred-and-thirty-nine times we’ve spoken. You know, like the six times yesterday?”

A pause, and I hear her make a sharp intake of breath. “How many times must I warn you about Santa Fe, son? All of those homo-sex-u-als will ruin your life. They have their ways, Mooner, and you aren’t the sharpest knife in the drawer you know.”

“Oh for shitsakes, Mother, whatinthefuck do you want?” I asked, maybe my words carrying a touch more sting than I meant. Maybe.

“Don’t you curse at your mother, Butcher Einstein Johnson. I can still bend you over the kitchen table, you little brat. What am I going to do about this gun control mess? Where are you—I need you to come here right now and fix this gun mess for me.”

Ugh. Ugh-ugh-ugh-ugh!

“I’m still in Santa Fe. and what gun control mess are you talking about?” With Mother you’re not allowed to be quite certain of her references. She might be addressing Friday’s gun mess or maybe a time back in the Civil War, when Minnie balls weren’t the same well-aimed missiles as today’s precision killing machines. It pays to not assume.

“Pastor Browningwell told me that the President is going to take all our guns away and that we need to stand and fight. I need some bullets, Mooner, where are you?”

Huh? The old dingbat needs bullets?

“Why do you need bullets? Mother, you don’t have a gun, and as of a few seconds ago, I’m still in fucking Santa Fe.”

“I bought a gun yesterday to protect myself against the President and you need a gun too. You have just got to keep those homo-sex-u-als away, son. They can turn you in a minute.”

Sweet Jesus, if you ever had any power, will you please take me NOW!

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Mother? You don’t need a damned gun—you live in a secure building.”

Son… Of… A… Fucking… Bitch!!! My batty and demented mother bought a gun!

“Well, I don’t actually have the gun yet, they had sold out before I could get a reservation on the facility bus to take me over to the shop. But I want bullets for when my gun comes in and I WANT THEM RIGHT NOW!”

I thought she would bust a gut she was so mad. My first impulse was to test that idea and attempt to stir her up. Instead I said to her, I told her, “OK, settle down. I’ll be there Saturday morning and we’ll see about getting you some bullets. What kind of bullets do you need?” I asked.

I had to fucking ask.

“Oh, I don’t know, Mooner—seven-thousand-sixty-two?”

What? Did she mean 7.62?

“Do you mean seven-point-sixty-two? Moth-errrrr… Did you buy an assault rifle?”

She hung up on me. I tried calling her back but there was no answer. I then called American Express and canceled the transaction at On Target Gun Shop of San Antonio, hung up and called On Target where I gave what sounded like a pimply-faced teenager an earful of shit while telling him I’d canceled the payment. When I’d spent all my anger with the sales clerk, he did that exasperated sigh that teens do and said to me, he said, “No problemo, signorio, we got a waiting list.”

I slammed the phone down and redialed AMEX where I canceled Mother’s AMX card. Cancellations of Visa and her debit cards followed. I called Sister to tell her what was going on and asked her to go down to San Antonio and meet with the management of the facility where our mother now lives.

“Give them $500.00 in twenties, Sister, and instruct that Mother can have fifty bucks a day. We’ll discuss longterm arrangements when I get there.”

Then, it dawned on me that I had just canceled an AMEX charge for $1,986.52 that was payable to the On Target gun shop. I felt so angry I thought I’d bust a gut.

“Calm down, Bwana, cool your jets. You’re gonna bust a gut.” It was the Squirt who was dressed in the new sweater I got to wear under her parka. The diminutive brown puppy looked totally fucking adorable.

“They charged her almost two-thousand dollars for a five-hundred dollar gun, sweetie pie. My mother has lost her mind in more ways than one.”

“Ugh,” I added with a tired breath.

“Who gives a shit, Mooner, you got it fixed. Lets go to Trader Joe’s and get some cheap wine, a leg of lamb and those French caramels you like so much. You can get drunk and Yoda and I can fight over the lamb bone.”

Squirt nudged my leg with her cute little nose. “Come on shithead, you can fix the rest of this mess on Saturday.”

It’s now early evening and I’m two bottles of Trader Joe’s Coastal Merlot in the bag. The smell of roasting lamb has my mouth watering like the leaky water connection I just found in the wall behind the vanity in the hall bath. I love roasted lamb and I love my two dogs and I love living in Santa Fe.

And I want to love my mother. I truly do. But I’ve forgotten how or maybe I’ve forgotten what loving her feels like. It’s impossible to feel love for her now when feeling loved by her is a forgotten memory. Maybe I’ll get those feelings back when I visit her over the holidays.

Maybe not. And why am I starting to feel that crows and ravens have a more well adjusted society than we humans?

Manana, y’all.

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Yoda Yellows The Pristine Snow; Happy Veterans’ Day, Beej.

Sunday, November 11th, 2012

 

So. Here we all are on a fine Sunday morning—a Veteran’s Day morning and a morning for reflections on life. Here to Santa Fe, we got our first dusting of snow and now the air is crisp and clean and bright. The snow fell overnight, and when we first got out of bed I took the dogs to the back door to let them out. Doing our business is always the first order of business for each day and Sunday morning business is always a family affair.

When the three of us got to the back door to go outside, I said to the puppies, “OK, guys, let’s slip on your sweaters. It’s cold outside.”

The Squirt stuck her nose on the door glass and jerked her head back like a shot. “Fuck you, Buster Brown, I’m shitting on the carpet and going back to bed.”

The diminutive brown dog headed back to the bedroom and flipped over her shoulder, “Wake me up when the French toast is ready.”

My mother called me Buster Brown whenever I pissed her off in my childhood and she called me John Henry when I pleased her. I guess I should be glad I earned the nickname of Mooner back on the first day of school. Buster Brown would have been tough to live with.

Yoda and I dressed for the cold and went outside. This is the first snow the goat dog has ever experienced from the outside of a tiny wire cage. The first year of his life was lived inside the hog wire prison of a puppy mill over to Oklahoma, and most of our experiences together are firsts for him.

I wish he could talk to me like the Squirt. I can’t get anyone to tell me the specifics of who’s and wheres regarding that dog factory. Then again, I fear that Oklahoma jails are far less friendly places than my usual barred haunts.

He and I walked the back yard and marked our territory in the usual way. I think he actually giggled when he first peed into the pristine white snow. The ice crystals cracked and fizzled and steamed before turning yellow, and the little dog snickered like a boy. Which made me snicker too.

“Let’s write our names in the snow,” I said, and I wrote as much of mine as I had ink left to write.

Yoda looked down at what I’d melted into the white snow, looked up at my face and back at the snow again.

“OK, it says ‘Moo’, shitball. All I had left was enough to write a cow sound.”

We both giggled some more. “Now you,” I prodded.

The small white half-Chihuahua half-Whippet looked up at me like I’d asked him to define Pi. “You’re right. Here,” and I picked him up, “you pee and I’ll spell.”

Have I ever told you that Yoda’s name was Pi when I first adopted him? What kind of name is that? What character traits might a dog even have to resemble a Pi?

Stupid fucking dog name.

Anyway, I got some news from Texas as Gram and the P-cubed had Ralph drop them off down there to the ranch rather than back here. They drove out to New Jersey with a Hummer limo full of “supplies” for the hurricane victims and then headed home to Austin rather than back to Santa Fe.

“We’re a moving Mr. Dave over ta tha old folks’ homie down to San Antonio. Seems he’s been taken by tha same dramentia as yer fucking mother.”

“It’s dementia, Gram, but I get the picture. Anything I can do?”

“Nopers. Ralph’s gonna load up tha Humdinger an’ drop Mr. Dave off with yer mother. He’ll stop back here to tha ranch to load up some shit fer you afore headin’ back yer way. Wacha want?”

I gave Gram my list and told her I love her, and when I hung up I felt melancholy. To think that Mr. Dave has the same dementia as Mother unsettled me. Mr. Dave is a gentle man and a gentleman in every way. My mother is an angry and mean spirited woman, and is so in most ways. My hopes there are that the giant peckered old gentleman can fuck some good nature back into my mother.

Otherwise, I’ll get him his own apartment.

Anyway, French toast and bacon are the order of the day. The bacon is the last of my stash from Texas and one of the staples headed this way in Ralph’s Hummer limo. So is the maple syrup Streaker Jones brings back from Vermont. I need another few gallons.

I wonder if Mr. Dave’s dementia will make him forget he’s a good man. It hasn’t made my mother forget to be a shithead so maybe he’ll be OK.

Which reminds me. Did you guys hear that Mitt Romney cut off the credit cards of his campaign workers before he gave his concession speech? He made them pay for their own ways home from Boston on Tuesday night.

I wish every American would carefully think about that. Manana, y’all.

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An Actual Uncommitted Voter; Mooner Match Makes A Cougar

Thursday, November 1st, 2012

 

So. I’ve been busy grading the driveway and small front yard here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe getting things ready for gravel, Xeriscaping and a new set of front steps. I met two men, brothers, when I first got here and they have been helping me with all of my remodeling endeavors.

As a sufferer of the dreaded ADHD, I have the knowledge to understand the hows and whereofs to perform most any job around the house. Likewise, as a sufferer of the dreaded ADHD, I have the ability to fuck any job all the way to Hell, and back.

Take, for instance, using a pick ax. A simple task, pick axing—grasp ax near top end and middle, raise ax over head and apply downward force to direct pointy end at soil area desired to be loosened, lever ax handle to pry now-loosened material, raise ax to repeat.

The plumber finally finished repairs to my main water supply just before dinner last night. We had the remaining chicken and carrot soup that I made Sunday with the fresh, local produce I got from over to the Farmer’s Market down to the Rail Yard. Carrots and kale and onions and a big chicken.

This one vendor had a huge basket of various carrots—yellow, golden and purple—none of which looked like your typical chain grocery produce. The purple carrot I bought grew to look like that Wookie character from Star Wars. When I got my bag of stuff back to the casita, the dogs and I had a blast making jokes about the appearances of the various produce.

“That gold carrot looks like a giant double dog pecker,” Squirt laughed out. “How about you give us a few minutes alone. I’ve been feeling a little tense lately.”

I love that adorable little lump of brown fur and keen humors.

Which reminds me. I met an uncommitted voter yesterday. I’m not speaking about one of those assholes who say they’re uncommitted to get attention, I mean I met a woman who truly still has mixed feelings between Obama and Romney.

I went over to the Ace Hardware store to get some stucco patch to repair a couple nicks I axed into the side of the house. Adrian—he’s the older of the two brothers previously mentioned and now almost a part of my family—is a greatly-skilled stucco repair artist. I parked my car next to a several years old Honda of pristine condition and wearing a bumper sticker plastered to it’s back window that said, “God didn’t teach me to hate.”

“God didn’t teach me to hate?” I said to myself, and I guess aloud, as I stood hands-on-hips to read the sticker several times over. “Whatinthefuck can that mean?” I said to myself, and again, I guess aloud.

“It isn’t polite to curse, young man, and it means precisely what it says.”

My chastiser was a pixie in gray body stockings, fur-topped leather boots, a full head of perfect white hair and an angelic face crowned with half a tube of ruby red lipstick. “I’m a cranky old woman, buster, and I don’t like men to curse around me. It’s disrespectful.”

“You’re right, Ma’am, and I truly apologize for the foulness of my words. But your bumper sticker has me flummoxed. What does it actually mean?”

“Well, in context, it means I’m troubled by the current political climate where it seems America is a two-faced country with the right hating the left. I hear all this religious talk from both sides filled with hateful words. I want it to stop,” she said with a calm that defied the fury I saw in her eyes.

As I was wearing a dusty “Fuck Mitt Romney” tee shirt, dirty jeans and muddy work boots she seemed to figure me out quickly. “So you are an Obama supporter. Why?”

Huh? “Well,” I started, “I guess we can start from the simple fact that Mitt Romney is a lying, sniveling shithead—er, ah, I mean he lies just for sport—and then finish with his political positions.”

I then enumerated my thoughts on social services, women’s rights and the rest for maybe thirty minutes.

“Interesting,” she told me. “I’m Catholic and I’m torn. My church is demanding I vote Republican for no more reason than the abortion issue and my heart tells me that’s not reason enough to vote against self interest. How about we discuss this again sometime when you aren’t so filthy-dirty. You look like you’d clean up nicely.”

I’ve never dated an older woman before and an older Catholic woman at that. I’m thinking I’ll take her up to Chimayo’ to this nifty restaurant up there. Maybe Ralph and the girls will be back from whereverinhell they are by Friday night and we can make it a group date. New Mexico isn’t a swing state but maybe we can swing Lucille’s vote the right direction for practice.

I was wondering if Lucille’s rug matches her white curtains. I wonder if Catholic ladies practice body hair controls. I wonder if it’s appropriate to take your straight razor and edible shave cream on a first Catholic date.

Adrian is Catholic, maybe he can give me some pointers. Manana, y’all.

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Sink… Sank… Sunk; Dreams And Other Misfortunes

Saturday, October 6th, 2012

 

So. OK, let’s get this shit out of the way so we can move on with life. If the debate was an acting contest, Mitt Romney “won” this week’s debate. He won it clearly and concisely. If attitude and aggression are your most preferred Presidential qualities, Mitt’s your boy.

But let me ask one question before we talk about fun stuff.

“What does it mean when the main reason you state for the President losing this debate is that he failed to aggressively shout down his opponent for telling egregiousness and stupid lies?”

When I hear that silly shit said by talking heads on both sides of politics, I’m forced to shake my head. The worse thing President Obama did was allow Mitt Romney to lie? Really? That’s like saying Sharon Tate lost her “life debate” with Charlie Manson’s crew.

OK, that might be a terrible analogy, but maybe I made a point.

Anyway, I’ve been having incredible dreams since occupying Santa Fe, and I want to share a few with you starting with last night’s.

A cold front blew through about 1:00 am and awoke me. I had been dreaming about walking nekid on the dunes of a desert when the icy wind blew in through the open window above our bed. I was lying on my side, with the Squirt all scrunched-up in the crook of my bent knees—tail running up through the crack of my ass—and Yoda the goat dog was on my neck like a muffler.

One minute in the dream I was panting and laboring across the intemperate sands in what must have been a hot dog breath and smelly-furred sweat, and the next minute I found myself back in high school—nekid in front of the blackboard attempting to explain the Pythagorean Theorem while removing a wad of toilet paper from my ass.

Once fully awakened by the chilly wind, I realized that it was dog tail packing my crack and that I had to pee something fierce. Since I don’t have a finished vanity and vanity sink in the master bath, I was forced to use the commode. Regular readers know this, but I prefer to pee in the sink so as to make efficiencies in both water savings and physical motions. I sat on the throne, leaned head in hands with elbows on knees, took a deep cleansing breath, and promptly fell back asleep.

Which reminds me. Why don’t most people believe me when I tell them that I pee in the sink? Any sink. My sink, public sinks.

Your sink.

I started dreaming as soon as I shut my eyes, and I found myself back in the days when I was married to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson. I was sitting in her waiting room, all dressed-up in a suit—the suit worn when she and I wed—and I had to pee. I walked over to the receptionist and asked her where I might find the closest sink. She said to me, she pointed at her desk and said, “It’s right there on my desk, Mr. Johnson. You’re more than welcome to use it.”

When I looked down, she pushed a large sink-shaped ashtray towards me. It was a white porcelain Kohler—model number QF-1572-A—and it was filled with some sort of absorbent the consistency of large-grained sand. Without hesitation, I flipped my necktie over my shoulder, unzipped my suit pants, tucked the tails of my white dress shirt in the waistband of my white cotton undies, maneuvered my pecker through the peeky-poo hole in those same undies, and peed into the gritty absorbent.

I guess the QF part on the ashtray model number was for “quiet flush”. Wait, maybe it was for “quick flush”. Fuck it, maybe Q is for the year 2012 and F is for February, the year and month it was made.

How’s that ADHD ass taste, everybody?

It was a lengthy pee, and after a moment the receptionist reached her hand down and touched—ever so gently—the thumb and forefinger of my peeing hand. She then took her finger and touched the peeing pecker.

I started to think about her actions and suddenly another woman’s hand entered the frame. This one had long, slender fingers with bright red-painted fingernails. She ran a manicured nail tip across my stuff and then another woman came along and reached for me. I looked up into the three women’s faces as they were crowded together to get hands on me. I saw Katy from over to the Lesbian Soup Site as the receptionist, Sarah Palin as the red-nailed woman and it was Dr. Sammie coming in last.

My psycho therapist, and first wife of ten, had a terrible scowl plastered all over her face. “Get your crazy ass into my office and right now, buster. It’s been almost a month since your last session and you are way out of control.”

I answered, “And it’s been longer than that since I had myself any third-party sex.”

“What do you mean third-party sex, Mooner?” she asked me. “I told you that multiple sex partners is bad for you.”

“Calm down, psycho babble babe, I mean a third party not me or my lonely pecker.”

That’s when I awoke, slumped on the pot and numb from the waist down, with my nighty-night erection ready to explode with pressure from my way-too fucking full bladder. I somehow managed to pee and then crawled back to bed with ten-thousand needles sticking my useless legs and ass.

“Where have you been, asshole?” the small brown puppy asked when I managed to pull myself back into bed. “I’m freezing my tushie off, and Yoda wants to snuggle with me. Have you smelled that shithead’s breath?”

“He smells like a goat’s butt, what do you expect?” I told Squirt.

My adorable puppy resettled herself, this time on groin and crotch as I lay on my back, and the goat dog snuggled into my arm pit. I guess my smelly pit has an appeal to a goat. I remember thinking, “Why did I dream Katy was interested in me, why was Sarah Palin in this dream and why, inthefuck, haven’t I gotten a sink installed in the master bathroom yet?”

Ugh.

Katy has recently become single and I have a history with lesbian women, and I am forced to admit that I would sex it up with Palin. Maybe that’s it. Then again, maybe Yoda isn’t the only man in our house who acts like a goat. And maybe I need a therapy session and some sex.

Ugh, once more. So much to do. Manana, y’all.

 

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Hosed Again; Moving Moments

Sunday, September 23rd, 2012

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Johnson, how are you sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Manana, y’all.

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Packing Is Such Sweet Sorrow; A Moving Story

Monday, September 17th, 2012

 

So. I’ve been busy sorting and packing the things to take to Santa Fe. And thinking. I’ve never really moved except back to my college days when Streaker Jones and I rented a furnished house over near The University of Texas.

Precisely how do you decide what is important enough to move from one state to another—from one culture to one of a complete difference? What personal mementos are better placed in one home as the other?

How does a person divide their life’s possessions and histories into two separate piles?

Me—I have no fucking idea.

I have gone from thinking that I should move everything I own across state lines to giving everything away to the Salvation Army and starting over. I have keepsakes from three kids, ten marriages and six decades of life enjoyments and pains. I have a big house here to the ranch and every wall, nook and cranny is full and packed with my—and my family’s—shit.

I have an entire truckload of stuff from my own childhood. I have the cactus needles removed from from my body that time I fell into a mature prickly pear; I have the pair of old coveralls—rusty zipper still hanging from their crotch—from that time Mother zipped me up; I’ve even got the newspaper notice that appeared in the Metro Section from the first time I was ever arrested.

Which of those keepsakes is better kept in Santa Fe and which will age better in the higher humidity of Austin?

How does a man who loves to cook divide his kitchen gadgets into two separate yet equal allotments—one to stay in Texas and the second to travel to the Enchanted Land? Assuming that everything has some semblance of a soul, how do you decide which things get the same blessings as you yourself are to receive with your move, and which are to stay in the arch conservative political cesspool known as Texas? Will my favorite All Clad cookware have hurt feelings if I leave them behind and buy new there? Will the stockpot miss the saute’ pans if I separate them? Will they burn stuff on purpose if they are unhappy with my decisions?

Ugh.

When I asked my grandmother what she thinks, she told me, she said, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner. Take what ya want and leave tha rest. Now git yer ass out to tha grillie and cook them ribbies.”

I love that crazy old broad. When I asked her if there was anything I could do for her before I leave this time, she said, “Ya can fix me some a yer ribbies—ya know, them ones with tha sticky sauce.”

Sticky sauce would be a fiery-hot honey glaze that I apply after the ribs are cooked. I slather the sauce on and then move the meat over the hot coals. Most of the glaze slides off into the fire, and the resulting flare-ups from sugar on glowing coals crisps the remaining sugars onto the meat. The results are tender and juicy pork meat with a super-thin spicy crust.

As my Gram likes to say, “Makes ya wanna slap yer own damned self.”

Anyway, I’m really too busy to screw with writing and I’m likewise way behind schedule with the packing. Movers will arrive Tuesday morning to load and I need to get ready. So this will be the last posting until Thursday or Friday, and then I’ll be writing as a New Mexican.

Squirt told me yesterday, she said, “Maybe we should change my name to “Chorra”. Chorro is Spanish for Squirt.”

When I reminded her that chorro can have a negative connotation she told me she’d think about it. Then she told me that since luna was Spanish for moon that maybe we should call me Lunatic. She then laughed herself breathless and almost broke her leg patting herself on the back.

Manana de la manana de la manana, y’all.

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Squirt Gets Cut; An Unfriendly Welcome Home

Wednesday, September 5th, 2012

 

So. I’m back in Austin and now back on the Beat. I arrived in my part time home city last Thursday afternoon and had planned to write to you that very evening. But plans being plans, that idea was fucked from sometime approaching Noon CDT, Eleven am Mountain time last week.

Things were going grandly on the trip back until we got to Post, Texas—a small town south of Lubbock and 2/3rds of the total drive from Santa Fe to Austin. “Pull the car over to that Dairy Queen, Bwana Mooner, I need to use the bathroom,” Squirt told me.

When I started to say that this was the tenth time she’s needed a break, I only got to the “This is the tenth…” part when she barked at me and said, “Pull the car over NOW!!!”

I did, unhooked her from the leather harness that makes her safe at any speed, and then watched her leap from the partially open GTO door. For the ninth of her ten pit stops, Squirt squatted in the yoga posture called “Dog Takes A Shit” where she gritted her teeth and strained until her already buggy eyes nearly popped out of her skull. I left the car myself to stand at her side.

“This has gone way past Baboon ass, little lady. Your anal glands have become a liability to your health,” I told her. “You need to think about getting them taken out.”

“Fuck you, asshole. Why don’t you get your ass operated on first—then come talk to me.”

When I reminded her that it has been but a short two years since I did just that, she got a defeated look all over her face. “You’re right. Call the vet. Or shoot me—your choice.”

I called and made an appointment for early Friday am to get her operation and then spent all Thursday night placing and holding ice packs to my adorable puppy’s swollen bottom while listening to her constant chatter as to her fears of going under the knife.

“What if he slips and cuts my sphincter muscles and makes me incontinent? Then what will you do?”

“I’ll clean up after you just like I’m doing now,” I told her. “Have you seen the stains you’re leaving on everything that touches your ass?”

Anyway, she had her operation Friday and I picked her up early Saturday morning. She was still goofy from the drugs and I’ve never seen her any funnier. “I think I’d like to have sex with Yoda,” she slurred to me in the car when I asked her what she wanted to do when I got her home. “He’s so fucking ugly he’s got to be good in bed.”

“That was a terribly sexist remark, my little bundle of fur, and quite inappropriate given the circumstances surrounding today’s American political debate,” I advised. “Women are under attack by the Republican Party and we all need to be sensitive to our remarks.”

“Fuck you. I need a drink.”

How more blessed can a man be that to have this dog as his best friend?

Anyway, once she came down from her drugs the Squirt has been a miserable patient. She wants to be held by me for all the twenty-fours. So I’ve been quite tied up and unable to type until now, and now I’ve managed to negotiate only a thirty-minute span of time to say as much as I can. Then I must return to the couch to cradle my sad, sick puppy in my lap.

A thirty minutes that I have just been informed has passed. Manana, y’all.

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Drink More Coffee Grandma; Lessons In Remodeling

Monday, August 20th, 2012

So.  It’s Monday morning and on today’s list of activities are:

1.  The plumber to replace the nearly collapsed tile sewer line.

2.  The HVAC/Electrician to finish rewiring and install the new furnace.

3.  The Carpenter to finish replacing half the master bath walls from the leaking shower tile enclosure.

4.  The Stone Masons to finish work on the retaining wall and flagstone patio and walkways.

Of those four items, the only work I had planned to do was the flagstone patio.  They have beautiful stone here and I love flagstone patios and walkways in a landscape.

The home I purchased was built in the 1940′s and before modern building codes.  It was right after the war and construction materials were still scarce here in the mountains.  When those scarcities were combined with the already deeply entrenched construction materials practice I have now labeled “Scavenger Materials Acquisition”, you’ll find some interesting things when you scratch the pretty patina of an old Santa Fe casita.

Like the coffee can heating ducts running deep in the crawl space.  Rusty Folgers and Maxwell House cans with both ends cut out and duct taped together.  That part of the crawl space was too shallow for either the inspector or me to travel when I did the inspection.  But my cave rat HVAC guy got back there when I had him here to start working on the electric wiring–a known replacement.  When he managed to wiggle himself over into the tight area of confined space, his laughter could be heard–was heard by me–through the pretty wood planked floors above.

“Yuk-yuk-yuk… Heee-haaa-yuk-yuk.  You won’t even believe what I found,” was an approximation of what I heard.

Then there was grunting and banging and clanging and then the sounds of him crawling back out and also the sounds of him dragging something.  I went to the front bedroom where the opening to the space is, and the first thing I saw was his sweaty,  dirt covered face poke out.  There was this huge shit-eating grin plastered on it.

“Wipe that fucking smile off your face, Brother.  I’ve learned that those smiles cost me money.”

Likewise, I’ve learned that here to Santa Fe we say “Brother” instead of ‘Dude”.

His grin widened enough to allow a cow patty to pass his lips and he said, he told me, “You, yuk-yuk-yuk, are NOT gonna believe this one.  Ha-ha-yuk, this one’s goin’ in my book, Brother.  Here.”

And here he passed me a rusty metal tube that turned into a rust, green, gray and red metal caterpillar of old coffee cans.  I pulled it out of the opening in four sections totaling maybe twenty feet in all.  “Fuck me running,” I said, and then I started laughing too.

“Looks like they had the whole family save coffee cans for a year for this one,” HVAC guy said.

Then there would be the actual foundation of the house.  The original structure sits upon a perimeter foundation and then piers and beams that form the aforementioned crawl space.  When you inspect the foundation, you will see several feet of rough-poured concrete, then several feet of stacked stones, then some poured concrete blocks called “prison blocks” (appropriately-named), then some more poured concrete and repeat.  It is as stable as if a continuous concrete pour, but maybe you can get my drift about Scavenger Materials Acquisition.

Whatever we can find to fit the gap in space and time.

Which reminds me of the 2012 Republican President-Vice President platform.  Except that the gaps are filled with scavenged lies and reality is an immaterial building product.  Hell, in today’s paper the Mallard Fillmore cartoon even retold the lie that claims President Obama said that small business owners didn’t build their own businesses.  That out-of-context fabrication is so fucking stupid to me that I still find it difficult to see why the righties keep at it.

I want to think that they are so desperate that this is all they have.  But my gut tells me that their base is so fucking bigoted and stupid that it plays straight with them.

Which brings up another point.  Whereinthefuck is the mainstream media on all of the lies and swip-swapping of Etch-A-Sketch moments by the R Boys?  Even AP news, likely the most dead-center of all mass media, reports Romney’s contradictory statements on consecutive days without comment.

While I think Walter Cronkite was a cranky old shitball, at least he would have asked what is up with this?  And of course Edward R. would have skewered all politicians for the state of their business.

Which reminds me of something else.  I had to climb on top of the house yesterday and I discovered that Honor the fucking cat has been using the gravel on the flat built-up roof as her litter box.  When I got down I started bitching and going on about the fucking cat to anyone who would listen.  I guess the Squirt had heard enough, so she said, my little puppy told me, “Hang on, Bwana Mooner.  Did you buy her any cat litter?”

“Uh, no,” my reply, “I didn’t even get her a cat box.”

Squirt giggled at me and said,”Scavenger Materials Acquisition, my ADHD-addled boss man.”

She was right and she is totally fucking adorable when she giggles.

Manana, y’all.

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Separating The Psycho From His Therapy; Funny Joke Or Disrespect?

Wednesday, March 7th, 2012

 

So. I had an early morning psycho therapy session with the good doctor this am, but rather than sit/lay on the expensive leather couch in her office, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson had me bring the dogs to her house for my fifty-minute appointment. The couch is one of a five-piece set of leather covered sitting things purchased, as certainly as my name is Mooner Einstein Johnson, with my cash. There’s the couch, three mid-rise side chairs and her highness’ big chair.

Sam is a short thing—cute as a fucking button mind you, but short—and her big leather chair is throne-like. She uses it to gain physical stature in therapy. This fucking chair has more hydrolics than one of those “63 Chevy Lowriders. Makes this “shisssshhh” sound as she raises and lowers it for effects during therapy sessions.

I don’t know why she needs a chair like this to gain stature. She looks ten feet tall when she stands atop my bruised and battered ego.

“Come to my house for your morning session, Mooner, and bring the dogs,” she told me. “I need to assess the status of your parenting skills and there’s quite a bit of yard work to be done.”

I wasn’t surprised that she wanted me to come over to work in her yard. We’ve been having our Spring this Winter in Austin, Texas and shit is growing on trees.

OK, stop the presses. Try this. The weather has been so nice that the trees and other shit are growing and, subsequently, require my attentions. Doing Sammie’s yard work is the premium I pay to retain her psychiatric services. Yard work plus $195/hour for a regular session.

I actually like the yard work. Everything out to the ranch is done with tractors or other riding machines and I enjoy pushing a lawn mower. My first job was mowing yards and it has stuck with me. There was this one house over to west Austin—lady’s husband was an airline pilot and she was a retired flight attendant—and the husband was gone quite often. I was something like eleven, maybe twelve, and since I hadn’t yet been raped by my Baptist Deacon Boy Scout Leader, I was still all starry-eyed and happy and shit.

This nice lady always had a cold Fresca and a sandwich waiting for me when I finished mowing her yard. The sandwich might change from ham to roast beef or chicken salad, but the beverage was always Fresca. Fresca was a weird drink to me—not quite grapefruit and just a hint of that icky artificial sweetener taste—and I asked her once, I asked, “Why Fresca?”

In answer, she kissed the top of my sweaty head and said, “Covers the smell of vodka. Want some?”

For shit sakes, Mooner, get your ass back on track. Nobody wants to hear about the first proposition you got from an adult woman.

So, I asked the Squirt to tell Honor the fucking cat to behave herself and loaded Squirt and Yoda into the GTO for the trip to Sam’s place. Squirt was reliving the story about that one time where the landscape crew worker in Sam’s neighborhood started some shit and she clamped her mouthful of very sharp teeth to the man’s crotch. We giggled and laughed about the story until we got over to near the Planned Parenthood offices near Sammie’s house.

“Let’s do a drive-by on Catholic Anti-Abortion Lady, Bwana Mooner.” Squirt was dancing around in the limited space allowed by her driving harness.

“Je vais prendre le volant, Mssr., y el flash de su culo!” my adorable little puppy was now bouncing like a jumping jack.

“I can’t give you the wheel on that busy street, Sweetie, you can barely stay out of the ditches out in the country with no traffic. I can’t take a chance of you wrecking my GTO. How about we park across the street and you can blow the horn to get her attention?”

That satisfied her. We mooned the Catholic lady, stopped at the neighborhood donut place for a dozen glazed, and drove the last mile to Sam’s. She was standing at the open garage door as we got there, hands on hips—curvy, tight hips—and the look that says “Why me?” was already screwed onto her face.

I parked the Goat and we disembarked. “Hi ya, Sammie baby, how’s it hanging?”

“I’m about ready to hang your name on a door of the Close Watch Unit at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, moron,” she answered. “Why me, dear god, why me?”

I tried to ignore this semi-tirade as I searched my brain for what is was that had already set her off. There’s no way that she could know that I’m teaching the Squirt how to drive and Yoda how to moon, and I haven’t been arrested for months.

“Planned Parenthood just called me.. again… and have asked that I get you under control. They think you make matters worse when you agitate their regular protesters.”

“I’m just trying to help. And how did they know to call you?”

“Can’t say, Sweetie. And while I’m up your dumb ass, stop saying psychotherapy as two words. I know you think it’s funny but the humor left that joke twenty years ago. I’m really tired of explaining it to my cohorts.”

I didn’t say, “Too fucking bad, it’s still hilarious,” out loud, but I thought it.

“You might think it’s fucking hilarious, you crazy redneck fuckball, but my colleagues are starting to question my ability to effect change in severely damaged patients.” Here she gave me the dead-eye. Dr. Sam I. Am learned it from Gram. “And if they stop referring to me I’ll simply have to raise your rates by another 25% to offset the losses.”

And I simply have to stop thinking out loud. I noticed how sexy Sammie was when angry and I started to think about how much fun make-up sex was back when we were together.

“Don’t even think about it, Mooner Einstein Johnson. I wouldn’t have sex with you using Snooki’s vagina.” She laughed at her own lame joke and said, “Come on, let’s take a walk before you do your chores.”

I leashed the puppies into their harness with mild trepidations. While I’ve spent hundreds of hours teaching the dogs important shit, like how to burp and fart the National Anthem and mooning and fishing and driving, I’ve not spent much time on leash training. As I slipped the walking harness on Squirt’s back I said to her, I whispered in her ear, “Look, Squirtie, you tell Yoda to follow your lead and then you follow mine, I’ll let you drive home once we get off of Ranch Road 620.”

“Well… I get to drive and you have to feed me lettuce leaves like I’m a queen while I watch The Bachelor tonight.” Squirt fixed me with an unwavering gaze. “Deal?”

Another of the things I’ve found time to teach Squirt is how to negotiate a personal services contract. “Deal,” I told her, and we shook on it.

OK, now let’s stop here and reflect for a moment. I just typed the 1,200th word of this posting and I can’t even remember my point for starting. A look at the first paragraph tells me it had something to do with this morning’s psycho therapy session over to Sammie’s house, but for the life of me I cannot remember the moral to this stupid fucking story.

Ugh.

How about I tell you this. I hate The Bachelor TV show, and Squirt knows it. That’s why she chose it, to get my goat and have some fun at my expense. What she doesn’t know is that I know she doesn’t like it either. I’m planning to wash three heads of Romaine lettuce—big, fat heads from our winter garden—and I’ll sit at her feet and spend the entire hour feeding it to her, and that reminds me of what I wanted to tell you.

It’s only March 7th and my cool weather garden is browning out! I’ve already planted summer veggies and the lettuces are all petering out and everything else looks tepid at best. I wanted to tell you that the next time I hear some fucking asshole politician tell me that there is no global warming, I’m going to give them a chunk of my ass. I’m sick of this shit.

Oh, and by the way, did you notice that the Republicans are keeping the Transportation Bill from passing by trying to add their tacky fucking amendments onto it, just like they keep doing?

November is coming, you right-wing Republican Christian conservative smog loving fuckballs.

Beware the Ides (minus 9) of November! Manana, y’all.

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Not Mayonaise, Dumass- Maliase

Monday, February 27th, 2012

 

So. It’s Monday. I’m looking at today as a new beginning of sorts, and I’ve promised myself that I won’t get out of sorts with political or religious assholes for the entire week. I promised myself I’d let dummies be dumb and stupid say as stupid does.

OK, I’ve started the week not breaking my promise but with a lie. I didn’t promise myself I’d maintain composure in relation to the incorrectness that is the Republican Party, I made said promise to the Squirt.

“You’re out of fucking control, Monsieur Mooner. You are ranting and raving like the lunatic who gets himself locked away over at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital,” Squirt told me while we were fishing.

Those of you who have read my book, Full Rising Mooner—available on Amazon or Kindle with a simple clicking over there ===}}} to the Bloggie Roller—already know about Shoal Creek Loony Bin. Those readers know how much I hate that hellhole. Fuck the rest of you, you can use your imaginations. Unless, of course, you have the book but have not as yet reached the Shoal Creek Mental parts, in which case you don’t need to be fucked at this time.

The reason I was ranting while fishing is Rick “Super-Prick” Santoria. That shitwad had the gall to actually say that he doesn’t want church and state separated. He wants to conjoin them in accordance to his personal religious beliefs. For the life of me I can’t see how these assholes are finding enough support for getting elected to anyfuckingthing. What woman in her right mind would vote for this prick?

I guess the short answer is brain-dead or frightened women. Like Sarah Palin in the first sense and my very own mother in the second. Sarah and her twin-separated-at-birth, Michele Bachmann, are obviously dumb enough to give a guy like the Voodoo Prince control of their lives. Sarah still thinks Moose hunting should be legal in all 50 states (except that she only knows the names of thirty-one of the fifty), and Michele is married to a gay man who says he thinks the same as Santoria.

My mother is so frozen with fear that she isn’t good enough to get into heaven that she’ll believe anything Pastor Browningwell tells her.

Anyway, we’re all out to the dock fishing this morning. Rick Perry was scratching Rush Limbaugh’s back with his beak making long swipes back and forth. The big pig was splatted out on his stomach and the ostrich was standing at his side—wings fully extended to the sides for balance, ass high in the air as he leaned over to scratch Rushie’s tough hide. It sounded like #4 grit sandpaper dragged across a cedar plank as the bird made long, rhythmic arcs back-and-forth.

The sound reminded me of this Buddy Rich riff when he was playing in a trio with Art Tatum and Lionel Hampton. Buddy played almost the entire album with brushes rather than sticks, and the sounds of his drums made an indelible print on my memory.

“Swishhhh-shishhh-shi-shi-shishhhhh.” The big feather duster tail on Rick Perry’s ass fluttered in syncopation to his head movements—cantaloupe head one way-big ass and top knot of feathers the other. It was mesmerizing.

I was staring at the bird’s ass and trying to dredge my memory for the strains of “Lover Man” off one of the trio’s albums. I tried to pull the full picture of Buddy Rich’s face too, but all I got was his Cheshire Cat grin—that grin that said, “I know you dig this, baby, but there’s deeper thinking here than you’ll ever get. I’ve got rhythms that got their own rhythms.”

I was sitting with my eyes closed doing my best rendition of wire brushes on top-hat cymbals with a still-cold Carta Blanca resting nestled in my crotch, and a smoldering dube sitting in the crack in the pier plank that serves as my roach clip on fishing trips. Squirt jumped into my lap—front paws braced on my chest, her nose jammed on my chin, and the beer bottle pressed between her soft belly and mine. Her breath smelled of earthworms and dandelions, a not altogether unpleasant odor.

“Listen to me, Mooner, you jackass, wake up! You have got to get yourself under control. It’s nine months until the elections and you’ll be apoplectic by then if you can’t settle down.”

“I just don’t know how to not react to this shit, Squirtie. I’m so scared that there are enough stupid Americans to put one of those assholes in the White House.”

“Then write about it, bitch about it. But don’t take it out on the rest of us,” she counseled.

I took a deep breath and said, “You’re right, Sweetie, I can’t bully you any more than I can let them bully me. Now get you’re smelly ass off me so I can drink my beer.”

I guzzled the rest of my then tepid beer, picked a pair of short brown dog hairs off my tongue, re-lit the dube, closed my eyes and took a big drag. When I opened my eyes again, I realized that the music had stopped. The ostrich was now splayed atop the splayed pig. Rick Perry looked like an ostrich back pack mounted on a giant pig’s back.

I poked Squirt’s side and said, “Look at that, little lady. Ain’t love grand?”

Squirt scrunched her nose at the sight. “Beauty in the eyes, big guy, beauty is in the fucking eyes.”

“And me without my camera.”

I looked around the dock. Rush and Rick deep in love’s sleep, Yoda and the fucking cat were chasing a snake or a lizard in the tall grass at the base of the dock, and my favorite puppy was sitting at my side. All seemed right with the world for a moment.

“OK. I promise I’ll try to not take this shit out on you guys,” I told her. “I promise I’ll try.”

Squirt lay her soft head on my hand and looked out over the water. She took a deep breath and let it out with a “hmmmmmm”[.] She said to me, she said, “I guess that’ll be good enough for now.”

Manana, y’all.

 

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A Man For All Seasons, Sex Is The Reason; Mooner’s Miracle Cure

Saturday, February 25th, 2012

 

So. I’m sitting here Saturday morning reflecting back on a strange week. I had a great guest host story from Melanie, I had my first review made by a free book recipient, I got a little nookie, and I lost my temper with my mother and almost blew the house down.

I’m sitting here at the computer having sat with nothing to tell you. I first sat to check out what everybody else had written today, but nobody has done anything—all my favorite bloggie spots contain yesterday’s news—so I decided to write to you. I sat and stared at the screen for fifteen minutes, screen and mind sharing the same blankness.

I opened Spider Solitaire to ease a little pressure off my swollen and bruised brain, started playing, and thirty minutes later I had three blank spaces, two runs of new cards left to play at the bottom, the King-to-five of Spades were in the far left space, the King-to-seven of Diamonds were next to them, King-to ten of Hearts next then another set of Spades down to the nine. In the far right, in descending numbers to the bottom of the pile, were my finishing stacks of suited cards. Each of those stacks were in rows wherein the bottom cards were in ascending order right-to-left.

“I love when a plan comes together,” I said, proud and aloud, to myself and the animals, who were just starting to stir from sleep.

“Vos est los?” Squirt had left the bed and jumped into my lap. She stared at the computer screen and said, again, she said, “What in the hell are you doing, Bwana Mooner?”

I pointed at the screen. “See how I have things organized? Now, when I decide to finish the game I can make the books from right-to-left on the left side of the screen using the closing stacks from left-to-right as I move them from the right side of the screen.”

My little puppy stared at the screen for another long moment. “Huh?” she said, “run that shit by me once more.”

I did.

She stared at the screen again, looked at me a long moment, then back to the computer screen. “OK, shitbrain, show me what the fuck you’re doing.”

“OK,” said proudly. “Watch this.”

I played the first run of new cards and set each up correctly according to my formula. “See how I’ve kept the integrity of my stacks?”

“No,” Squirt told me, “but don’t let that stop you. Go on.”

I clicked the final new card stack and began my closing moves. The suited stacks closed with their animated sound effects. When I play correctly, I can click the closings where they clear the board in syncopation.

“Ha, would you look at that!” I exclaimed. “Per-fucking-fecto!!!”

The Squirt seemed not to be sharing my elation—she just kept moving her glassy stare from the screen to my face. After maybe a dozen passes between face and computer, Squirt locked her eyes onto mine. “Mooner, you are seriously fucked up. I think we need an intervention.”

I shooed her off and opened a game of Free Cell. I always go from Spider to Free Cell. It’s an easier game and since I’m usually worn out getting a proper win on Spider, my Free Cell game has fewer self-imposed rules. For this game I check the initial layout to see which of the outer four stacks has the lowest card on its bottom. That stack is my “flipper stack” and the one I use to end the game.

I then arrange all of the Kings-ascending stacks into the middle four slots leaving two slots on either side to be open in the end. When I end the game, it has to be by making that last move from the flipper stack. Shazam, animated sound effects with the lowest possible card the last card played!!!

When I finished the Free Cell game off with another perfect synchronization, I sat back, satisfied. The sun was peeking through my bedroom window and giving my computer screen a mirror finish. I tilted my head to bring the image of my face into view. I first caught the shit-eating grin plastered to my face and then the manic look raging in my eyes.

“Oh, god. I really am fucked up. I can’t even play a stupid computer card game without complications. Ugh.” My mood went from card shark elation to loony man blue.

Ugh, ugh, ugga-fucking-ugh. How crazy am I? How crazy is it possible to be? Is crazy a quantitative measure or is it like pregnant—you either are are are not, and all or nothing? Once it’s a clinical diagnosis reading “He’s crazy” does anything else really matter?

Or can you be crazy by degrees? Like was Hitler more crazy than Salvador Dali, is Lindsey Lohan more nutso than Charlie Sheen? Am I a bigger wacko than Newbt Gangreenich or Pricky Rick Santoria?

Ugh.

I sat, as I said earlier, reflecting on my week and likewise on my lunacies. After careful consideration of all the aspects of my crazinesses, I have reached a conclusion. I think I have a clear picture of what the root cause of my afflictions is. The realization was stunning, the simplicity of my problems amazing.

More sex. I need more sex!

Manana, y’all.

 

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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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