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Post Testing, Post Haste

Sunday, February 1st, 2015

So.  Testing, 1, 2, and a 3.

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Butt Scoot Boogie; Why Do We Call It “Defense”?

Wednesday, August 29th, 2012

So.  I’ve had my alarm bells rung and it’s time to head back to Austin.  The lovely Dr, Sam I. Am-Johnson has decided that I’m to be either in her offices Friday in the am or check myself in over to the Loony Bin.  The simple fact that I find those two options as reasonable debatable choices is reason enough for me to head back to Austin, and pronto.   Sammy left me a terse comment to yesterday’s posting.  She thinks she’s so very clever. That whole “I have four words to say to you” dealio is a tired trick.

I’ve got things here to Santa Fe to a manageable state, and I have stuff to do there to Austin and people missed.

Which reminds me.  Nobody has complained about the fat pig Rush Limbaugh or his wife Rick Perry.  And don’t even start on me that they are both males so they are each a husband.  Rick Perry is the wife in that marriage and a long-suffering wife at that.  The fact that Gram hasn’t bitched at me about my pet pig and ostrich might be a sign of danger.

I have Sirius Radio in all my cars and we were listening to Tom Hartman yesterday on one of our many trips to the Ace Hardware.  Tom was interviewing one of the Republican delegates and this asshole was going on and on about how America needs a strong Defense so we can patrol the World’s oceans and “keep the peace” on land around our ever-more uneasy globe.

At commercial break, Squirt turned in her harness and said to me, she asked, “Why do you assholes call wasting all that money on your military “defense”?  You haven’t used your military to defend any fucking thing since World War II.”

I puzzled at the question and wondered at the mental prowess behind it’s development from facts to thoughts to question.  I have always known that my little brown-furred bundle of puppy meat was smart, but this was different.  As I formulated a response, she interrupted my thoughts.

“Offense,” she blurted out.  “America’s military should be called it’s Offense.”

We then had a lengthy discourse about why the military is important and how much military is enough military.  The final words of the debate were the Squirt’s when she said, “Well, I think that each branch of the military should be governed by a tribunal consisting of one man, one woman and a third not heterosexual General.  Then it will be deserving to be called Defense.”

With that we entered the Ace Hardware for some diamond grinder blades to cut flagstones, a new garden hose to replace the one damaged during construction, and to drag our ass for a while.  I headed straight for Aisle One where I know the 4-and-a-half-inch grinder blades sit locked into their display.  When I arrived a dozen steps ahead of the Squirt, there was a nice lady already there reviewing the blade display.

“Need assistance?” I asked her.

She turned to me with a dazzling smile and said, “With what?”

“What, where, who, when or why, Mademoiselle, Mooner Johnson’s the name and solving Grammar’s big questions is my middle name.”

The dazzling smile faded and a look of question mixed with disgust filled her face.  “What,” she asked, “is THAT?”

I turned to see the Squirt heading our way doing her ass-scoot shuffle–face all scrunched-up, hind legs pointing skyward, a squiggly  trail swiped into the dust of the floor.

“Isn’t she just the most adorable little bundle of dog fur you’ve ever seen?  She’s got an anal gland thingie going on, and…”  I turned to say, “and she loves to come here to the Ace because the ridges in the tile give her some relief.”  But I was speaking to the woman’s back as she walked away, quickly.

“That’s it, kiddo, I’m taking you to get your glands removed.  Get your brain latched around having surgery and I don’t want any guff about it.”

Squirt scooted to my feet, looked me in the eyes and said, she said to me, “Fuck you, asshole,” and scooted off.

She really is adorable.

Anyway, I’ll be packing our personal kits tonight before we hit the sack and heading out to Austin whenever the first of us awakens Thursday morning.  I just opened a can of cat food and set it at the base of the big Ponderosa pine.  Yoda and Squirt are on alert for when Honor the fucking cat comes down to eat.  She’ll have the choice to stay or go.  I’m starting to discover that the only sane way to interact with a fucking cat is to mirror the cat’s give-a-shit attitude right back in their face.

“Tell her I said ‘Come, don’t come, as I don’t give a shit either way.'”

The older I get, the better parent I am.  Manana, y’all.



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Get Your Finger Out My Ass; Ace Hardware And Anal Glands

Monday, August 27th, 2012

So.  I find myself awake before the crack of dawn this morning and writing to you.  If it weren’t for the Squirt’s infected, impacted anal glands, I couldn’t be happier.  I managed to vent my spleen yesterday of the toxic steam built up re: asshole right-wing Christian conservative politics, realized that I’ve gone three weeks with the psycho theraporizing of the good Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, and I left the animals here to la casita last night and went to the casino to play poker.

I played in a little tournament–my first poker since I’ve been here–and won.  I managed to focus my ADHD swirling swill of conflicting brainwaves for four solid hours.  I played smart poker and only made one small misstep in all of that time.

Wait a fucking minute.  How does Sheldon Adelson fit within the finely-framed boundaries of the right-wing Christian boy’s club.  Sure he’s a billionaire, and of course his vast business empire was built on bribes and other questionable business practices.  But he’s a Jew for Christsakes.

Wasn’t it the Jews who murdered our beloved Jesus?

OK, wait another minute.  Mitt Romney isn’t REALLY a Christian either.  Right?  I mean, how are these assholes deciding how to inflict their intemperance?  I guess since Adelson is giving $70 million to arch conservative Presidential campaigns, and Herr Schmidt Rommel is willing to say anything they want him to say, the rules can be bent just a touch.

Which reminds me.  Question:  What do the Chinese call a bribe in America?

Answer:  A political contribution.

This Adelson character, he’s the guy who paid Tom “Dancing Shoes” De Lay to kill a bill in the US Congress that condemned the Chinese for human rights violations.  Shelly–his buds call him Shelly–  was planning a massive gambling empire in the Tong gangs ruled area of Macau, China.  Like Hong Kong, Macau is the other “special administrative region” of China.

Basically, a special administrative region is where the Chinese Communist Party elite are allowed to practice the free market capitalistic game called “Highest Briber Get’s The Prize”.  Sheldon Adelson was the highest briber in Macau.

Does anybody give a shit about that?

Not Squirt.  My adorable little puppy is suffering from what I can now say is chronic ass pain caused by her malfunctioning anal glands.  I express them for her whenever she asks me to and sometimes when she doesn’t ask. She bitches at me for doing it but is grateful for the at least temporary relief.  I keep telling her that it gives us a time to bond and she says I’m a pervert.

But they have gotten quite painful for her, and as she said to me last night when she caught site of her backside in the mirror, she said  “Holy shit.  I’ve got baboon ass!”

Then there is my embarrassment when she drags her ass down the isles of Ace Hardware, back feet poking skyward and leaving a squiggly line on the floor where her swollen butt wipes the dust off the floor.  It is extremely difficult to use your adorable little brown puppy to attract the attentions of attractive women when said adorable puppy is leaving squiggly skid marks all over the fucking place.

Rather than the typical, “Oh, what an adorable little doggie you have,” the most typical female response to my ass-dragger is, “Eeew, that’s nasty.”

Have you guys ever smelled the swill that comes out of an impacted anal gland?  If I had the time, I’d invent a crowd dispersal device using vaporized impacted anal gland juice.

Who needs tear gas?  We’d call it “Gak, Puke, Run and Burn Your Clothes When You Get Home” gas.  You’d take the fight out of any crowd with a canister of this shit.  We’d need to invent new gas masks and protective suits for the cops as well.   We could all be rich.  We’d donate all the profits to Planned Parenthood.

We were over to the Ace Hardware yesterday to get some caulk and a wire brush.  The dogs love to go there with me.  Yoda loves to go because they keep a popcorn machine loaded with just-popped corn.  He sits beside the machine and does tricks for each patron who stops to get a bag.  Maybe I should ask my vet how much popcorn is too much popcorn.

My precious little Squirt likes the Ace Hardware for quite a different reason.  The floors at this Ace are older square tiles.  From the wear patterns over the years, the seams at the butt joints of the tiles have slightly separated leaving small ridges every twelve inches.  She drags her smelly ass across the old tile floor and says, “Oooh,” and, “Ahhh,” when her little butt rubes over a ridge.

I told her I’d make her a sandpaper rug to rub her ass on.  She told me to go fuck myself.

Anyway, it’s Sunday and flagstone patio day once more.  I’m hoping to get finished by Wednesday with what I want to get done and we’ll drive back to Austin Thursday.  My two weeks trip stretched to a full month and I’m missing all the folks back to the ranch.

I even miss Mother, bless her little pea picking heart.  I just hope she remembers what I look like.

Manana, y’all.


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People Get Ready; Impressions Of Changes

Wednesday, August 22nd, 2012

So.  I just spent the morning Skyping with the folks back home.  We were hooked up for a total of almost three hours as we gossiped and updated each other on the news/events in each city.  That would be me supplying the news from New Mexico and the gathered Johnson women and Mr. Dave responding with Austin’s activities.

Each in turn made comment as to the status of Mother’s dementia.  It seems that she has slidden further into the icy grip of memory loss in the several weeks I’ve been gone.  And don’t even start with your “slidden is not a word” bullshit.  It is now.

I feel like the chronicler of my mother’s final days with sane memories as I tell you the goings of her mind.  It’s not a comfortable role for me to play but a role I was, obviously, born to play.  To provide background, I’ll remind you that last Thursday was my birthday, and I’ll tell you that I try to talk to Mother each day to help her maintain a touchstone with the present.  Since her most recent twenty-four hours seem the most difficult to keep trapped in grey matter, I feel a daily call will be a good reminder.  Should that be “gray matter”?

Having said that, let me give you the gist of these daily phone calls from the Thursday a week before my Thursday b-day, and today.  A twelve-days’ conversation.

“Who is this?” Mother answers into the phone.

“It’s me, mom, my name is on your caller ID.”

“Oh “Hi”, Mooner.  Where are you?”

“As we have discussed each day for the last eleven days, I am in Santa Fe.  I’ll be in Santa Fe until you see my face in Austin–at least another week.”

“Watch out for the homo-sex-u-als, son.  Santa Fe is overrun with them.  Pastor Browningwell said that we should do a mission to save their rotten souls.”

I think Pastor Browningwell needs me to thump him on the nose.

Next I say, “How are you, Mother?  You OK?”

“Oh, I just don’t know why the good Lord keeps me around.  Where are you?

“Santa Fe, Mother.”

“Did you get my birthday card yet?”

“No, same answer as the previous eleven days.  Did you mail it?”

Pause with dead air.  “I can’t remember.  Should I mail it to your place in the mountains or should I mail it to you here at the ranch?  Where are you?”

My turn to pause and shake my head.  “Mother, if you want to mail it to where I am, mail it to Santa Fe.  Gram has the address.  Or you can keep it and hand it to me when I get back to Austin.  Your choice.”

Pause with more dead air.  “Where are you?

My pause to shake and choke my phone.  “Santa Fe, I’m still in Santa Fe and I will be in Santa Fe until you see me face-to-face.”

“Oh, alright.  But you need to heed my words, Butcher Einstein Johnson.  Those homo-sex-u-als will trick you and make you do things,” pause for deep breath, “Did you get the card I sent?  Did I send it to the right address?”

“Nice talk, Mother. Can you put Gram on the line?”

Twelve days in a row, and my birthday was six days ago.  Instead of smashing my phone to bits, I’ve decided to ask Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson if she’ll take Mother in over to her house.  She’s got plenty of room and has way more patience than I ever possessed.

Which reminds me.  Today’s newspaper had three quite interesting political stories.  The first fits into my bitching yesterday about the extreme right’s attack on women’s rights.  Texas–home of the only state legislature that can out-stupid it’s cousins over to Tennessee–passed a law to deny any health care funding to Planned Parenthood.  The legislation was couched in other terms but it was pointedly directed at Planned Parenthood.

PP filed a lawsuit and won a stay on the funding cuts, but yesterday a George W. Bushkin-appointed Federal Appeals Court ruled that Texas can de-fund PP until the trial.

This was one of Rick Perry’s pet projects, folks, and that pious little prick takes his marching orders from the vilest of the One-Percenters.

Next are two Herr Schmidt Rommel stories.  First, Herr Schmittens has requested that the asshole Akins in Missouri step out of the US Senate race and Akins has refused.  Field Marshall Rommel doesn’t want the race to the White House to focus on civil rights issues ofrthe Republican’s lack of civility.  He wants to keep things focused upon the economy.

Good luck with that one, bub.  Those things are called “Debates”, dumbass.

The second Rommel story has a New Mexico slant.  The Republican presidential candidate will be in Hobbs, New Mexico today to announce his energy plan.  Now first, Hobbs, NM may as well be in Texas because it seems to be filled with right-wing Christian zealots, same as Texas.  And it’s there on the border as well.

But that isn’t the interesting thing about this visit.  What is interesting is that Romney will announce a “New American Energy Policy” that is 100% reliant on fossil fuels.  I’m not kidding, folks, 100% reliant on fossil fuels.

I want to say that it is ludicrous that a man running for president of my country would bank my nation’s future on a limited, dwindling and ecologically destructive commodity.  I really want to say it, but I can’t.

Wonder who is trying to buy the American Presidency?  Those fucking Koch brothers and all their buddies must be sitting there laughing their asses off.  We are letting assholes like Mitt Romney sell our country to the biggest donors.  I’m starting to feel as I did during the 1960’s.

Power back to the people!  Re revolution!  Fight to get our rights back!

Fuck Mitt Romney.

Manana, y’all.

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History Repeats Itself; BTW- Rape Is Rape, Asshole

Tuesday, August 21st, 2012

So.  I awoke at five am this morning will a chill on my naked body.  The Squirt was curled with her back against my my crotch as I lay semi-fetally on my side.  The other miniature puppy in my life, Yoda the goat dog, was plastered to my ass with his nose wedged between my legs.  It was his breath tickling the hair on the backs of my knees that woke me.

We had a wonderful, soaking summer rain yesterday evening and that brought the overnight chill .  It was 53 degrees on the thermometer when I took my coffee out to the portal.   Squirt and Yoda sat beside me on the old sofa cushions laid beside my chair for their comfort.

Squirt’s teeth were chattering like one of those sets of wind-up denture toys.  “Arreglar nosotros un chocolate caliente, ass-ss-ho-ho-hole, we’re fr-freezing nuestros bailes y Vigina off,” she told me.

“I’m sorry you’re so cold, little darling.  I’ll walk over to The Pantry for your hot chocolate.  Try to keep your little tooter and the goat dog’s empty scrotum warm until I get back.”

My two half Chihuahua puppies’ are going to have an adjustment to make to our colder environs here to the high desert of New Mexico.  Squirt has already demanded a new fur coat and suede leather booties and Yoda wants a yellow rubber fisherman’s outfit like the guy from over to the Ace Hardware.  I’ll see if Gram and Aunt Hilda can get the outfits sewn before winter hits.  Otherwise I’ll be lugging the two of them around like twin papooses.  Papoosi?

Walking over to the Pantry, I got to thinking about this asshole from Missouri with the “legitimate rape” comment.  I’ve heard all the banter from both sides of this situation and as a victim of a “legitimate rape”, I want to say that I’m almost angry enough to go over to Missouri and knock the piss out of that pious shithead.  This is one of the few times in my life where I feel the not-so-soft fire of violence burning in my belly.

Rape is rape.  There is no way to legitimize it.

But what has me even more concerned than the stupid anti-women sentiments of this Christian asshole is what I perceive to be the end game the Republicans are after with all of their abortion rhetoric.  Here’s how I’m seeing things today:

This is one of those dealios wherein a group use the technique of “Gradual Erosion of Resistance”.  That’s where you identify a long term, big picture goal and then begin the systematic erosion of the resistance using the “First in your face-then compromise, repeat” tactics.  Outlandish statements and claims are made to cause a loss of focus on the real issues.  The best historical example I can offer is Hitler’s program for the eradication of the Jewish race.

First he made ridiculous claims about Jews–Jews are stealing from the common German people, Jews are evil, Jews are blah, blah, blah.  Then, he set about to identify Jewish homes and businesses so that common Germans would know where they were.  Then a few were arrested on spurious charges and things progressed to where they ended.  Harsh rhetoric and confusing contradictory claims start the process.

The big picture goal here is to eradicate women’s rights to abortion.  The objective is to gradually erode women’s abortion rights, and the method to be used is to make so many stupid, ignorant and extremely outrageous claims and proposals that they can get the conversation off the big picture, and on to the extremes.  Then, in an effort to compromise, the opposition (women) will give up some small part of their abortion rights.  Once the first chunk of rights is removed, the very foundation of those rights is shaky and more easily removed piece-by-piece.

This current bunch of baloney is doing just that.  We’re arguing over the definition of legitimate rape and going through all the possible permutations of just what that giant flaming asshole meant, and all the while we debate it the actual issue at hand is in the waste basket.

The abortion issue isn’t about rape, for shitsakes, the abortion issue is about ABORTION!

Who gives a shit why a woman wants/needs an abortion, it’s her fucking right to make decisions for her own body.  The fact that she was impregnated by a rapist is a totally separate issue–it is not germane to what her rights are vis a vis a visit to Planned Parenthood.

But the right-wing Christian politicians are using these kinds of issues to beat and batter the rest of us into a willingness to give up just a little something on abortion rights just to shut them up.  In Texas and several other states, that little something has been enacted already.  The “sonogram” laws are those first steps.

Wake up America.  Wake up women.  You can’t keep electing these extremists to positions of power.

Which reminds me.  Did I tell you that it was 53 degrees in Santa Fe this morning?

Manana, y’all.

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pope Still A Two-Faced Prick; Lesbians Are Always Welcome In My Soup

Thursday, March 29th, 2012


So. I had hoped to get my pissiness with the fucking pope over, and done with, yesterday. But that silly old queen can’t stop saying stupid shit. He’s in Cuba if you haven’t been informed, and he’s continuing to accuse Castro of governing Cuber with the same dumbass rulings as the pope himself uses to rule the holy roman catholic church.

Please allow me to quote an Associated Press report of the popester’s speech yesterday as he addressed a crowd in Havana:


… benedict’s homily was a not-so-subtle jab at the island’s leadership… “Cuba and the world need change, but this will occur only if each one is in a position to seek truth and chooses the way of love, sowing reconciliation and fraternity,” benedict said.

… “There are those who wrongly interpret this search for the truth, leading them to irrationality and fanaticism; they close themselves up in ‘their truth’ and then try to impose it upon others,” he said from the alter… By Anne-Marie Garcia and Nicole Winfield, AP


Holy… fucking… shit! Is this guy for real?

This sounds like Fiddle Dee calling Fiddle Dumb lazy. When was the last time the catholic church and his holiness sought the truth and chose the way to reconciliation? Oh, right, that’s how they are handling the priest pedophile issues right now today. That’s right. They have been seeking that truth for fifty years so that they can make things right with victims and sow some fraternity.

Maybe the fraternity his holiness was talking about was the multitude of catholic fathers who rape children, and as for the sowing part, well I’ll let you fill in that blank.

And that whole second quote where he speaks of those who close themselves up inside their own truths and then try to force their beliefs on others… “Hello, popie bentdick, is anybody home? Do you ever look in the mirror, asshole? Have you listened to your shitty little mouthpiece, rick santorum?”

I think the old pope is sex deprived. Maybe sex depraved as well. You Have to be a true asshole to call other people fanatics for doings things you do yourself. He’s blasting Castro for holding the people of Cuba back from making civilized progress. At least the Cuban people are more advanced and civilized than they were 2,000 years ago, and catholic dogma is unchanged since before the Dark Ages.

At least Castro doesn’t wear pounds of stolen gold and flaunt it in front the descendants of the people his church murdered and plundered centuries ago when they stole that same gold At least Castro is honest about his motivations and intents and doesn’t attempt to use sorcery to confuse his people.

At least Castro is working to make things better for his people. Hell, I think old Fidel would make a better pope than benedict. At least Castro would tell catholics that he doesn’t give a shit about right and wrong or humanity or justice. At least Castro tells the Cuban people they’ll be getting fucked.

Which reminds me. I want to name a new addition to my Bloggie Roller. Her name is Katy Anders and her site is Lesbians In My Soup. Her site’s name reminds me of cooking with Sister and her wife in the kitchen with me. There was this one time when I wanted to make fish stew but not use any saffron, like in a Bouillabaisse. I like saffron but mostly in Indian food, so I guess I wanted to make something more akin to Cipollini. Except Cipollini always calls for Dungeness crabs and fuck that, I’m not paying $20 for five buck-worth of crab meat. If it costs more to ship seafood than it did to catch and get it to the shore, it won’t be on my table in Texas. Sister wanted me to use some fresh sardines in the soup and I made a tasteless lesbian joke re: the taste and smell of sardines.

I love my sister, but she can punch like a mule. In fact, she and her wife (my third ex-wife, Anna the Amazon) are my second choice as back up to Streaker Jones when I get into bar fights. You can buy my silly fucking book by clicking over there ====}}}} and you’ll find a story that proves that point. I think that story is in Chapter 12. You’ll learn all about smiting Johnsons. You’ll also learn about smitten Johnsons.

Katy reminds me of Sister except younger, and Sister looks like Demi Moore butt Katy reminds me of that Titanic actress, you know the one, right. Kate Winslett? Is that her name, Kate Winslett? Or is it the woman who played June Carter Cash? Not Sissy Spacek—she played Lowretti—I mean the other one. I’d try to date Katy under differing circumstances but I think I should stick to recommending her as a good reading resource. I’m guessing Katy packs a wallop too.

She’s got this one guy over there commenting on her site that I could almost swear was our old buddy Theo. Calls himself Teddy something. Katy’s got way plenty patience with dumass Teddy. Way more that I’d be able to show. Anyway, please hoist your Carta Blanca beers high and help me salute Katy.

Manana, y’all.

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Squatlo Posts Mooner’s Head Shearing Pics; Mooner Remains Technologically Dumb

Monday, March 12th, 2012

So.  Bob posted ther pics for me over to Squatlo rant at:  w and ww Bob’s a Nice Guy, I Don’t Give a Shit What Anyone Says  .  Pop over and see the photos of my head shearing and also some of his smart prose.


Thanks, Bob, I think.

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Yoda Grazes; Rick Perry Still Sucks

Friday, February 10th, 2012

So.  I’ve been screwing around with files all damn day yesterday and I finally found the photo of Yoda eating a dandelion out of my hand.  I took dozens of fucking photos but this is the only one that provides proof positive.  I have a bunch where the two slilly-assed dogs are grazing, but I’m not a photographer and you can’t tell what they’re doing.  I ran the batteries down on camera and Mooner both, but will recharge both and attempt to get Yoda doing an acrobatic crap for you.

After finding the photo, I found it had too many pixilations or whateverthefuck the image maker dealies are, and it wouldn’t poster here.  Then I called BJ and Bob to hep me, and Bob responded first.  Of course, I forgot to attach the photo to the first email and that added aggravation to all three lives.

Yoda is a mixed breed of Chihuahua and Whippet–that’s right, I said Whippet–and he’s so ugly he’s a real cutie pie.  In the background of this picture you’ll notice a close-cropped winter growth of dandelions, Texas winter grass and this little vining weed.  The close cropping is from Yoda and the Squirt grazing.

Yoda snags a d'lion leaf from Mooner

 Thanks, Bob and BJ.


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ADHD Brain Fritz; A Mind Is A Terrible Thing

Friday, January 6th, 2012


So. I’m sitting here at my computer wondering what to say. It isn’t that I have nothing to say, it’s that I have too much to say and I lack priorities. OK, I have priorities but my priorities have no propriety. My ADHD-addled brain organizes shakily at best, sloppily as per usual and occasionally—as Squatlo likes to call it—bat shit crazy.

When I’ve got the brain fritz, even I can’t sort through the smelly swill that boils in the cauldron I call my brain. Every one of the twenty independent thought strings starts to mingle and mate with the others, and the end result could be imaged in the opening of my book trailer. Go to this linkster and watch it really quick and then come back.

That swirling, ratcheting and jerking of images in the first scene is how my fritzy brain thinks. And isn’t that a lovely promotional ad for my book? And the MRI sequences next to the end are mine. That MRI was made the time I was pitched into the Shoal Creek Loony Bin after my second arrest for murder. The main murder in the book.

That MRI imaging is from after they had me stoned gourdless on Haldol. I fucking hate Haldol but my brain isn’t on full fritz when they put me on it. Haldol has wicked side effects. All of those psychotropics do. One of the side effects of Haldol for me is that my pecker dissociates itself from me. It’s like they cut my real pecker off and sew a remote controlled pecker in its place.

It isn’t like I have no feeling in my pecker, it’s that there is an interruption in the flow of electrons through my central nervous system. Things happen with my pecker that I know should happen, but my brain doesn’t register accurately or in a timely fashion. A perfect example is that I’ll think to myself, I’ll think, “I need to pee,” and then realize that I just finished peeing.

But my thoughts don’t race and I lose all passion for the natural instincts of flight-or-fight, self preservation, and procreation. That’s why they give us crazy people Haldol. To control us.

I know this one man who likes Haldol as a recreational drug. That is one seriously fucked up individual. He can have all of mine.

Which reminds me. Justine just told me that there is a typo somewhere in the book trailer. Be the first to make a comment on precisely where it is, and I’ll send you an autographed book. Maybe there is more than one error and I’ll give away extra books.

Which reminds me that I wanted to tell you that Rachel and Nathan came out to the ranch yesterday afternoon to film a reading from the book. The film will be edited into a video you can download or link to view, and you’ll get an entire chapter for free. There are 44 total chapters, so you’ll get almost 3% for free!

I’ll let you know when it’s ready.

Haven knows what I mean about Haldol, I bet. She has bipolar disorder. Most bipolar persons hate Haldol as do I. Haven has a great site on which she discusses her life with bipolar disorder. Her linkster is:

Anyway, I’m bat shit crazy and ready to pull all of my hair out. I dropped the dogs and the fucking cat off with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson when I went to my morning psycho therapy session. She wants to spend the weekend with the animals to monitor their mental well being. My therapist is worried that I’m on the verge of pulling a stupid stunt and getting into trouble.

Well fucking duh. I haven’t been arrested for several months and the last time I was slapped was right before Thanksgiving.

Which reminds me. The anti-abortion protesters haven’t been hanging out at the Planned Parenthood offices lately. That’s when I was last slapped. Catholic anti-abortion lady slaps me routinely when I show up with my anti-antiabortion protest sign. This is the latest of my signs


The other side says, “I’m an abortion and I’m OK.” That photo was taken in BJ’s house at the big BlogCon2011 convention. That’s me that you almost see holding the sign. I cause quite a ruckus when I show up to anti-protest. Isn’t ruckus a neat word? And why do I have tears in my eyes? I think I miss BJ and the guys.

I also think Dr. Sam I. Am is worried that I need chaos, that I seek situations wherein I get in trouble. I know she’s wrong, but appearances say otherwise.

Ugh, and fuck it. I’m having a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Trojan Horses Killed; Mooner Can Posting Pics!!!

Saturday, December 10th, 2011


So. Hip-hip hooray!!! Ben from Balcones PC came over and fixed the latest Trojan Horse infection on my computer, and he showed me how to post pictures while he was at it.

This infection was as serious as the last, but it was caught before doing any real damage. Someday the computer geeks will develop a condom to prevent Trojan Horse infections. Meanwhile, I’ll use this posting to put up some pics for you. Wish me luck. I’ll attempt to put both pictures and info both.

The Squirt is in my lap and Yoda is sitting on my mouse pad.

That’s Bob from Squatlo, Michelle the Reckmonster and future 12th Fiance, BJ from Uo-original Thoughts in Bob’s arm pit, and the most dangerous Cindy in the rear.

OK, look.  This is a new toy, as is my camera, and all of my pics of the dogs are sucky.  I’mma attempt to get better pics and post them.  I’ll try to not drive you nuts with pics of my babies.  Now I’m drinking me some Carta Blanca beerskies!

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The Dangers Of Fire; Pitch The Smoker Out The Window

Tuesday, September 6th, 2011


So. The fires are still burning Central Texas to a crisp, but my iron wood bat has gone unused. I was so angry yesterday about the asshole pitching his lit cigarette out his window that I lost my composure.

I think I’m also mad at myself for blowing the chance at sex with SAC Ellen Friday night, the first since a month ago and last until three more weeks. I’m afraid that my recent purchases of Ivory soap will send prices soaring. Ivory soap, when brought to a frothy lather, is my lubricant of choice for personal sexing. I’ve been taking so many showers that my skin looks like a lizard.

It’s just that fire scares me more than any other disaster. And let’s hang on for a second. Why doesn’t lizard have two z’s? Lizzard and gizzard and wizzard blizzard are each words better off with the second z. Who’s the asshole that decided to take the second z out of lizard and wizard?

Fire scares me like no other danger. I’m sure it was all of those fire-and-brimstone sermons back when I was a kid and still going to the fucking Baptist church. Pastor Browningwell standing on the stage, pacing back and forth, thumping his big Bible and telling us about how terrible the fires of hell would feel if we drank whiskey or danced or fornicated.

I understood the whiskey and dancing parts of those sermons from a very early age. We Johnsons have been drinking whiskey and dancing forever. As a young child, I was danced around from infancy, cradled in some adult’s arms to whatever music was playing. And I started sneaking drinks from the highball glasses and beer cans that sat on the side tables and on the porch as soon as I could walk.

I didn’t quite grasp the full hellish natures of the fornication part until I was raped by one of the Baptist Deacons at that same Baptist church.

But fire scares me.

So does the current state of politics in America. The polarizing rhetoric is frightening and the anger displayed by supporters on both sides seems fire-fed. OK, maybe the politicians are feeding the fires of their supporters, but don’t allow my confusing syntax muddle my point.

Fire exists to keep us warm and cook our food. Like guns, fire in the wrong hands is tragic. Maybe that’s why they’re called firearms—to remind you of their danger.

Like Rizzy said, “We’re in a drought people.”

Manana, y’all.

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Read At Your Own Risk; ADHD+Squatlo+Reckmonster=This

Monday, January 24th, 2011


[Author’s Note: Have I told you how much I hate MS Vista? I have spent the last 2 hours attempting to get the formatting fixed for this post. I’m sorry for the mess, but it’s Squatlo and Reckmonster’s fault. I am but the messenger.]

So. Psycho therapy sucks. After thirty years of near spotless attendance, numerous extended visits to the Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, and the payment of hourly fees that total in excess of $2 million, I’m still all fucked up.

Lately, I’ve been working on finding commonality of interest with people in order to learn to interact in ways that don’t lead to slaps and arrests. The theory behind this particular therapy lesson is this. If you have areas of mutual interest with a person, then it should be unlikely that the other person will slap you, or seek your arrest.

I haven’t been able to stay out of trouble long enough to know if it will ever work. What I can tell you is that all of my efforts to instigate relationships based on commonality of interest have bitten me in the ass.

Take my efforts to develop kinships with other bloggers here to the webber. I develop a closeness to Wonderella– I support her great comic strip and promote her name around the I-net. What do I get in return? A sex-free life.

Then there’s Squatlo, evil genius blogger from the state that catches all of Kentucky’s shit as it rolls downhill. I have become his fast friend here to webland and I must say that he has been a lot of work.

Then there’s the whole God-pays-me-a-visit dealie. He didn’t stay long but I think we really bonded while he was with me. But all I’ve gotten from his visit is an aftermath of grief.

But that fucker Squatlo takes the cake. There’s this 19-question tag thingie getting passed around blog sites like a hot potato. Reckmonster tossed it to Squatlo who has tossed it to me. Now I want to toss my cookies. If I don’t answer all nineteen questions and then pass it along to four more bloggers, my pecker will double in size and then fall off.

What could be worse than learning that you have a giant pecker only to discover you have to carry it in a box?

Look, I’m just going to get this over with. I want to bitch and complain but I like my pecker attached.

The Test

  1. If you have a pet, do you see it merely as an animal or are the members of your family.

Well for starters, why didn’t you proofread this damn test? For seconds of shit pie, what do you mean when you say “pet/s”? I have a collection of peeves that somehow manage to pet themselves in the face of my efforts to rid them from my life. So, to answer part two of question number one, as it relates to my pet peeves, I treat them like I do my Gram. Love/hate, hate/love, you can’t kill family.

I still have my pet rocks, Rocky and Granita and their little twins, Stoney and Marge. Them I don’t consider family.

With ten ex-wives, I have many pet names. My ass has so many pet names I won’t even start; my cooking prowess has garnered me the monikers “Grill King” and “Boss Tomato”. Roshandra called me her “Buzzy Boy” in honor of this little thingie she liked me to do to her crotchie; my therapist and first ex-wife, Dr. Sam-I Am-Johnson calls me a “crazy and inappropriate redneck fuckball”; the Squirt calls me a pet name in Swahili– “Bwana Mooner.”

My pecker has had many nicknames: my personal favorite, “King Cobra”; funniest, “that’s not a pickle”; least favorite, “you’re 6’4” for shit sakes, is that all you’ve got?”; then there’s SAC Ellen’s affectionate “Stun Gun Willy”; and the always popular “The little man on Mooner”. I treat my pecker exactly like family– love/hate, hate/love, won’t cut it off.

Then you would have your classical lines of pets, living, breathing varmints. I have my own dog, Dixie, a matriarch of the dog world and international music maven. She’s third generation Golden Retriever with the Johnson family and will be the last of her line. I love her.

I might as well have a second dog and that would be the Squirt, and each dog thinks they are my boss. They push and bully me. Squirt has been getting me into a world of trouble.

Then there’s Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, the gay pig and ostrich who live in my closet. Why isn’t it “whoms live in my closet”?

Now, therefore and here-to-whence, in answer to the question, since I would risk my life to protect the animals, I guess family.

Except that brings the entire question into question because I would debate long and hard about risking my life to save my Gram.

2. If you can have a dream come true, what would it be?

I would like to have a chance to see if the grass is greener for sane people. I would like to live a month without the ADHD, with the option to extend the sanity, if desired.

  1. What is the one thing most hated by you?

This one’s easy. Any person who carries the prejudice of religious superiority. If you think that you should control my life or make decisions for me based upon your religious beliefs– fuck you. Especially the right-wing Christian Republican Baptists and their cronies.

  1. What would you do with a billion dollars?

First, I’d hire a computer expert and a Photo Shop geek, and I’d pay them to frame Squatlo. I’d have them fix it to where I had iron-clad evidence that shows the Squatster in a torrid affair with Reckmonster.

Then I’d give the evidence to Squat’s wife and film his ass-kicking. The boy’s wife is a serious ass-kicker. Then I’d send a copy of the film to the Reckster to make her cry.

Next, I’d take $100 million and set it aside for later contemplations.

The rest, I’d distribute among groups that fight prejudice against gays, groups that seek-out and punish child rapists, and I’d start a TV cable channel and only show shit I like. Intelligent commentary, comedy, music and great movies. Like Slaughterhouse Five, Catch-22, Where’s Poppa, A Clockwork Orange, etc.

  1. What helps pull you out of a bad mood?

Another easy one. OK, easy depending upon what made me in a bad mood. Like right now I’m in a bad mood because I’m not getting any sex. This is Wonderella’s fault, with an assist from Squatlo. What would end that emotional slump is a blow job. Or some sweaty taser sex.

But if I was in a bad mood because Rick Perry is the governor of my state, I’d say, “Fuck Rick Perry.” That always makes me feel better. Fuck Rick Perry, fuck Rick Perry, etc., ad nauseum and ad infinito.

Then, if I was upset because the auto-format dealie to my ignorant Micro Soft Vista computer couldn’t be fixed, like up above, then I’d feel better if I set my hair on fire. I rather smell burned hair and charred flesh than deal with my worthless fucking Vista system.

Hearing Squirt translate a six-word sentence in five languages always make me feel better. Carta Blanca beer too. Squirt and Carta Blanca beer are keeping me sane during this current tenure of forced celibacy.

We were down to the lake this morning, freezing our asses off trying to fish in the cold rain. Squirt loves to fish. She’s my bobber watcher. She sits and stares at my red-and-white bobbers like a bird dog on the point. She doesn’t move a muscle or blink until the bobber starts showing some action.

This morning it was so cold that after a while, she was like one of those wind-up toys that vibrate and skittle about when you put them down. She was shivering and vibrating like one of Gram’s rabbit dealies. I had to keep moving her away from the edge of the dock to keep her from going over the edge. But she never once broke point.

Which reminds me. The steady readers among yo know that I went through a hell of a 2010 with an ass-area infection. Terrible swelling and pain, and operations and nasty oozing and shit.

Well, you’ll all be glad to hear that when I checked my ass this morning in the shower– all of the swelling has subsided, and the only remnants of the problem are the still puffy and pink surgical scars. And my scarred psyche.

OK, the scars are still a touch tender, and Holy shit is my ADHD on the fritz. I’m digressing the bejesus out of all of us.

What I’m trying to say is that this commonality of interest deal might be a crock.

  1. Which is more blessed. Loving someone or being loved by someone.


  1. What is your bedtime routine?

Which one? Whose bed? Is one or more of the dogs with me? Are Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh having a lover’s spat?

Have you ever been around a gay pig and ostrich when they have a disagreement? It’s enough to make you think about sharpening a gutting knife and sparking up the smoker.

My pair’s fights somehow manage to heat to boiling in the middle of the night. Rick Perry will hog the covers or Rush Limbaugh will fart under them. Ever smelled a hog fart?

I tried to teach the boys how to light Rushies farts and almost burned my closet down. I ended up putting one of those push button spray fragrance dispensers on the closet wall. Rick Perry pushes it like it was a pain medication clicker on his IV over to the hospital. I wanted one of those dealies when I was having all of my ass trouble.

I had to put a felt cover over the the dispenser button. Ricky’s beak is blunt but it’s hard as a rock. The “clack-clack-clack” of him punching the button was keeping me awake.

But I always brush my teeth, whiz in the sink one last time for good luck, think about what a lucky guy I am and then get in bed. Then, I either think about how wonderful clean sheets feel on my naked skin or wish I had clean sheets. Then the ADHD takes over and I wake up after some amount of time.

  1. If you are currently in a relationship, how did you meet.

Oh for shit sakes, how do I even start with this fucking question? Relationships with what, like with people, or animals, inanimate objects, governmental institutions that go by acronyms, my pecker, my ADHD, relatives, ex-wives? What, what what? I’m at 2,000+ words already and my fingers hurt.

Let’s assume, in the interest of brevity, that you mean romantic relationship. Well, I can’t tell you about how I met SAC Ellen because that story is central to the plot of my soon-to-be-published new book. That’s the same book that might never get finished because this fucking test will consume me and I’ll die while answering number 17.

So how about I tell you how I met some of my ex-wives. I’m too tired of answering these questions to do all of them, but here’s a few.

Wife numero uno, the now Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, was met at school at the University of Texas where we both attended. Streaker Jones and I were doing our naked men act and drew a crowd that included the mad Sicilian bombshell. Love at first sight.

I met Roshandra Washington-Johnson at an Austin City Council meeting and I also met Evelyn La Rousche-Johnson in Council chambers. Roshandra is a policewoman and Evelyn is an opera singer.

I met a wife in a yoga class at the YWCA.

I met a wife in jail. And on a train and in a house and with a mouse.

And I met one very special lady on a blind date.

  1. If you could watch a creative person I the act of creating, who would it be?

I’d like to watch Squatlo when his wife catches him after she watches the film framing him.

Or Ludwig Van Beethoven, or Bach, maybe. I think those two were crazies like me. Bach managed to conjure incredible music from pure mathematics. The intricacies of his composition stagger me. I envision that he had my variety of ADHD. But instead of having a myriad of conflicting simultaneous thoughts, Johann Sebastian had those terrific lyrical lines of music filling his skull.

Ludwig overpowers me with sheer beauty of dense textures and rich instrument mixes. I think the deaf Master was a brooder and bi-polar. Brutally angry one moment and deliriously happy the next.

I enjoy watching my Gram as she toils in her little basement workshop, boiling fresh magic mushrooms to make the juice that is the foundation of her potions.

  1. What kind of books do you read?

All kinds. I love detective and spy mysteries, anything funny, history. As an author myself, I”ll refrain from naming names. At least until I can persuade one to endorse me.

  1. How would you see yourself in ten years?

Hopefully in some way other than in my reflection in the eyes of caregivers. Or through the dirt. My hopes would be to see the same guy, just older and smiling a giant smile because sanity had been restored in the world and right-wing religious fuckballs had lost all influence on the planet.

  1. What’s your fear?

I fear digressing and taking too long to finish this test. Was there a time limit?

I fear additional losses of Constitutional rights at the hands of the right. I fear more silly wars. Like Billy Maher said, “If we’re going to start a war over oil, bring home some fucking oil!”

I fear that I’ll catch Alzheimer’s to go with the ADHD. Imagine having twenty thoughts at the the same time and you don’t recognize a thing about any of them.

I fear retribution from the chain-letter-bloggie-tag gods. That’s why I’m doing this silly test.

I fear isolation.

I fear nothing, because God paid me a visit and said, “You’re an good guy, Mooner.” OK, I paraphrased His actual words, but I know what He meant.

Which brings up another point. Since I have been visited by the Big Him, should all references to me be capitalized? Like Me, My, Mine, Ours, you know all of My stuff. Would need to capitalize Stuff? My Stuff, maybe.

13. Would you give up all junk food for the rest of your life in trade for a trip to outer space?

Are you kidding me? My intellect lives in outer space, and it’s not that great a place to be.

Besides, I don’t eat that much junk food anyway. Except for Cheetos.

Are French fries junk food? What about pudding?

  1. Would you rather be single and rich or married but poor?


  1. What’s the first thing you do when you wake up?

I pinch myself to see if I’m awake. As a sufferer of the dreaded ADHD, when you’ve ingested as much Carta Blanca beer and psilocybin mushroom extract as have I, it’s always important to start your day awake.

Many of my fuckups occur when I’m not sure what I’m doing.

Contrary to popular thought, walking through life in a dream and living in a dream are two distinctly different thingies.

  1. If you could change one thing about your spouse or partner, what would it be?

Are you fucking kidding me? I’m attached to a fucking federal agent for shitsakes. One with a gun and a license to kill. No way I’m wading into this one.

Except to say that I would like to change the infrequency of the sex.

  1. If you could pick a new name for yourself, what would it be?

OK, I don’t think it best to name ourselves, I think we’re best-named by others. Having said that, how about “Your Royal Highness, The Most Adored King Mooner”.

  1. Would you forgive and forget that special someone no matter how horrible a thing they have done?

Nope, since “no matter how horrible” covers some pretty horrible shit. But, I am a forgiver and a second-try kind of guy. When you fuck up as much as I do, that whole goose/gander dealie takes on new meaning.

Like the entire Wonderella debacle. I fear I might have ruined my love life over a little passing fancy between me and a semi-super powered cartoon person. I never thought my unusual fascination with a cartoon could have such a profound effect on my real woman. Who’d a thunk it?

Maybe I should say that I’m an “another-chance kind of guy”. Second chances don’t begin to cover my transgressions. Maybe I should start a new political party called the Transgressionist Party. Our party line would be, “Please forgive us because we are The Trangressionists.”

I’d let Squatlo be the chairman because he’s smart. Reckmonster could be the treasurer. She’s half semi Asian and can pinch a penny until it drips copper wire. I’ll be the pretty face.

Did I ever tell you about the time Streaker Jones and I got all messed up and decided to run Dixie for Austin City Council? Funny story.

  1. If you could eat only one thing for the next six months, what would it be.

Another easy one. The 24-hour buffet at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas. Or maybe the one at Bellagio.

I spent a couple weeks last summer on an onion and garlic diet and almost melted central Texas. It’s just not natural to eat any kind of limited diet.

Am I done, Teacher? I think I feel better, maybe. Maybe this is how Grandpa felt that one time after he passed a kidney stone. So far I’ve only got two of my choices ready for passing this silly test along to. The first is Whitney at and next is .

Now go away. I’ve got a book to finish.

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Come Out GW Bush

Monday, October 18th, 2010


So. Now I’m truly pissed. Some asshole in Georgia is telling me to lay off George W. Bush- “…or else!”

Or else what?

Fuck you Bart from Macon, and your AK-47. Big American hero and you buy a Russian rifle. Mike Kalashnikov- communist hero and inventor of AK rifles. What, you thought AK stood for American Killer? And tell me, how much did you pay the woman to let her picture be taken with you? And just to be certain, it’s you on the right, correct?

And fuck George W. Bush. In fact, gather up every last one of Bush’s cronies who had a hand in starting the Iraq war, and fuck the whole bunch of them.

I want to call all of them out. It’s time for them to do something to support our homecoming troops besides acting like tough guys when someone calls you out. Why are you angry, huh- can’t stand the truth?

Does anybody have an Email address for Georgie? Drop him a line and let him know it’s time for him to stand up and be a man. Tell him I’ll help- I’ll stand with him.

What about you guys at AmericaCalling? Do you think George owes anything to our troops? Oh wait, you think it’s the Democrats and our President who should be held responsible for the mess that happened from George’s wars. You seem to think everything was just great when Bush vacated the Big House.

Is it just me? Am I the crazy one?

OK, bad question. Am I the only one feeling this way?

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I’ll be back Thursday, September 2nd

Sunday, August 29th, 2010

Hip-Hip-Hoooraaaaay! Mooner Got It Up!!!

Tuesday, June 29th, 2010

Hey everybody, welcome to my new and improved webber and blogger site stuff. Dustin has been working overtime to get this done for me and I am thrilled!

It will take me some time to get all of the parts installed and prettified, but like Gram said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. You have yerself a major league spider web there.”

Please be patient with me and I’ll make it worth your while.

I got it up!!!

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American Justice

Monday, April 5th, 2010

I’m writing this on my new laptop computer while I wait for my name, and case number, to be called. The benches here to the courthouse are not very comfy, but that isn’t a bad thing if you care for my opinion.

I got arrested for “Assault and Battery” last night over to the Z-Tejas and spent the night in jail. I needed the sleep so the jail time was OK. The Sheriff, that’s my longtime buddy Woozie Wozniac, let me out this morning so I’d have the time to go change clothes for my arraignment. Sometimes it pays to pay elected officials. I don’t mean direct bribes but rather I’m speaking of “political contributions”.

Who do I think I’m fooling? My Gram got this one right when she said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. A bribe’s a bribe!”

But Woozie truly is a better choice than the silly fuckballs who have run against him. His last major opponent ran on the slogan, “Jesus is my Deputy, riding shotgun and takin names.”

Now personally, I think that if that silly toe jam was a true Christian- he might have made a fine sheriff. Think about it. Every time the new Sheriff attempts to step over the line and pull the tazer trigger on some innocent guy for expressing his freedom of speech with a polished-ass butt show- Jesus would whisper in the peace officer’s ear, “Turn the other cheek, Rosco. It’s the Christian thing to do.”

And then Rosco would say to the offending party, he’d say, “That’s enough now, Mr. Johnson. Put your ass away so this crowd of nice people will go home.”

Instead, I guess Rosco’s Jesus must have whispered, “Hit him a good jolt and kick him in the ass to boot, Rosco,” because old Rosco, he’d be giving the newly-tazed ass performer a not so gentle shove into the back seat of his police cruiser for a ride to County Lockup. “Godless shithead,” would be Sheriff Rosco Baird’s words as he smashed the poor guy’s shoulder into the back of the front seat.

At least that’s how I think it would go. That’s how it went last night with Deputy Sheriff Rosco Baird.

I think Rosco worships the “Smiting” Jesus rather than His more understanding alter ego, “Gentle” Jesus.

When I asked Roscoe if Jesus approved of him roughing me up, he said, “Fuck you, Mooner. If I was listening to Jesus right now I’d of busted a couple a caps in your ass.”

“Would it make any difference if I donate to your campaign for when you run for dog catcher next time?” I asked him.

I really am funny.

After I awoke from the second tazer jolt from Deputy Rosco’s stun gun, Sheriff Wozniac arrived to my cell to let me out. “Get out of here Mooner, and take your Gram with you. How many times have I told you to keep her out of my jail?”

Woozie is a giant pain, but a decent friend. I get this nasty body odor a few hours after I get tazed and my clothes were a touch rank when he let me out. I always like to look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at my arraignments. So I appreciate him letting me out to go home to change before my court time.

Gram has always liked jails for their wide selection of needy men. She used to spend a lot more time cruising the cell blocks than she does now. Since she got the new Ferrari, she spends her cruising time hot-rodding down to the Drag at the University of Texas.

Mother asked Gram why she was spending so much time to the Drag and so little in jail, Gram told her, “I like lamb better un mutton.”

“Oh, dear,” sighed Mother.

Mother heads the “Inmate Outreach” program for her and Gram’s Baptist Church. I have always thought that letting Gram loose around incarcerated men was risky business. And I’ve always thought that my grandmother has a way with words.

Mother says of her work with the inmates, “I love doing good for these men who have been locked up.”

Gram’s take is, of course, “A man thats been lockered-up fur a month er so- he’ll do ya good, an I love that.” Then she adds, “I try not ta miss a man what’s been missin it.”

Jeff, he’s my attorney for everything that doesn’t relate to hallucinogenic chemical compounds, is sitting with me. “OK, tell me what you did, Mooner.”

“Why is it always tell you what I did? Why can’t you ever ask me what the other guy did?”

“Because I’m busy and need to cut to the chase. Now. Tell me or I’ll leave you to the Judge and Deputy Baird.”

Then Jeff added, “And what did you ever do to that Deputy to piss him off so much?”

“It’s a long story, so I’ll just cut to the chase, since that’s all you care about. He was in love with Anna the Amazon and they were on a date that time when I met her over to the Broken Spoke and she…”

That was as far as I got when Jeff interrupted. “OK, I got it.”

Look, I’ve got to go. I’m up.

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Maybe This Will Explain Things

Wednesday, March 31st, 2010

Since this week is such an important season for people with religious convictions, I have decided it is time for me to better address my own religious convictions in order to explain why I feel as I do about religious fanatics. I’m not doing this because of any of the threats made upon my person nor am I making them under pressure to suck-up to anyone.

While I am capable of yielding to pressure and threats, threats to my life are dealt with by the capable hands of Streaker Jones, my personal protection detail, and I only suck up when I think the suck-upped-to both needs the sucking-up, and also deserves it.

I am certain I said that the way I meant but I’m feeling a major digression oncoming, so I’m moving on. My ADHD is in hyper-drive as we have already begun the preparations for our annual Easter Bash out to the ranch. This year is especially stressful because many of our usual family attendees are intending to attend other things.

Dixie has gotten her feelings hurt and her nose bent out of joint over it, but Gram manages to have the same even-tempered attitude she carries through all aspects of life. “Who gives a shit, Mooner,” her response to the news that a good half-dozen Johnsons will miss the big Bash. “More fer us!”

I’m thinking to myself, “Yep. More of Dixie’s whining and bitching, more food and more of Gram’s crap spread thicker on my toast.” But that’s really OK with me too. One of the list of things I’m working on in my therapy is learning to appreciate people for who/what they are before they die.

But then again, my grandmother will outlive the rest of us by decades. She’s made of shoe leather, has a heart so small she wouldn’t miss a beat if it conked-out on her, and her organs are so pickled by those potions of hers, how would you kill her if you tried.

I have tried killing her with kindness and even that just bounces off her like she’s got some kind of force field dealie around her.

Hell, she is a force field.

After a careful contemplation of your posts here to my blog, and your emails and snail mails and phone calls, and the personal visits out to Mooners Compost Plant to punch me in the nose, I gather that not just a few of you disagree with my religious philosophies. The tenor and tone of your expressed feelings suggest to me that you have not heard my message.

Or maybe another way to say that is like this- the the tenor and tone of your opinions suggests to me that I have done a poor job of expressing my message. More likely it is my responsibility to better communicate my thoughts to you than it is your fault for having a thick skull.

See what growth you can purchase with thirty years of psycho therapy and something north of a $million paid to a mostly ungrateful ex-wife therapist? I think everyone should get theraporized at least for a few years.

I am going to better explain myself to you because I think I owe it to you. If you are going to take the time to read my dribble and then, using a rainbow of Crayola colors, hand write a sixty-page response to condemn me to Hell, I think you need to be better informed as to exactly why you wish that, “The Devil will lash your (read Mooner’s) ass to a parking meter and let real men have a go at you.”

That particular letter writer was angry for multiple transgressions made by me against his Lord and Saviour and his Baptist Church. He wrote it “MY Lord and Saviour and MY Baptist Church.” He would change colors for all of the “MYs” and rub over the letters multiple times to insure I understood his emphasis and the personalizations as what belongs to him. Like this God of his has a single client.

The sixty pages must have weighed five pounds what with all of the crayon wax and dried tobacco juice grafted to the paper. I wonder if I can recycle Crayola wax?

And even though I harbor the opinion that I lack the capacity to say anything that would shake my crayon-writing admirer off the solid rock of his faith, I think that maybe the rest of you might harbor fewer animosities towards me if I make an attempt.

Look, it is not your religion that bothers me, regardless of what beliefs your religion encompasses. I see it clearly as your right to believe anything you chose. And I am fully nondiscriminatory in my belief that you should be allowed to worship any belief system you chose. I don’t distinguish the Catholic belief set from the Mormons or Muslims or Wickans or even those total numb-skulls, the Scientologists.

OK, maybe it is true that the basic tenants of Scientology bother me, so let’s eliminate them from this whole explanation jobbie. The Scientologists can go fuck themselves.

So, except for the Scientologists, it isn’t the religion that ruffles my feathers, it is rather some of the bird-brained followers of said religions who are the root causes of my consternations.

Said another way, it isn’t the message, it’s the messenger.

Look. Each and every one of the historical religions have their foundations in either an actual God, who made an appearance here to planet earth, or a prophet/storyteller explaining the principles of their God.

If the actual deity came here for a vacation or maybe a tent revival to conjure-up a congregation of followers, he/she/it did so with a message of peace, love and acceptance. To a one, our historical deities have preached for us to love each other and let the other Gods’ peoples live- so long as they return the favor. Those Gods practiced what they preached and in turn loved their brothers.

Maybe brethren?

Those religions that count on a story teller/prophet to tell how it is with a particular God, tells us about the wonderful, caring, considerate, and loving guy their professed God was/is. We hear how their God is self sacrificing and modest and all of those other Godlike verbs and adjectives. And adverbs even.

To the last one, the words of these Gods has been the word of peace, goodwill and kind acts. To get your key-card to the electronic locks on the heaven’s gates of every one of these Gods, you need to follow that peaceful path. And basically, each of them has the same path. They have different names simply because They visit to a different time and place each time.

Hell, if you want my opinion, they are all the same God with the same path. I think its this one God who keeps coming back to visit and keeps sending prophets because fanatics keep getting the message all screwed up and twisting God’s word to promote some idiotic personal agenda.

Kind of like we get things all discombobulated and He keeps returning to give us refresher courses. Just like out to the Junior College where auto mechanics need to go to upgrade their knowledge when the technology changes. Remember when they first computerized the ignition systems in cars and they wouldn’t start unless it was 72 degrees outside and the relative humidity was below 34%?

That’s the same way some folks manage to misinterpolate God’s words, and then convince a bunch of brain-dead morons to follow their lead. Like that Jim Jones character down to New Guinea, or wherever, a few years back.

You know, the Cool Aid guy.

What always seems to happen is this. We manage to get things all bollixed-up, again, so God makes a business trip to earth to find a new prophet to educate we humans in how to get along with each other and live a good life. Again.

I don’t know if He has taken the time to pre-pick His prophets before He leaves wherever it is He is when He’s not here, or if He just puts everyone’s name in this giant fishbowl and draws up a name or what. I don’t think it really matters because God can take any guy right off the street and persuade him to prophetize. Prophetalate, maybe.

God can be persuasive, if you know what I mean. And why do we need to capitalize every reference to Him? He knows He is omnipotent and all that, so He knows that when I say “he” that I mean “Him”. Right?

How big would that fishbowl of His be? And where do you think He hangs when he’s not hanging with us?

For all you know, maybe I’m nothing less than God’s latest chosen prophet sent out into the world via the I-net to spread His word to stop being such bigoted asswipes and get back to God’s basic messages. Did you ever think about that? How do you know that the big He didn’t visit me last time I was locked up in the lonnie bin, with a drip-line of Haldol putting my mind in a most receptive mode?

How can you be so sure that God didn’t visit me in a vision with a message to all of you fanatics and terrorists? Just imagine that. How about if I was sent here to tell the Baptists and Muslims that if they don’t stop oppressing other people in the name of their twisted interpretations of their God’s Book, that my God was planning a little visit to smite some ass.

And I get to point the finger. And then maybe I would be “Me” and “Mine” and shit like that. You know, capitalize all of My stuff.

Mooner Johnson- Prophet of God. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the ass. What would we call My religion?

But, for the sake of brevity, let me focus on the Christian religion as a species, and the Southern Baptist Convention Baptist practitioners as a sub-set. This I choose to do because I was raised Baptist of the Southern persuasion and also because the Christian religion has prophets, as evidenced by the Old Testament and Moses and King Solomon and Isiah and such, and the Christians were paid a visit by God Hisownself, embodied in the flesh and blood of Jesus Christ.

Make sense that I choose to elaborate in said fashion? Good.

I have read the King James version of the Bible several times cover-to-cover, and have read it several more times a few verses at a time. Baptists read selected verses from the Bible every time they gather. Streaker Jones has memorized every “Bible” of every religion on the planet and he can back me up on the following Biblical observations:

  1. No religion advocates violence to another sect or race or religion just because they don’t profess the same beliefs. Not a one.
  2. No religion says to hate and persecute gays or lesbians. Many a Baptist preacher has tried to say it does, but it does not. Some of the verses Pastor Browingwell quotes to support his anti-gay thinkings can also be read to endorse gay acts.
  3. Each Bible promotes acceptance and inclusion and living in peaceful harmony with folks harboring differing views. And unless those other guys try to put some smite on us- we don’t need to be smiting them.
  4. All the Bibles expect tolerance and forgiveness of any transgressors.
  5. None of these Bibles teaches its followers to write laws to govern non-believers. Nope, all of the law-writing verses are talking about laws for followers.

Nowhere does it say to force an infidel to follow your lead and nowhere does it say to kill them if they won’t. Nowhere does it say to kill a doctor because he believes in a woman’s choices, nor does it say to deny women their rights to choose.

Like these assholes who were just arrested up to Indiana and elsewhere who were planning to kill one policeman and then bomb as many more as possible at the funeral. These shitbrains read the Bible to condone or even demand their actions.

Good God-fearing Americans, right? Family men.

Nope. Brain-dead, right-wing Baptist fuckballs to the man. And woman. No different than Osama Bin Laden or any of the rest of the Taliban and such. Both groups want to kill people because their religions differ, and each don’t mind taking innocent lives in their blind pursute to promote their doctrine.

Somebody, anybody show me where I am wrong. Please.

I mean, look here. I am just as egotistical and opinionated as the rest of you. I just can’t justify killing some guy for doing something I don’t condone- like lighting a cigarette in a restaurant under the “NO SMOKING” sign. I want to, but I don’t.

And litterbugs. I want to choke the life right out of litterbugs, and Texas Governor Rick Perry. Little Ricky seems to think he has the right to govern me based upon his religious beliefs, so why don’t I have the religious right to take his right wing ass for a midnight swim out to Lake Travis when I disagree?

Or bigots. Nothing I hate more than a fucking bigot.

OK, look. Dr. Sam I. Am just read what I have already written and she says I have made my point if you are going to allow it to be made. She said it like this, she said, “Look Mooner. Most people who are fanatical about their religion are fanatically flawed. They lack the ability to care if they are right or wrong. They have flawed thinking or they are evil, so no amount of logic, truth or reason will sway their opinions.”

OK. Fine. I’m done except to say this. If you have a reasonable way to prove me wrong, please tell me. Show me the error of my ways.

If you can prove me wrong, I’ll never make another nasty comment about the fucking Baptists again.

Happy Whatever-it-is That You Celebrate!


And PS. When you enjoy whatever bounties of food and drink you chose to share this season, please remember that when you lay your overfull belly down to go to sleep Sunday night, there are little kids and mothers and others who are going to their beds less than sated. Please donate to the Food Bank.

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Chelsea Handler has a great one, George Takei said “Oh my!” on Howard Stern first

Monday, March 29th, 2010

The weekend was great weather here and we started the hot season garden out to the ranch. We garden in a fifty-acre patch that I won in a poker game back to 1983. With all of the mouths we feed from it Gram is wanting to expand its boundaries next year. So while the rest of the crew were planting, Streaker Jones and I were spreading the compost and granite sands on the adjacent land and tilling them in.

We’ll grow alfalfa this year and then plow it under. That’s the best way to prepare your soil around here. I let Gram and Gnat decide what we plant so long as I get at least ten acres of tomatoes. I love homegrown tomatoes. Especially the old fashioned ones. You know, the purple ones and the striped ones, and those that get really big and gnarly looking.

Back to 1990, or maybe it was 1991, we grew a Merced that looked like Washington crossing the Delaware. To me, it looked more like a bunch of goat pellets stuck to the bottom of a tire-tread sandal, but Gram got her picture to the Garden Page of the Austin American Statesman anyway. That’s our Austin newspaper.

Once June hits, I carry pre-mixed salt and pepper in a shaker in my hip pocket, and a hemp cloth tote bag full of ripe tomatoes. Take them everywhere I go. Lured one of my ex-wives into my sticky web with a perfectly-seasoned old timey beefsteak. Supplying her with tomatoes from the ranch garden is one of the conditions to our Alimony Agreement. Woman loves her tomatoes.

OK, enough about me, let’s talk about you. I had no idea that so many people did not know what a “camel toe” is. I need to thank Mrs. Che-Che La B, from up to North Dallas, for her thoughtful voice mail and inquiry about the subject. How did you get my phone number, and are you a stalker?

But, “Yes,” I do know that the camel is a pachyderm, and, “Yes,” I do know that the camel provides essential transportation, nutrition and night-time comfort to the nomadic peoples of the world. But “No”, I disagree with your thoughts that I am a brain dead Troglodyte.

I even understand how important the camel is from a cultural perspective. But I don’t get the part about sleeping with camels. Have you ever smelled a camel? Maybe all of that dry desert air kills a person’s sense of smell. Or your nose gets all dust encrusted from the sand storms and you can’t smell anything.

But back to topic. While I have always known that it has many names, I thought that camel toe was the universal nom de plume for when a woman has her pocket meat on display. Whether on purpose or by accident, I always thought the name was “camel toe” for when a lady places said meat into the display case. And I figured that every woman knew this.

Other names I have heard are “moose knuckles” and “my honey’s hams” and “girl package”. If I was naming it I think something along the lines of, “Oh my!” would be my choice. Like George Takei says on the Howard Stern Radio Show. George was Mr. Zulu on Star Trek too.

A nice lady with a well-tended and proudly displayed camel toe walks by me, I’m thinking to myself, I’m thinking, “Oh my!” Maybe I can start a new trend and create a new saying and get famous.

Oh my!

Maybe I’d need to credit George.

My Gram calls hers her “pocket poochies”. While I guess that “pocket poochies” is perfectly and properly descriptive of Gram’s camel toes, I can only hope that particular descriptive name would have limited applications. My Gram looks like she was constructed from dried goat bladders to start with. To imagine her camel toe would be traumatic. But again, “Oh my!”

But to be technical, Mrs. La B, I will quote to you the definition for Camel toe that I am sending to the people to Websters. You know Websters, the dictionary folks.

“Camel toe. Noun. From the early Egyptian meaning “Oh my!”. The result of a mature woman wearing outer garments which are pulled into a frontal wedgie, placing the pubic mound and crevice at maximum visual display.”

From the historical perspective, Cleopatra invented the camel toe. It seems that one of the few positive genetic flaws of all the inbreeding, which is so common among the ruling classes, was that the women offspring’s labia and surrounding mounds majoris, were truly major mounds. And these were not mounds like what glandular malfunctions cause. These mounds were meat-swollen and not swollen meat or water-retentive in nature. I wonder what Queen Elizabeth looks like down there.

Old Cleo would have her hand maidens pluck her crotchie areas clean of hairs using tweezers made from dried shark cartilage. Cleo discovered that if the hairs were plucked one at a time, she could avoid razor rash. Of course, she didn’t call it razor rash since razors were a future invention, and the plucking took hours, of course.

When I did the research on this shark cartilage dealie, I called Ingrid over to Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium to ask her if we could try plucking me that way for my next ass show. Ingrid told me to get some rest and make an appointment with Dr. Sam I. Am.

Actually, she said, “Have you lost your mind Mooner?”

Anyway, Cleopatra used her toe jobber to mesmerize Mark Anthony and Julius Caesar and a bunch of other Roman men back to the B.C. times. I think that’s maybe why Italian women lack the basic sense of humor to enjoy a free-thought discussion of the subject to this day.

Cleopatra would get herself all skinned-off by hand-maiden-and-shark-cartilage tweezing, and then have her hand maidens anoint her polished loins with oils. The oils would be fragrant with frankincense and myrrh. Do you think she had special oil-anointing hand maidens or were they maybe multi-tasking maidens who both tweezed and anointed?

I think I could use a hand maiden or two. And why is myrrh spelled that way?

After proper exfoliation and anointing, the royal camel toe would be bound for presentation. When I heard that she had it “bound” I was kind of admiring Cleopatra for taking one for the team. You know, it sounded like when the oriental women would bind their feet up to make them attractive. Sounded painful as all get out.

But when I read the records of this on the net the other day, I got the sense that this binding was quite different from foot binding and that old Cleo actually enjoyed it.

And then this morning, Streaker Jones came to my office with some timely news. “Mooner, ya need ta know that Chelsea Handler is kechin a buncha crap bout her camel toe. People’s callin her a man cuase shes got her a man-sized load.”

Then he added, “I don’t lik em talkin bad bout Chelsea, Mooner. Wud ya say sumthin in yur bloggie?”

Streaker Jones is a huge Oprah Winfrey fan. But with her ending her talk show soon, I think he is changing the channel of his TV attentions. Actually, what I think is that Chelsea Handler is me with a pretty face and different plumbing. I really don’t think she is a man. If she is all I can say is, “Holy shit, I have fantasized about a man.”

I got on the E Entertainment website and sure enough, there’s like 10,000 blog comments posted about Chelsea’s camel toe, and some are quite cruel. Chelsea is funny, irreverent and inappropriate- attributes which I much admire. When I got the letter telling me I’d been voted the Most Inappropriate Man In the World, I just assumed she’s garnered the woman’s trophy.

Well, actually I didn’t get a trophy, just the letter that I framed and hung next to my other awards.

Anyway, one of my objectives in starting this blog was to perform public service. Dr. Sam I. Am said that helping others would help me get a sense of satisfaction that I don’t find other ways. So, I am offering here to provide a public service to any woman with camel toe concerns. If you are worried that you have an issue with yours, just contact me. I’ll be glad to advise.

My Gram’s best buddy, P-cubed, says that maybe I could sponsor a club to support the issue. I think maybe I can. I could have a contest for the best name for the club and everything. You know, generate some buzz.

Speaking of buzz, Roshandra called me to talk about her camel toe. She wanted me to tell you guys that a woman needs to be proud of her stuff. I don’t remember if I ever saw it displayed in classic camel toe fashion, but I can say that Roshandra has world-class stuff.

Wait. P-cubed is Penelope Paxton-Parades, who is also known here to Austin as the “Guacamole mama”.

Let me know if I can help with the club.

Now, I need to go. Mooner

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An Atitude Adjustment

Friday, March 26th, 2010

Whenever I start thinking to myself, “Mooner, you are a good man,” all I need to correct my thinking is to make a trip down to the Capital Area Food Bank. Anytime I think I have become one of those people other people should admire I just go down to way-South Congress Avenue and pay a visit to some actual good people.

Like yesterday, for instance. In spite of the risks of personal injury and possible arrest, I sucked it up and attempted to do a public service for that nice lady with the moosie knuckle over to the Sprouts. I was proud of myself for taking the time to think, plan and act in the best interests of another human being, and ignore the threats to my personal safety.

My Gram says it like this, “Hoomin bing,” and that cracks me up. Since I’ve spent my entire life with Gram and Streaker Jones both, I can understand most of their fractured English. But sometimes my Gram just cracks me up. What can I say.

So, I got back to the ranch, unloaded the groceries, washed the avocado off my face and changed my clothes. Gram took one look at my face and said to me, she says, “Whose pansies ya step in this time Mooner? Let me go git my “A Slug A This Will Stop That Slap From Bruisin” potion. Yur gonna git shiners from chin ta eyebrows unless ya dose-up.”

After ingesting a couple droppers of Gram’s potion, I sat out to the patio with a cold Carta Blanca to ruminate my day over. Wait- maybe I ruminated over my day.

Whichever, my day was getting ruminated about and I was feeling pretty good about myself. I did a good deed for a damsel with distressed pocket poochies and it only cost me a couple hours and two black eyes. Usually my efforts with damsels cost either trips to jail and terms to visit the loonie bin for “observation”, or six-figure annual alimony payments.

I was ruminating that this good deed of mine had gone mostly unpunished, at least from an historical perspective.

Are you guys still with me?

So. This morning I woke up feeling pretty good about myself as a “Do Gooder” and an all-around man of the people. I exercised, read the paper and got ready for the day. This day was starting with a visit to the Food Bank.

See, I’ve made arrangements for the Johnson Family Interests, LLC- that’s my holding company that controls all of my business interests, to make some direct donations to the Food Bank from my website and bloggie job. Five-percent (5%) of all gross revenues from the web and blog and my book sales will be donated to the Capital Area Food Bank.

I go with five-percent of the gross because that’s like 40% of the net after Gnat gets done doing the books. I’m always suspicious of anybody who wants to pay me off the net profits of anything. Like Streaker Jones says, “Nuttin seems ta slip thru tha net.”

How do you argue with Streaker Jones logic? Can’t.

Movie and record people are the worst of what I call “Net Profit Pirates”. I can’t tell you how many of the world’s best musicians were ripped off by Net Profit Pirates back to the Sixties. Some of those guys made tens-of-millions of dollars for music companies and died broke while they waited on a royalty check.

So, I like doing my deals based on gross, except with tax men and other government types. Them I don’t mind creative bookkeeping to end up paying pennies on the dollar. In fact, its a source of pride. Donations to the Food Bank are not net dealies.

The reason I was going down there was to do some arm-twisting to convince them to link their website with my site- do a little cross-pollinating with me. Networking is the only way to go!

OK, look, I know it was a highly unlikely possibility that they could be convinced to tie themselves closely to me, but I wanted to give it the old college try. I have a clear picture that Baptists, Republicans, church ladies of the non-Baptist persuasion, and other people offended by my thinkings comprise a large portion of the Food Bank’s donor list. I get that.

But I had to make the effort to see if there was a way.

There is not a way, and that’s OK with me. Like to have a “Yes” but understand, and appreciate, the “No”.

Other peoples’ principles are something I understand even if I don’t agree. I don’t have a problem with people having principles with which I disagree. But sometimes I disagree with the principals behind them.

I’m pretty sure that was properly said.

The Food Bank cannot afford to endorse any supporter at the risk of alienating another supporter. It doesn’t bother me to upset anyone because I’m the only one I need to serve. The Food Bank will not discriminate- they will take anyone’s help and use to offer a helping hand to anyone who needs it. The Food Bank is non-sectarian on both front and back ends of their business model.

They hold themselves to a higher moral code than me. The mirror into which I look every morning is small and fogged when compared to theirs. I freely admit that I practice personal bias as my routine. Pastor Browningwell over to my Gram’s Baptist church says of me, “Mooner Johnson has fractured moral fiber.”

If the right reverend would ever listen to me, he would understand why I feel as I do. But it just isn’t a part of his moral fiber to listen to any view that takes an opposing position to the Southern Baptist Convention.

Having concerns for what others think of me is not one of my moral fibers because I am sectarian, or whatever it is that I am for not caring what you think of me. The weave of my social fabric is based upon my experience, attempted understanding of contrary views and actual thought. I am capable of changing my mind when the evidence proves me wrong, and that, I think, moves my moral ground out of the flood plain.

But the Food Bank will feed you regardless of your thinkings. They will accept your money gratefully, even if you are a Republican, because you are a person who cares enough to help feed people.

I’ll take a Republican’s money because I think I can put it to better use than him. His money is safer in my hands than his.

So, on my way home I was thinking about how I’m not really such a wonderful guy because I’m opinionated, rude, crude and completely inappropriate. I am, after all, The Most Inappropriate Man In The World.

But that’s why I give my money to the Food Bank rather than just taking the 18-wheeler down to the Valley and loading-up with produce for the hungry. I’d be trying to use my personal bias to limit the distribution of nutrition. Hell, I’d likely make you pass a test before serving your lunch.

Then I’d feel bad about myself and need more psycho therapy.

But look here. I can’t feed everyone who needs some feeding. You guys send a check to the Capital Area Food Bank. It’s a crime to let a neighbor go hungry.

Even if he is a Republican.

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A Story From When Dr. Sam I. Am and I Were Still Married (an excerpt from the book written years ago.)

Thursday, March 25th, 2010

(Reprinted with the expressed written permission of Shit Happens, Nettie House, Editor, the monthly newsletter for the Central Texas Association of Composters)

To Spell Idiot, You Start With I (or Me)

By Mooner Einstein Johnson, President, Mooner’s Compost Plant

Let me start by saying that all of you already know that I have ADHD and that you think I am an idiot, already. And you know that I attend three-times-a-week sessions with my famous psycho therapist wife, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson. But don’t read this with any silly preconceived notions that I am digressing your asses to distraction.

Instead, feel my pain and empathize. Or, if you’re a Republican, you can maybe sympathize.

If you ask me, the true idiots of the world are people who think that they can dictate how you should live your life based upon their religious beliefs. Like the Republicans and their puppeteers, the Baptists. You can substitute the Taliban and the fundamentalist fuckball Islamics or any other political/religious pairings you choose.

But if you want my definition of idiocy, it’s, “Anytime religious shitwads determine public policy.”

Like Governor Perry telling me I can’t play poker because he thinks it’s “wrong.” Republican idiot Baptist.

Vote Kinky. He’ll save our Republic!

Sorry, I digressed.

Whenever a holiday rolls around, I’m talking any holiday, whether religious or not, I do an evaluation of my closet space allocations. I perform these periodic evaluations not because my home out to the ranch has small closets, as I have many and they are large. Nope, I’m required to reevaluate so often because my allotted space in those many closets is a paltry sum and allocated from only one of them.

In fact, the master bedroom closet my wife and I use was the original ranch house built by the first of my family to populate our ranch-land.

Since I have so little space, I periodically need to evaluate everything I have to see what might be purged to make room for new purchases. So, what I am looking for is something I haven’t worn in more than a year, like my Nero suit from 1967. It’s army green with big brass buttons and epaulets, and the pants have huge bell-bottoms. With my pink ruffled shirt with the French cuffs and my turquoise paisley cravat, I look just like the actor Peter Sellers in that movie The Party. I like Peter Sellers.

He’s a good actor, and handsome, like me.

I first wore my Nero suit in 1968 to a date with a girl who broke my heart. She said I dressed too conservative for her tastes. I last wore the suit the end of March 1986 when I evaluated it during my Easter closet perusal. See, the Nero suit is exempt from my periodic purging of cloth, leather, and plastic as I feel it has at least one more wearing in it before I die.

Or maybe at my funeral. I can change my will and be burned in a funeral pyre instead of getting cremated, and I’ll need something spiffy to wear.

I always think of Indian funerals when I think about a pyre. Like from that movie Lord Jim, except without the floating candles and added fire. And not on the Ganges River in India, and not with Sitting Bull Indians. I don’t know. I’ll worry that over later.

When I am doing this cleaning, I’m looking for stuff I don’t wear or use. I give everything I outgrow or don’t use to the Paralyzed Veterans here to Austin, and I want them to get some real wear from my offerings. That thought helps motivate me to purge better. And sooner. Or is it to better purge? Sooner, better purging, maybe. Like closet bulimia.

OK, try this: Sooner, better purging through closet bulimia.

Anyway, so, I’m going through my meager closet space because it’s a holiday, Memorial Day, and I’m bitching at my wife while I do because she is the cause of my cramped allocation. Look, we have a very large master bedroom closet. Not Liberace the Piano Player large, but my first college apartment would spin like a top in this thing.

Sam I. Am did the partitions of “His and Her” allocations. I let her do that because I thought it would make her happy to feel like she has the power role in our relationship. See, she’s a psycho therapist, and she constantly examines me about everything. But I’ve been secretly reading her brain doctor periodicals behind her back to fight back. The week before we moved into the new master suite I’m sitting in the waiting room before a therapy session, and I read an article in Sam’s O Magazine that said women needed to feel that they had some control in their lives.

Mistakenly, I thought I was giving nothing away by giving her the power of closet allocation. I now also think the article was wrong to advise giving a woman any power at all. My particular woman took that little bit of power and expanded it to the point where she gained control of my entire life. She’s like a Nazi dictator, what with all the “Mooner this and Mooner that.”

Anyway, Dr. Sam I. Am allocated me 11 inches of closet rod, 11 inches of shoe storage above, and the same amount of floor space below. When I asked her how she calculated the dimensions of my space, Sam I. Am said, “Well, Mooner, my plan was to place all of my stuff in appropriate spots and then just let you have all the rest. But all my stuff wouldn’t fit. So I decided to put more of my things into the cedar closet.

“I made room for you by removing some of my mauve-colored hand-stitched buffalo leather jackets. I wear those jackets often, so I moved only the ones with mink lining. That leaves you plenty of room.”

Then she added, “And don’t you put that moth-eaten Nero suit in my closet.”

Anyway, I decided this was a good chance to give something back to the vets and weeded out my stuff from the allotted 11 inches each of shoes (three pairs stacked left shoe upon the right), cloth clothes (three pants, three shirts, one Nero suit), and accessories. The accessories shelf feels almost extravagant, as it starts at eye level and reaches to the ceiling above.

The rest of my stuff is in the trunk of my car.

But I am digressing from the story. Every time I perform my closet evaluation, I look for ways to de-allocate some of Sam’s space and make it mine. I have tried every space-stealing tactic I can think of, but she always catches me. I swear that woman’s got extra closet sensory reception, or whatever. And I almost always think I’m catching her at taking my space but am always proven wrong.

It doesn’t matter what I do to attempt a theft of her closet space, and it doesn’t matter how small the theft might be. One time I hid five one-hundred-dollar bills in the lining of an off-season ball gown that was zipped tight in one of the 37 plastic clothes storage bag thingies that hang in the back corner of the closet. I only thought my C notes were safe. I mean, how could she notice something so compact and lightweight?

I went back for my cash a short time later, and she caught me fumbling through the garment bag, cursing and sputtering, looking for my stash.

“I was dressing the other day,” she said matter-of-factly, “and when I walked into the closet, I noticed that the gap between a black garment bag and the blue one beside it had shrunk by one 32nd of an inch, and things looked fishy. You know, it is very important to keep the plastic from touching so the bags can breathe.

“When I examined the bags, I saw your thumb print in the plastic where you pinched the top of the zipper to close it back. I used the money at Petite Professionals to buy a blouse and the rest to take my mom to lunch. Mom said to tell you ‘Thanks.’”

One of these days I’m going to build my own closet if I don’t slit my wrists first. But until then, I’ll try to make the maximum use of the 11 inches of hanger space, one shoe-box width of shelf, and a tie rack mounted from the ceiling.

It was when I was checking my shelf space for unworn shirts this holiday that I just knew I had caught her red-handed. Sam was using my pitiful space allocation! I discovered a canvas bag emblazoned with the logo from Petite Professionals, her favorite clothing store. I started screaming, storming through the house looking for her.

“Now I’ve got you!” I yelled while waving the offending bag in the air. “You’ve finally gone too far—you’re way past reason on this one. Get your ass in here right this instant and look at what I’ve caught you doing!” I had her this time, and she was going to pay.

After about an hour she came sauntering into the bedroom and woke me from my nap to take her punishment. I never take naps, but when she didn’t come right away I thought I’d act cool for when she did arrive. I’d put the bag back on the shelf where I found it and then stretched out on the bed with my hand under my chin to affect the cool part. And promptly fell sound asleep. And if I hadn’t been groggy from the stupid nap, I’d have never fallen into her trap.

She awakened me from my slumber and sweetly asked, “How may I be of service?”

I stumbled out of bed and dragged her into the closet, pointed at the bag, and said, “Aha, look at that bag, you closet allocation obfuscater!” I thought obfuscater was most appropriate.

I should have known something was wrong by the angelic smile on my wife’s face, but I barged on like a Billy goat in a pansy patch. “Just for that, I’m taking that whole wall of your closet for my stuff. I’m gonna go unload my car right now.”

“Mooner Einstein Johnson, are you talking about that bag?” she asked as she waved at the shelf. “Is that bag what this little tantrum is all about? Don’t you remember what that is?” she asked calmly. And then she said, “Are you sure you want to make an issue of this?”

“Yes, darling, this is that important, and it’s about time I hold you accountable for your indiscretions,” this said with the pious authority of a righteous man standing up for his rights.

Then, in a voice that was almost still because it was so quiet, she told me, “Look inside that bag, Mooner, and then you find me if you have anything else to say to me.”

And when she spun from the closet, leaving it ten degrees colder, she added, “Einstein, my ass!”

“You got it,” I sniped at her back. “And don’t go far.”

I climbed my ladder and grabbed the bag from the shelf and jumped down. I jammed my hand down into the bag and gripped its contents like a hammer to whack-out my point to Sam I. Am, and off I stormed. I was halfway out of the bedroom before I realized what I was holding, and it stopped me dead in my tracks.

There, in my hand, was the carefully folded American flag that had draped my father’s casket at his funeral. Sam I. Am had packed it lovingly and placed it on my shelf for safekeeping. I now remember telling her how grateful I was that she had handled that for me.

The last time I had seen the flag was when Mother had given it to me at Daddy’s graveside, her telling me he wished me to have it, me honored at his wish. In the fresh spring breeze, the draped flag had fluttered like the mainsail of a ghost ship in a desperate effort to steer my father’s casket free from the grave hole beneath. I felt my connection to Daddy fluttering as well, as if it were to be forever lost at the landing of that wooden vessel and the laying of sod.

When I was feeling a misery as deep as I can ever imagine, the pair of WWII vets who had stood at attention for the graveside service began their duty. As best as their eighty-year-old bodies could, in their fresh-pressed, faded uniforms, these brave men carried out the final goodbye to one of their own.

The preacher preached his last words on my father’s grave, and a bugler started playing Taps. When that terrible, sweet music started, the men performed the ritual and prepared the flag with a precision at which I marveled. As their gnarled and shaky arthritic hands creased each three-cornered fold, I could only know that their grief was just as strong as mine.

Two old soldiers struggling to stand straight and not cry as they buried yet another of their fallen brethren. One mostly ungrateful son missing past and future.

I have touched this flag only two times, and each time it has left me stunned. In the first instant I was stunned by the power of a symbolism so simple as a flag as it left my father’s casket. I wondered just how many sons like me were clutching flags as the end of our fathers’ generation approaches.

But at this second touching of the flag, it was my own idiocy that numbed me.

My flag faux pas occurred during the holiday honoring the men and women like my dad, people who made important sacrifices so that I can be free. And stupid. I screwed this up a week before Mother’s birthday, June 6th, the anniversary of the D-Day Invasion, the action that marked the beginning of the end of WWII. In one fitful moment of asinine dumbness, I had managed to underline and highlight my tendency to do dumb things.

Sam I. Am has yet to speak to me, but that’s OK. I’m very busy trying to shake off the effects from this latest stupid stunt of mine. To take my mind off my idiocy, I’ve been inventing stuff, like my reusable in-home sewer sludge composting kit. I got the idea when a neighbor showed me her colostomy bag.

But every time I take a break from inventing, I get blue. I need to make an appointment with my psycho therapist.

I’m such an idiot.

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