Archive for the ‘Wonderella’ Category

Why I’m Nuts; Another Day Shot To Shit

Saturday, January 29th, 2011


So. Today was going to be a wonderful day. I have many things to be happy about and I’m man enough to admit them.

At breakfast just now, I was sitting with Gram, Aunt Hilda and Mother, Gnat (she’s my trusty assistant out to Mooner’s Compost Plant), Gram’s best buddy P-cubed, and this young guy in a Texas A&M tee shirt and boxer shorts The Squirt was sitting on a stool at my side.

P-cubed is Penelope Paxton-Parades, a retired librarian, and mightily pissed puppy over the AISD’s plans to fire librarians to save money. The young man is quiet, and looks scared.

Mother says to Gram, she says,“Oh for Pete sakes, Gram, tell this boy to go put his clothes on. He’s not properly dressed for dining at my table.”

“Can’t find them,” Gram said around a mouthful of oatmeal with fresh figs and honey from someplace in Tennessee. It sounded like she said, “Pfanf phin nuumm.”

Squirt started snickering and whispered in my ear, “Tu grandmamacita es muy fucking funny, Bwana Mooner.”

“Shh,” I whispered back. “If we’re not careful we’re gonna reach the critical mass required to put Mother into full martyr lock-down.”

My mother has already anointed herself “Saint Mother”, and cast her role to be long suffering at the hands of her family. The race to be Saint Mother’s number one cross to bear would end in a tie between Gram and me.

I needed to save the day, so I say, “Hey everybody, I’ve got loads of good news. I got my bloggie comment dealie fixed, well that is to say that Ben the computer genius fixed it, I got finished with my first rewrite of the edit on my book, and look– most of the important women in my life are here with me for breakfast. I’m a very lucky boy!”

I held a hand to my heart and lifted the other skyward to emphasize my luck and good news.

I did, of course, neglect to mention the laundry list of important women not present– SAC Ellen, Reckmonster, Thundercat832, Wonderella, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, and more.

Then, I wondered if I might be making real progress when I realized that Wonderella made a fourth place finish in my important-ladies-in-my-life derby mop-up race.

“I’ve got a robe I can give this child,” I said. “Squirt, run back to my closet and bring back one of my UT robes.”

“Si, Senor Mooner. I shall return muy pronto.” Off she raced.

Gram swallowed another mouth full of tasty oatmeal and said, “Well, ya little shitbird, iffn ya’s so happy with yer stuff, whyn’t cha say a prayer a thanks?”

Oh for God sakes, I think to myself. This old gasbag is going to start getting all Baptist lady on my ass. Give me a fucking break.

 “I’ll break yer fucking face iffn ya don’t stop taking the Lord’s name to Maine,” Gram said.

Holy shit am I thinking out loud to myself a lot. “That’s taking His name in “vain” Gram. Maine’s a state,” I say. Maybe that will end this discussion.

Instead, this gets me a case of the evil eye from my grandmother. But I feel too good to be effected much, and I find it hard to take Gram seriously when one of her hopefully-eighteen-tear-old boyfriends is sitting half naked at my breakfast table. This is technically my house, not Mother’s

“Who gives a shit, Mooner. I’m gonna Maine ya fer being all sacroplasty.”

Why bother telling her it’s “sacrilegious”?

Gram drains her glass of grapefruit juice with a hardy slurp, plunks the glass down too sharply and it almost breaks. “Look here Mooner. Little Tinker Bell over there is a diminity student from Switzerland er somewheres, and he a takin a rematical down to Aggie country. I want ya ta be nice to im.”

What in the world have I ever done to deserve this shit. I’ve got a foreign exchange student on sabatical, sitting at my breakfast table in his underwear, and poking his spoon at a bowl of grade-A number one oatmeal, with this look on his face that says, “What planet did I wake up on?”.

“Gram?” I asked “Did you dose this boy with a little something?”

“Well a course I did. You don’t spect me ta go ta all this trouble fer a quickie do ya?”

I started drinking Carta Blanca beer at 8:30 this morning. It’s 8:00 at night now and I’ve finally washed the memory of breakfast from my brain.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson asked me in my telephone therapy session this afternoon, “Are you drinking, Mooner?”

“Does the Pope wear ladies clothes and protect child rapists?” I replied.

We spent the fifty-minutes that mark an hour’s passing on a psycho therapy clock discussing why I get all tangled up with so many women.

No Wonderella I’m so fucking crazy. Manana, y’all.

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Maybe The Pope Consults With Rick Perry; A Mooner Insight

Wednesday, January 19th, 2011


So. Sometimes it hurts to be right. Today’s Austin American Statesman newspaper provided corroborative evidence that my recent visit from God really happened. Today’s paper provides proof positive that my foreshadowing skills are both highly accurate, and bothersome.

At His recent visit to Moonerland, God, Who would now be confirmed to be the One, the Only– actual God, told me that I need to keep doing what I’m doing; that Streaker Jones, Squatlo and I are part of some bigger plan; that Carta Blanca beer has been granted His Seal of Approval; and that Texas Governor Rick “Little Ricky” Perry is a fuckball.

He also told me to start capitalizing all my references to Him, which is the only thing He told me that was confusing. Like in the sentence that started the last paragraph. Should I have said, “The One, The Only,” with capital Ts on my the-s? I thought about a simple solution and that was to just capitalize every-fucking thing in a sentence wherein He is mentioned. Looked silly when I did it that way.

I also worry that He will be pissed at me for cussing in the same sentences in which He is mentioned. Then again, He said, “Fuck Rick Perry,” and he made a Wonderella joke during His brief visit. I certain that my God has a sense of humor and can take a joke as well as make one.

I have always thought that visits from God were imaginary events conjured from the minds of crazy people. Like Joan d’ Arc. I still think she was a total nut job, but I’m also starting to give the benefit of a doubt as to whether He actually visited her with advice to smite some ass for the Catholic Church.

I know I’m crazy and I know God came to sit with me, but I’m not all that crazy like Joanie. And holy shit am I digressing.

Let’s get back to today’s paper. Yesterday I predicted that the first things to be butchered in the attempt to balance our Texas state budget would be education, health care and social programs. Today’s headline: “Spartan budget plan calls for broad cuts. Public school funding, financial aid, and health care would take big hits.”

I hate being right sometimes.

Now remember folks, Little Ricky has been telling the Devil Obama in DC that Texas doesn’t need a nationalized health care plan because we got it handled here to home. What he didn’t bother to say is that his way to handle it is to ignore it to make the problem go away. What health care problem? I don’t got no stinking health care problem.

Ricky, listen to me son. Ignoring problems will not make them go away. Thirty years of psycho therapy have provided me with at least that limited insight.

But enough already with the Texas politics. Let’s talk about the Holy Roman Catholic Church. My position for years has been that the Vatican has been hiding and protecting priest rapists behind their mommy’s flowing robes. I have always thought that the Pope(s) have provided safe haven to the bastards as a matter of policy.

I have been harassed and threatened by Catholics for spreading false and impure ideas about their blessed religion. As with my Texas budget prediction above, today’s paper has proved me spot-on one more once.

“Vatican warned bishops not to report abuse cases,” is the story lead. The article started, “A 1997 letter (written by Pope John Paul’s diplomat to Ireland) warned Irish bishops not to report suspected child-abuse cases to police…”

The article went on to say that the letter threatened bishops who ignored the policy to only handle cases of child rape by their clergyman with in-house policy. Policy violators would be “highly embarrassed” by the Vatican.

Once more, a religion places itself above the law. Isn’t that the causal foundation for the Dark Ages and the Inquisition?

Me, I sort of view some of this shit like a modern day Inquisition. Shitballs are murdering “non-believers” in the name of their Gods, other shitballs are legislating by rule of their right-wing religious belief systems, and the Catholics continue to be Catholic.

I much preferred President Clinton’s rule under the influence of blow jobs to any religious influenced politics. How many wars have been started by men routinely getting their pipes cleaned by willing, comely young lasses?

I’m out of steam. Manana, y’all.

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You Won’t Believe This One

Monday, January 17th, 2011


So. Everything is starting to get clearer to me. The jumble of actions, reactions, brainwaves, good luck and bad that make the threads from which the fabric of my life is woven, are finally making sense. I’ve got it all figured out.

I think.

“Here’s tha dealie,” as my Gram likes to say. Over the last year:

  1. I’ve been arrested, and released, seven times.
  2. I’ve endured nine months of ass agony and the surgical procedures required to rid me of an infected lower peritoneal cavity.
  3. I’ve been celibate by reason of enforcement, not by reason of choice, for roughly 177 days, even though I’ going steady.
  4. I’ve become entangled with numerous nefarious, yet lovable, types here to the I-net, each of whom/which have brought both happifications and problamatics to my life. Squatlo and Wonderella are but a pair of said yin/yangers and the most recent examples.
  5. I’ve solved numerous big-picture world-issue problems and gotten nothing in return except for backtalk, nay saying and considerable grief. In evidence I offer my Chinese productivity mystery solution, my men-pee-in-sink-to-solve-water-shortage solution and my soon-to-be-announced hemp fabric diaper invention that serves as a personal compost plant/methane gas recovery system/propulsion system.
  6. I’ve endured numerous erosions of my quality of life caused by right-wing religious Republican fuckballs, and with the new even more highly Republicanized Texas State Legislature now in session, it’s going to get worse.
  7. I have reached numerous milestones in my psycho therapy, such as the number of court-required sessions in a year, number of issues obtaining enlightenment (lifetime achievement award), number of newly-discovered problematic issues, and my personal favorite– breaking the $2 million mark in personal therapy session charges.

I stopped at seven dealies, but that isn’t the half of them. I could go on, and on, and on. And on. I won’t because one of the aforementioned psycho therapy enlightenments, listed in Number 7., above, is that I sometimes have a tendency to use too many words to convey my thoughts, when fewer words might be more even more enlightening, and provide sharper images and understanding, than when I use more words.

Anyway, I had an epiphany last night. For once it wasn’t a celebrity camel toe dream or a sex dream or even a nightmare. This time my vision wasn’t fueled by hallucinogenic mushroom juice or peyote buttons or even a copious over-dosing of Carta Blanca beer. This moment of truth came to me in the dead of the night as I sat at the foot of my bed feeling sorry for myself.

Here’s what happened. I was awakened from one of my feel-sorry-for-Mooner dreams we all have. OK, what I mean to say is that each of us have dreams wherein we are continually being frustrated because we cannot accomplish any-fucking-thing we attempt in the dream.

In this dream, I was attempting to get my pecker out of my pants to have sex, but my zipper was snagged on my shirttail. The struggle to free myself for a much needed release had deteriorated into a dream fistfight and wrestling match between me and the zipper, and the zipper was winning.

I was awakened from my nightmare by the real-life fight between Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry taking place in the closet. It’s been frosty cold in Austin and the two gay boys were fighting over covers. It seems my giant pig was, as the ostrich Rick Perry screamed, “Hogging my fucking covers.”

Then I heard Rush scream back, “If your neck wasn’t ten feet long we’d have enough covers.”

I jumped out of bed and ripped open the closet door. “All right, boys, that’s enough.”

Obviously it wasn’t enough because Rick Perry bitch slapped Rush Limbaugh on his snout. The slap was more like a bare-knuckled punch since my ostrich fights with his granite-hard head. I’m certain that’s because birds lack hands, and ostrich beaks aren’t pointy. I’m sure that he would have pecked the pig on his snout if he had a sharp beak.

“Stop it, and stop it now!” I said as I waded into the middle of the fight.

I took a couple head shots to my shins from the giant bird, and a load of pig snot when the last bitch slap connected solidly. “Dammit, do you want me to go wake Gram?”

Instant calm.

I covered them equally-well with their king size comforter and told them, “Now shut up and go to sleep.”

I left them to peacefully slumber and latched the closet door. I sat at the foot of the bed and wiped pig snot off my arm with my tee shirt, then pitched the nasty shirt towards my dirty clothes hamper. I shut my eyes tightly and started feeling sorry for myself.

All the many aspects of why it’s so hard to be me started running through my head. With my version of ADHD, that means that fifteen-to-twenty problems were running through the gates of my synapses simultaneously. My head was spinning, and I felt the first pinprick of salty water start to ooze from the tear duct in my left eye.

I felt someone sit beside me on the bed. It was a heavy presence and smelled of spicy men’s aftershave. I almost freaked out– Gram had caught me hiding the boys in the closet. I was formulating my get-the-guys-out-of-harm’s-way story when a deep basso profundo voice speaks to me.

“Mooner Johnson, it’s time. Open your eyes and look at me.”

I opened my eyes and turned to my right. And there, sitting on the end of my bed, with his knees pressed tightly together, was God. I swear to God.

“Holy shit, God, are you you?”

“Indeed-e-do, Mooner. And it’s You, and You, for heaven’s sake. Please start capitalizing all of your references to Me.”

“OK,” I told him.

There was a sort of dead air time, but I was afraid to say anything. It’s when I say stuff that I get into most of my scrapes. Then He broke the silence with, “Are you Wonderella’ing why I’m here?”

We both laughed at that one, me nervously. “I guess that might be one of the several questions racing through my skull,” I told Him.

“Well here’s the deal. I’m preparing you for a special project, son. Your life so far has been a trial by fire, and I must tell you that I could not be more proud of how you have managed your life’s trials.”

“Thanks, God,” I said. Then I almost stammered, “Is it OK if I call you God, or would you prefer something else?”

“God’s OK by me,” God said. “But let me get to the point of this visit. You are one of the few sane men in America, and it is your job to spread your wisdom. I have aligned you with numerous like-minded, yet diverse people to assist you in my task. All I will tell you is that Streaker Jones and Squatlo share your duties as equal partners in My enterprise. I will not visit them, Mooner, and you are not to tell them of their roles.”

“Wha-what am I to do, Sir?” This, I thought, was a very good question.

“That’s a very good question,” God told me. “I only ask that you keep doing what you do, and make no apologies for it.”

“That’s it? Just keep fucking things up and drinking cold Carta Blanca beer?”

This got me a smile and a gentle hand on my shoulder. I felt a surge of goodness pass from The Hand into my body. It warmed me with a something feeling that I can’t even verbalize.

Then God leaned close and He whispered in my ear, “I’ll be back.”

I didn’t want him to go. “Please God, tell me something else before You go. Give me a word of wisdom to share with the world.”

A huge grin spread on God’s face and he said in that booming voice of his, “Fuck Rick Perry!” and He was gone.

I want to tell you more, but I’ve got God’s work to do. Manana, y’all.

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Squatlo And Wonderella Make More Trouble; Mooner Takes The Fall

Sunday, January 16th, 2011


So. I’ve been so full of my own shit lately, I’ve managed to get myself into another moral dilemma, and then shit all over myself. What with the solving of the Chinese productivity issue– that’s the one where I found a way to increase American productivity by mimicking Chinese behaviors, and pointing out another Republican shortcoming (by pointing to their budgetary shortfalls), well, I’ve been pretty cocksure and cock-brained. I’ve been acting as if I considered myself a sane man.

My Wonderella problem was fixed at least on a temp basis, when I got my book manuscript back from my Editorator and had it lock me out from her edits. I’ve been so focused on getting my book finished, Wonderella’s importance has slipped in my mental priorities.

To overcome the Micro Soft Vista prejudice my computer has against my manuscript, Dixie has loaned me her I-phone and I’ve been doing the corrections to the manuscript on that.

When I take breaks to let my fingers un-cramp from working the little typer screen to the cell phone, I try to take deep breaths and think about how grateful I am to have an editing option that doesn’t cost the price of a new computer. When I finally start to feel grateful, I realize that the work output from a half-days’ squinting and bitching and cramping equates to three paragraphs of change, and a twelver of icy cold Carta Blanca beers.

The only thing that keeps me from killing myself over this dealie is the knowledge that Squatlo, who possesses a far firmer brain than I, has technology problems of his own. Actually, since I can’t manage to reproduce the Squatster’s problem with my blog comments, maybe I should slit my wrists and be done with it.

Squatlo says that when he enters a comment when four entries are ahead of him, he can’t see all of the other comments. Anyone else have that problem?

Anyway, my ADHD is exacerbated by having all of these problems, each of which is a problem I have because of the ADHD. If that’s not a Catch-22 I’ll eat my shorts. Which gets me back to my most current problem.

Since I’m no longer fully-engaged with Wonderella, I’ve been allowed back into the presence of SAC Ellen. My federal agent of choice has decided to forgive me of that transgression. As long as I keep Wonderella thoughts at level five, or lower, on the elevator that carries my layered brainwaves, I’m back in.

Last night was our first time together in over a week. I went to her house late in the afternoon, picked her up, and we went food shopping for our reunion dinner. We went to Mandola’s Market and then to Whole Foods. Our dinner selections were: grilled asparagus wrapped in prosciutto and adorned with shaved Parma-Reggiano and this nifty 12-year-old balsamic I have; shepherd’s pie, full of roasted lamb leg and carrots and onions and topped with creamy mashed potatoes; and tapioca pudding.

The shepherd’s pie was in honor of SAC Ellen McClellan’s heritage, the pudding was my choice, and the asparagus with Italian ham were a joint venture. Dinner was great, we had a nice wine with, and after dinner Carta Blanca beers. She wanted to watch the movie The Social Network, and so we did.

Halfway through the movie, I had to pee, and badly. I had been holding it so as to not break my newly-regained closeness. “Don’t pause it, Sweetie,” I told the SACster, “I’ll just be a minute.”

I jumped up and raced to her bathroom, unzipped my jeans and started peeing all over her vanity. Sometimes when I hold a pee too long, I release a dual stream not unlike when you put your finger over the end of a garden hose. Since I pee in the sink to save water, I peed on her vanity rather than the walls and floor of her bathroom.

I panicked, but I cleaned everything up with water. The quantity of water required to fix my mess was still less than that of a toilet flush, so didn’t feel too bad about it. I went back to the sofa to watch little Markie what’s-his-name finish fucking everyone in sight on his way to becoming a multi-billionaire, and to snuggle under the blanket with my lover.

When the movie was over, we went to the bedroom to get ready for some sex. “I’ll get ready first, Mooner Sweetie. Then I’ll get a proper charge on my stunner.” We sometimes use her Homeland Security-issued stun gun as a sex toy.

With that she was off to the john. I heard her pee (on the toilet), wash her hands, brush her teeth, clean her face and lotion it. Then she came into the bedroom with a rather quizzical look on her face.

“That was so strange,” she said. “ When I brushed my teeth it tasted just like asparagus pee. That was some strong asparagus.”

My body instantly covered with chills. My goose bumps were goose-bumped. They looked like baby geese riding on their daddy’s backs. My mouth went dry and I could feel my ball sack shriveling into the shape of a too-dry raisin. Now what do I do?, I thought to myself.

I needed sex, but I’m an honest guy as well. After processing a hundred possibilities, I settled on saying that I wonder if it could be pee smell from when she peed. While this was an avoidance action, I can live with avoiding my small problems if it helps me cure my larger ones.

I screwed my best thinking-man look on my face and said, “Well, I Wonderella if it might be from when you peed in the sink?”

“I meant to say, ‘I wonder if you were smelling from when you peed’,” this was said to the outside of the front door as it slammed in my face.

“Fuck me running.” This was said by me, to only me.

ADHD is a miserable disease.

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Mooner Solves Chinese Productivity Mystery; MS Vista Still Sucks

Thursday, January 13th, 2011


So. I think my Wonderella crisis has passed, for now. But the Nookie Parade is still passing me by. I’m too entangled with my so far feeble attempts to work the computer’s edit functions, and finish my book, to have any time to devote to love. Or sex.

I had my computer guy out last night to fix it for me. He can fix anything in the entire operate-your-computer-and-get-it-to-do-shit arena. Ben has fixed every problem I have ever dropped into his lap, most of which have been of the operator error variety. Ben has managed to overcome every mangling of software and hardware alike, until now.

After five minutes of intense effort, Ben had sweat dripping from his brow and sarcasm dripping from each word. At the 45-minute mark of his technological ministrations, he said, “My God, Mooner, you can fuck a computer to hell and back with the simple act of turning it on. But this is one of your masterpieces.”

But at the one-hour-fifty-two-minute mark, Ben says to me, he said, “I apologize, Mooner. This one’s not on you.”

Then he cussed and keystroked for eight more minutes, closed all of the sixty-three application software programs he was using, and shut my nearly-new HP off.

“All right, Ben. You fixed it!” I exclaimed. “I knew I could count on you.”

“Didn’t fix shit,” he told me, “I’m giving up.”

Ben never gives up.

“Ben, you never give up.” Ben never gives up.

“Well, I never say, “never,” and I’ve never been beaten, but you’re never going to complete your edit of that book on this computer.” When Ben said, “this computer,” he sounded more disgusted at my hardware than any woman has ever been.


“But there must be a solution. I’ve got to get this editing done so I can go to print.”

Ben looked ashamedly at the floor, and said to me, “Mooner, the only solution I see to this problem is a quart of cleaning solution and a wooden match. A pint might do the trick, but you wouldn’t want to just wound or maim this fucker in the fire. You want to toast it.”

“Wha-wha-what?” I stammered, “That computer is just a year old.”

Yea, but you bought-in to the that whole MS Vista bullshit. I told you to wait until they did something new, but…”

I interrupted his tongue lashing while it was still in first gear. “I know, I know. I’m not blaming you.”

He refused my check for payment for his services by saying, “Consider my bill as the down payment on your new computer.” Then he left me to ponder my miseries.

Since I ponder miseries best while seated on the crapper, I grabbed the latest Card Player Magazine and went to the pot. I was reading a story about one of the many Asian players enjoying success at professional poker, and that made me think of how strong China has become in the world economy. That got me to thinking how I keep hearing about how the Chinese work force is so much more productive than we Americans, and I wondered why.

I finished the magazine maybe ninety minutes later, utilized the ever-present box of baby wipes that populate each bathroom I inhabit since my ass operations, then I properly washed my hands and headed to the kitchen to reload.

I popped the top of an icy-cold Carta Blanca (utilizing one of the several antique beer keys in my collection and, thereby, avoiding what I can only call “Squatlo disorder”, and removed the cap from the bottle and no flesh from my hand in a feeble attempt to twist-off an old-fashioned beer cap), took a big glug of my favorite brew, and parked my carcass on a stool at the granite-topped island counter.

As I raised the bottle to my lips for a second glug– it hit me.

“Son… of… a… bitch!!! Sonofabitch!!” I was shouting out loud. “I get it. I know why the Chinese are so fucking productive.”
Do you, dear readers get it? Have you been thunderstruck with the same incredible enlightenment as me?

They don’t have porcelain commodes anywhere in China other than in those water closets frequented by westerners as a matter of design. Nope, they don’t– been there, and done it the Chinese way. In China, you can’t sit on a China throne and play King for an hour.

No-siree-Bob, your typical Chinaperson shits in one or two ways. They squat, always, and do the deep-knee-bend bowel evacuation exercise while squatted over either a hole in the floor, or a narrow dirt trench.

A man cannot read the paper and waste 16.987% of his awake lifetime sitting on the pot reading the Sports Section. Like I say, been to China, tried it. After fifteen minutes squatted down and looking at the USA TODAY- China Edition, I couldn’t feel my feet and had to call for help to wipe my ass and stand back up.

“Oh, my God!!!” I said aloud, again. “I’ve had an original thought!!! I need to call someone.”

Nobody answered my calls since it was 2 am. So, I napped and set an early alarm. I’ve opened my first Carta Blanca of the day, not for need but rather for historical accuracy, and I’m going to begin calling around to spread the word. I’ll start with Streaker Jones, the the Squatster, then Squirt and follow with Wonderella.

It’s gonna be a great day. Man do I feel good! Manana, y’all.

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Mooner Saved From Wonderella; Still Fucked

Wednesday, January 12th, 2011


So. Maybe there is a God. If there is a He, He’s a big guy with an incredible sense of humor, a keen sense of irony, and a mean streak.

I’m not an atheist, and for sure I’m not the good Baptist boy Mother and Gram spent incredible energies to craft from the raw, ADHD-infested flesh that was me as a child. Those attempts became vain effort on the occasion of my getting raped at Boy Scout aquatic camp by my Baptist deacon scout leader.

I want to think that I would be smart enough to shrug the moldy, smothering blanket of idiotic Southern Baptist ideology and dogma without that jump start. But maybe I should see that the silver lining yin to the rapist’s storm cloud yang, is my awakening to the fact that you must always question authority.

But I’m already digressing. My frequency of digressions always increases when I think of my rape. I think of getting raped when I get into trouble. I get into trouble when I do something really stupid. I started doing really stupid things after I got raped.

Some that great karmic circle-of-life dealie is major-league fucked.

Now, of course, a major theme in my thirty-years-plus of psycho therapy is how I need to forgive my rapist. I’ve been told that I will never be fully healed until I reach that emotionally healthy place.

Maybe I’ll never be fully healed.

Speaking of ADHD-infested flesh, you all know that I’ve been in this quagmire with Wonderella, and my buddy Squatlo refuses to help me get out. I don’t know why I expected him to act otherwise, because he is my friend.

My other friend, Streaker Jones, won’t help me either. Streaker Jones is the perfect best friend and the Squatster seems to be following Streaker Jones’ format. “Look, Mooner,” Squatlo told me. “I can’t help you with this, you need to do this on your own.”

Streaker Jones’ answer to the same question? “It’s yer’s ta fix.”

Why I’m surprised with this is the only surprise worth mentioning from the shitstorm that is my Wonderella crisis. Like with psycho therapy, the therapist doesn’t do a single fucking thing. The patient does all the work. So why is therapy so expensive?

Anyway, my version of a possible God showed up yesterday to help solve my Wonderella problem. Since I’ve had trouble getting the comic semi-super heroine off my dirty mind, God decided to have my editorator return my corrected manuscript of the book back to me.

If you don’t suffer from the ADHD, you’re thinking to yourself, “Wonderful, he got his book back so he can finish with it.” Then you would go on your merry way– happy, healthy and with a sound mind.

Me, I almost peed myself when I got the emailed package around noon yesterday. Since I opened it at noon-thirty, I have been glued to my computer screen trying to figure out how to work the editing program. After twenty hours of this frustration, allow me to say this:

Microsoft Vista operating systems suck!!!!!!!!! Fuck Microsoft.

But again, the God thing enters. When I was shaken from nearly full day of mad-clicking my mouse at a non-responsive computer screen by the awakening of my pet pig and ostrich, I realized that I had spent twenty hours concentrating on one thing, and that thing was not Wonderella.

Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh exited the closet and sat at my feet as they do each morning if they are not in some silly lover’s spat. I don’t know that gay lovers have spats any sillier than straight lovers, but these two are silly squared.

Which brings up a point. My pig and ostrich are both males of their species. The pig’s sex/gender is an easy tell, as he has balls the size of oranges that sway like a pendulum from a wrinkled nut sack that reaches his back knees. Making the determination of the ostrich was different matter.

Have you ever tried to determine a bird’s sex? Like, a parakeet or a pigeon or a chicken? Remember how they fought the procedure?

Think about performing the task on a 350-pond walking bird that uses his thirty-pound head, attached to a four-foot neck, like a mace. Took three of us and almost a quart of one of my Gram’s potions to get ‘er done.

They do make a cute couple, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry. It’s obvious they are in love, and you have to admire that. Regardless of how stupid they act.

Holy shit am I digressing.

My point is this. I’m afraid that even if there is a God, he doesn’t solve our problems in the classic sense that you pray to Him, and the problem goes away without any oily aftertaste. Nope, He solves one problem by showing you that the old problem is minor when compared to the new one.

Like the man who prays to God to have a pecker long enough to reach the ground, and his legs fall off.

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

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Mooner To Seek Outside Help; Can Squatlo Fix Wonderella Problem?

Monday, January 10th, 2011


So. I’m sitting here in Austin, Texas, freezing my ass off. A wet cold front blew in last night and I now suffer in the uncomfort of my own home because I’m a crazy asshole. Discomfort, maybe? Should be un rather than dis on that one.

I like things chilly and since I pay the utility bills, I take the last say on thermostat settings. I try to be accommodating, but when your anchor tenants are my Gram and her martyred daughter-in-law, Mother, my actual mother, it’s difficult to maintain thermostatic sanity.

We were at dinner, hours before the cold hit town, and Mother asked me to turn the heat up.”Son, you know how my old bones react to the cold and damp, don’t you?”

Me, I’m thinking to myself, How can I ever forget when you bitch and whine about it all the fucking time.

“Mooner Einstein Johnson! How dare you speak to your mother that way. I raised you better than that… I’ve suffered so many sleepless nights over you.” My sainted Mother takes one of those slow, deep breathes so favored by martyrs around the world, and continues, “It’s all your father’s fault, God rest his soul, for passing his ADHD along to you. I could have been a dancer on Broadway, you know I was that good. But your daddy had those bedroom eyes, and…,” Mother’s voice trailed off in another typically martyr-favored way.

I must have been thinking out loud. Again. Maybe I need my filters changed.

“Oh quit yer fuckin’ bitchin’ fer shitsakes,” my Gram tells Mother. “Go git a sweater an a ‘lectric blanket an shut yer yap.”

“Thanks, Gram.” I got up from my chair and walked around the table to plant a kiss on the top her her hard head. With my chin rested on her bony shoulder, I say, “Thanks for standing up for me.”

My Grandmother swatted me away with a liver-spotted hand, turned in her chair to look me in the eye. “I ain’t standin’ nowheres fer you, ya little shitbird, I’m jist sick a hearin’ yer mother’s snivel-snottin’. You go put on some heat afore I git my double-barrel and plant tha both of em in yer ass.”

In an act of defiance, I reset the thermostats in all but my master bedroom area in the house. Now, I’m in my thermal drawers and wrapped in a heavy blanket with the Squirt in my lap, and I still can’t feel my nuts. Not that I have any need for gonads that can sense any sensations at all. My sex life is nonexistent ever since Wonderella hit my town.

When news that this cold front was coming hit the airwaves, I got a call from my own dog, Dixie. Worthless fleabag says to me, she said, “Streaker Jones and I have decided to escape the weather and go down to Costa Rica and collect a mushroom strain he needs for his collection. We’ll be back after the weather clears.”

Then Dixie laughed, a sound I once found endearing. “Stay warm, you inappropriate man. And stay out of trouble– you’re pushing SAC Ellen too hard on this Wonderella deal. Why don’t you ask Squatlo for some woman advice. He seems stable, and smart.”

“Bitch,” I said into dead phone air. I seem to be collecting an inordinate number of dead phone air minutes. Maybe I can get a refund from the wireless guys.

Streaker Jones told me about this mushroom he’s after. It grows on the moist, rotting coffee beans that fall from trees in Central America. My hopes with this particular little spoor are that it picks up some of the rich coffee flavor from my favorite bean– the Costa Rican coffee bean.

If it does, then Streaker Jones can cross-pollinate it with the Great Texas Magic Mushroom, and sell their offspring to my Gram. Me, I’m thinking that Gram’s alternative medicine potions would be more palatable, and have more depth of flavor, if they had a rich coffee aftertaste of French roasted Costa Rican coffee.

Maybe I should talk to the Squatster and get some lady advice. But I’ll wait a day, or so. Wonderella’s new installment is due to hit newsstands.

I want a Carta Blanca beer, but I’m afraid to stick my hand inside the cooler to grab one. Manana, y’all.

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Editorial Comment; F Rick Perry

Sunday, January 9th, 2011


So. This short posting is my vain attempt to save face for a problem in yesterday’s Squatlo bitch. I made a major mistake and wish to correct it here before any of you stick it in my face.

The beautiful nature photos are located by clicking on the top left corner of .

The right top is funny shit he stole from other funny fuckers. Also worth the time it takes to view, but not nature pics.

Isn’t it just like me to write some insightful stuff and poke fun at someone and then fuck it all up. That sentence ended with a period, grammar-concerned readers, because it was a statement, not a question.

I know I fucked it up, it’s what I do for shitsakes.

Switching from coffee to Carta Blanca beer now. It’s been awhile since I reminded you, so fuck Rick Perry.

Manana, y’all.

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Squatlo And Wonderella– Today’s Installation

Saturday, January 8th, 2011


So. I told you about that entire Wonderella and Squatlo dealie and I think I mentioned that they are ruining my life. My inabilities to: control my urges, say “No”, or control my thoughts are cannon fodder for smart minds and keen perceptionators, like the Squatster and Wonderella.

I’m still not getting why Wonderella is even a problem, much less one of a life-ruination variety. If I was daydreaming and having sex dreams about a real woman, I could easily understand the problem. But my fascinations with an imaginary semi super-powered comic bombshell– I just don’t fucking get it.

Squatlo, however, is a horse of a different brew. His problematic influences are in-your-face thingies and visible even to me. Why he is such a terrible influence on me is a multi-layered shitcake, and filled with a rainbow of frostings and stuff.

OK. For starters, he is smarter than me; he manages a prolific output of intelligent content without either the craziness or ADHD that fuels my voluminous writings; he looks at society through eyes that effect a clarity of thought and reason that is matched with the clarity and imagery that the high quality German lenses on his professional camera bring to the stunning wildlife photography he takes and posts to his site; and, he has an encyclopedic memory bank.

Lucky fucker.

Then, there is the simple fact that I like him. Lately, we have conversed some about stuff, and I like him. I often have issues with people who I deem smarter than me because they seem to affect a snot-nosed attitude that makes me want to thump them on their nose. Hard. Hard enough to bring tears to their eyes.

I do try to not thump them hard enough to draw blood, as that leads to that whole taser-handcuffs-backseat-ride-to-jail-to-be-booked dealie. Not something I can’t handle, as I’m experienced. I’m just too fucking busy writing here to my bloggie and answering 3,500-word emails from the Squatster.

However. As I mentioned upstairs, this is a deeper relationship than all of that before-mentioned stuff. The deep well of history that underscores our relationship is dug far into the very fabric from which America was cut. His and my relationship has its origins in our country’s founding parents. Actually, it goes farther back than that to our forefather’s old countries. But I don’t have the time to spend trimming the family trees that deep into the woods.

Here’s the deal. When I combine the knowledge my educations in Texas public schools– where truth was meted-out using Texas public school textbooks, combined with my degree-related core education courses from the only UT that matters, and then filter that through my personal experiences and readings– my mind conjures the following:

We all know that when our America, USA, was originally founded, the Brits sagely decided to populate the great state of Georgia with all the criminals, prostitutes and mentally ill Limeys they could round up. The logic was simple. “We’ll clean the streets of London by exporting the problem a few thousand miles across an ocean,” were Queen Elizabeth, Part One’s words. She’s thinking that if you put a few shark-infested miles of ocean between you and them, and drop them off on a strange island with hostile native peoples– problem solved.

Same sort of logic we stole and re-deployed down to Gitmo.

This original Georgian population quickly inbred and morphed into the first Southern redneck cracker fuckballs. The inbreeding beget inbreeding of the already inbred, loin fruit that was unceremoniously shipped westward to settle Alabama, each on the tenth anniversary of their birth and their wedding day.

Roll Tide!

When Georgia’s first shipments of settlers were unshackled and dumped to their asses on hard-packed red clay, there were among their numbers seven stowaways. A baker’s half-dozen honorable men, each of whom took a terrible risk by committing a minor crime to earn passage to the New World.

This magnificent seven became the first white men to settle what we now call Tennessee.

Things were hard for the six plus one, but these were hard men. So what if they married local girls and sired half-breed children; so what if they sexed with animals in the lean years. So what if they ate wild hickory nuts and bat dung to keep from starving. Bat dung tastes like chicken if you boil it long enough.

And don’t go all fucking word police and call me a racist. I’m a half-breed my-ownself and I can’t find a more comfortable word combination to categorize that particular aspect of my DNA.

If it makes you feel any better, call them and me, “Of mixed racial DNA,” you fucking imbecile. Why don’t you worry about something important? Like how we have a man running the US House of Misrepresentation whose ever-present tears streak pathways through his bottle tanned face like the contrails from a squadron of B52s.

I might be digressing. In an effort to self-edit, I’ve read this thing fourteen times. I can follow my logic stream but something feels off.

Anyway, Squatlo hails from the Volunteer State and likely is a direct descendant of one, or more, of the original Mag-7. We don’t agree on everything and sometimes he lacks vision. Like when we were discussing a joint venture to market this product I invented. I can’t tell you everything here, but I will tell you this. Me, I see no real problem cleaning the trap on a sink if thoughtful men have pissed in it, rinsing after each use.

If you go to his site at you get a chance to read about what I have been saying. Also, that’s where you can catch a peek at some of his nature photos. Click on the upper right corner where the photos rotate. Number 40 brought tears to my eyes.

I have managed to fuck back a little. I tricked him into sticking a hypodermic needle loaded with icy cold Carta Blanca beer into his system. Killian’s my rosy red butt.

Then, my UT football team stole the most valuable adult asset from his UT football team when we hired Bennie Wylie to be our new strength and conditioning coach. Hoo-yah!

I hope this made sense. If not– like my Gram always says, she’ll say, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner. Yer so fuckin’ crazy I’d a shot ya afore yer first birthday iffn ya wasn’t kin. Might do it anyways.”

Manana, y’all.

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Squatlo Joins Wonderella; Mooner’s Therapy Issues Balloon

Monday, January 3rd, 2011


So. Outside influences are ruining my life. It isn’t bad enough that I am inherently a ADHD-addled crazy redneck fuckbrain, allegedly, it seems that the recent weeks have brung me imported outside looninesses. I know brung isn’t a word, but it should be.

One of the outside loony factors is my fancy pants editorator, the bitch. I’m college educated for shitsakes, I know that brung is not a standard word. But who among you in my reader pool had any doubt what I meant when I used it? None of you, right?

But miss fancy pants can’t stand to allow a man freedom of the pen. I’ll bet if I was a woman she’d tread more lightly when I make up words or when I intentionally fracture sentence structure to suit my intentions.


And Wonderella. Holy shit and wipe my ass with the Pope’s lace slip, but Wonderella has brung me to my knees. See what I mean about brung? Way more impactful a word than brought.

Of course, impactful isn’t a real word either. But I didn’t use hoot’n’nanny English and say, “bringed.” Bringed just isn’t impactful at all.

I’m getting near the point where I need to end either my monogamous relationship with SAC Ellen, or my intense I-netter love affair with Wonderella. Wonderella is far less demanding on me but SAC Ellen has actual sex with me.

Had sex with me.

What’s wrong with a man if he dreams about a cartoon semi-super hero and accidentally calls his real life lover Wonderella a few times?

Not much, really. It’s not like I called her by an ex-wife’s name, and with ten of those there’s a good chance that any sex-fueled misnomer hits on an ex’s moniker. I can’t figure what the big fucking deal is with that.

After ten days of emergency psycho therapy sessions intensely focused on my, “Wonderella issues,” as Dr, Sam I. Am-Johnson terms it, I’m even more confused than ever.

Take today’s special session. I said, “Look, Sammy, I can’t figure what the fuck it is that I did that’s so wrong here.”

“Mooner, there is nothing I can do for you if you can’t see what your problem is,” was the best I could get for $400.00 an hour.

“Then why am I paying you 400 bucks an hour?” A reasonable question to my mind.

“You are paying me to help you get better, my dear ex-husband.”

“So, again I ask. Why aren’t you helping me?” Reasonable I am, again.

“OK, Mooner,” Dr. Sam started. “Try this on for size: “I … can’t … help … you … if … you … don’t … know … what’s … wrong!”

My turn. “Alrighty then, try this on. I know that … you … are … a … giant … bitch!”

I stormed out of her office, signed my bill for $400.00 and slammed the front door as I left.

But I’m digressing the point of this bloggie posting. Squatlo paid me a visit last night and left a comment to my bloggie. It was a comment that displayed keen insight and a sharp humor. I was impressed and tuned-in to his sight at and fell in love with his mostly political humor and informative stuff. He’s almost as prolific as me and likely way smarter.

Check him out and see what’s up, the giant flaming asshole. I say asshole because I spent several hours reading his stuff and forgot to call SAC Ellen at an appointed time. She agreed to go to lunch with me and try to explain to me why the Wonderella dealie chaps her ass so much.

But like I say, Squatlo stepped into my life and caused me to shit in my own mess kit.


I’m lucky I’ve got the Squirt. I can’t understand half of what the little shitbird says to me, but she’s loyal. As long as I share my Carta Blanca beers with her, we’re best dog and friend.

Manana, y’all.

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Mooner’s Thoughts Stolen; Who Gives A Shit

Sunday, January 2nd, 2011


So. Happy New Year from everyone here to Loonyland. We had a big party in the barn out to the ranch for our bringing-it-in shindig, and the final body count topped a hundred. The list of party-goers reads like a who’s-who from Central Texas, if you like your who’s to be interesting. Most of the attendees who I haven’t already mentioned here to my bloggie shall go likewise unmentioned here today.

“Why?” you might ask.

“Simple,” my best reply. “They are prominent characters in my soon-to-be-published book.”

Since I’ve made numerous promises to not reveal book stuff here, I won’t reveal any book stuff here. I will say that a good time was had by all and that I managed to keep Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry alive while in my Gram’s presence. A Herculean task, accomplished with a cunning and grace not owned by me. I borrowed enough of Streaker Jones’ cunning and a full measure of SAC Ellen’s grace, which allowed me to keep my pet ostrich and giant pig out of harm’s way for the night.

Or should that be, “…not owned by myself…”? That grammatical dealie is a tough one for me (myself?). I don’t think I had ever said the word, “myself,” until sometime in the 1990’s when sports figures and actors and other celebrities started using it to death. Now, I hate the word and work hard to not use it. I’ll rewrite a sentence ten times to get tenses and shit reorganized so I can say “I,” or, “me,” or, “mine.”

Of course, the fucking word police– in the guise of a fancy-pants editorator, red-lines and scolds me about tense shifts and that sort of shit.

That’s another sound reason to not have this bloggie edited. Which reminds me of what I wanted to tell you today.

I have to mention the Non Sequitur cartoon empire. Mr. Wiley, at is another of my heroes and likely a same thinker as me. He recently published a cartoon in our local newspaper, the Austin American Statesman, and the subject was a perfect impression of one of my thoughts on religious ideology.

Two people are looking, listening to a third guy who is standing before a large sand sculpture of a big guy. At least I think it was a sand sculpture, but it might have been sculpted from rock, or paper machete, or maybe Rice Crispy bars.

And I know I likely spelled the glued paper sculpting process incorrectly as well as screwed grammar eight ways from Sunday in that last paragraph, but I don’t really give a shit. You understood exactly what I meant, right?

So, who really needs a fucking editor– right?

Holy shit!


Gram gave me a new potion for the new year she calls, Pay ‘Tention, Mooner, Yer All Disco-bubble-ate-up. I took it early Friday afternoon, and I’ve been focused ever since. Until now. Looks like it has a thirty-six hour efficacy.

So, the caption above the cartoon says, “The Dawn of a New Religion.” The guy who’s talking says to the other two, “Commandment number one is: Don’t ever question what I say.”

Now. I know that I didn’t say any of that word-for-word from the cartoon, but you get the sentiment. And while Wiley didn’t steal the idea from me word-for-word, he stole it from me none the less. I’ve been telling people for years that religions must be questioned, and since they don’t allow themselves to be questioned, they can’t be fully trusted. I should have hyphenated none-the-less.

Wiley and John Kelso, another stealer of my ideas who also publishes in the local paper, manage to routinely print stuff that mirrors my own thinkings. When I bitched about this thievery in my morning emergency therapy session, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson says to me, she said, “First off, Mooner, these special sessions are for us to work our way through your Wonderella issues, so you need to focus your crazy-assed mind on that.”

Then she ponders my bitching for a minute and says, “As for Misters Wiley and Kelso, I think that neither of them is quite as screwy as you, neither of them has spent any time locked away in a mental hospital, and you have never had an original thought in your life.

“Has it ever dawned on you that when you accuse someone of stealing your ideas, that it is actually you who has stolen their ideas?” my brain doctor/ex-wife finally finished saying.


Sometimes simple words, simply said are best, so I decided to say it again. “Bitch.”

“Well I might be a bitch, Mooner Johnson, but you, my good man, are a lunatic redneck fuckball and just as crazy as they get. And your time is up.”

I signed the receipt to add $400.00 to my psycho therapy bill on my way out. For those who don’t know, I understand that it’s “psychotherapy” and not psycho therapy. But it’s my favorite prank on Dr. Sam I. Am because she hates it when I separate the psycho from his therapy.

My point, should I have one, is that I am actually OK when other people steal my ideas, or thoughts. It gives me a little validation, and validation is important to a crazy person. Knowing that Kelso and Wiley are not of the same ranting, raving lunatic measure as me lends additional validation. If smart, successful and already published personages can have the same thoughts as me– there is hope for my book to be a hit!

Maybe that paragraph should have included a myself or two, but again, like my Gram always says, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Me, my, I, mine an even myself– they’s all me, myself, and mine.”

You have got to love that old bag’s twisted logic.

Me, I’m having a cold Carta Blanca beer to prep me, myself, for today’s meaningless football games. Manana, y’all.

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Wonderella Problem Continues; Mooner Still Clueless

Thursday, December 30th, 2010


So. This Wonderella business is getting out of hand. I just finished my sixth emergency Wonderella psycho therapy session with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, and I fear I’m worse off than before my daily session frequency was augmented. I was already on a five-days-a-week schedule for my routine issues so this double-up dealie should be showing some progress by now.

It’s not. In fact I think I’m getting worse. I can’t even begin to discuss with you the results of today’s session because I’m still lost from Wednesday. Yesterday I posted about the problem here to the bloggie, and SAC Ellen read it from her I-phone as she was stuck in traffic. She called to apologize, and told me that she might have jumped the stun gun when she got so pissed about the Wonderella Christmas gift.

“Come over to my place after you guys finish fishing. But drop Squirt off at her mom’s house first,” SAC Ellen told me. “I wouldn’t want her to be traumatized at the sight of what I have planned for you.”

I started to tell her that after spending a few nights listening to Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry oinking and snuffling in my closet, Squirt won’t be effected in the least with our stun gun sex-capades. My pig and ostrich are noisy lovers.

What I said instead was, “Oh boy, sex!”

We discussed what I should grab from the store for dinner– it was decided that a bison ribeye, baked potato and grilled asparagus would do the trick. Then she phone sexed me for a few minutes. That meant that she was still tied up in traffic.

As we were signing off the phone, I told her, “Don’t shave your legs.”

“Huh,” she said. “Why not?”

“Well,” I started, “if you’ve got a couple days of leg and crotchie beard, your whiskers will tug and pull at the stretchy material on the Wonderella suit. I love undressing you with all of that friction on imitation Lycra.”

Things got so quiet in my phone ear I thought she had hung up. I waited a minute, then said, “Are you rubbing one off? I know it’s been a few days.”

All I got in response for several minutes was dead air. “Hello– earth to SAC Ellen. Mooner to SAC Ellen, do you read me.”

“Read this!” she snapped at me. Then I heard the disconnect and got a dial tone.

I turned to Squirt, who was sitting beside me on the pier as we fished. We had three baited lines and the rods were in holders. I let Squirt watch the bobbers for bites, a task she performs with great relish.

“You going to call her back, Senor Mooner?” Squirt asked me.

“I’ll give her a minute to cool down and then I find out what I did this time. For the life of me I’ll never figure what goes on in a woman’s head.”

After waiting a few minutes, my cell phone rang. It was the witch music from the movie The Wizard of Oz. That’s my psycho therapist and ex-wife, Dr. Sam I. Am’s personal ring tone.

“What’s happening, Sammy babe?” I answered.

“What’s happening is that I’m completing a pre-admission form for Shoal Creek Mental Hospital in your name. SAC Ellen just called to tell me what you did.”

“Huh?” my best response.

“Mooner, you inappropriate asshole, have you not learned anything in your special sessions?”

Now me, I’ve many times gotten myself all tangled up by answering one of those kinds of questions without careful thought. Questions that start with, “Have you not,” or, “When you stopped,” are traps. The “have you not” dealie is the worst of all those trick question starters. It’s got the implied double negative and the tricky trap part all in one bundle. These kinds of questions require careful thinking.

I thought carefully.

“Well, I have learned something. Yes, is the answer to your question,” I told her.

More dead phone air.

“OK, smart ass, tell me what you have learned.”

See, I told you it was a trap.

“Weeeeellllllllll. I learned that a woman needs her man to be sensitive, he needs to listen and he needs to be patient.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I realized that those were the concepts from my regular therapy session, not the special session.

“Asshole,” she called me. “You are a crazy redneck fuckball, Mooner. Now call Ellen and tell her you’re sorry?”

Have you ever noticed how easily some women are to anger?

“OK, but what am I sorry for?”

This time the silence in my phone ear was preceded by the sound of a phone receiver getting slammed into its cradle on the other end.

“Well Squirt, my fuzzy little buddy. Looks like it’s you and me for another night alone. Let’s have one more Carta Blanca and then head home.”

“Por favor, Bwana Mooner. Me gusta tacos con pesca por supper.”

She’s a seriously cute puppy and a good companion. Manana, y’all.

PS– the link to Wonderella is:

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#wonderella Makes Trouble For Mooner; Mooner Is Clueless

Wednesday, December 29th, 2010


So. I have a new problem. This one confuses the ever-loving shit right out of me. I can usually figure out why something is wrong if you give me enough time. But I’ve been working on this dealie for several days and I still can’t find a logical reason why I’m in trouble.

Heres the deal. Go to and log-on to The Non-Adventures of Wonderella website. Go right now– I’ll wait for you. Spend an hour or so, and then come back here to see me.

Are you back yet? OK.

So. I started following on Twitter at #wonderella maybe a few months ago and logged-on myself. After I read everything published on the website, I started catching each new strip as it comes out. Then, one day I bought the book from the website.

I really like this comic and the tweets by #wonderella. I like them a lot. I converse about the entire Wonderella empire and tell most everyone I meet to tune in. I haven’t said anything here until now because I have been dealing with a Wonderella-related problem, and I’m quite honestly stumped by it.

To boil this problem down to its essence, about a month ago, I had a Wonderella costume made for SAC Ellen by the guys out to our hemp clothing factory. The boys at If You Can’t Smoke It, Wear It! did a great job. They used the new imitation Lycra fabric we just had patented, and it’s a near duplicate to the one Wonderella wears.

I gave it to SAC Ellen for Christmas. Wrapped in the same box was a bottle of her favorite body lotion, new batteries for her little non-lethal stun gun, and a brown tincture bottle of Gram’s newest potion she calls, Ya Won’t Wunder Where Yer Fella Is Iffn Ya Dose Him With This Right Here.

Squirt and I collaborated with Gram on this one. I wanted something special to give the SACster, and the Squirt wants to spend some extra time with my Gram to make an attempt to understand her.

When I told Gram of my plans and what Squirt desired, Gram said to me, she said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Squirt’s a cute little shit and I gotta make the P-cubed a potion fer her rumblanoid moritus anyway. Poor Penelope cain’t lift her arm over her head an it’s hurtin her sexin’.”

P-cubed is Gram’s lifelong best buddy, Penelope Paxton-Parades. My best guess is that the P-cubed is suffering a flare-up of her arthritis, and the lack of flexibility is limiting her conjugal gymnastics.

Anyway, when SAC Ellen opened her present, she asked me, “What the hell is this?”

I told her.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson was present at our Christmas this year and she scheduled me for an extra daily emergency psycho therapy session. We started Christmas day. Just so you know, an “emergency” session is where the good doctor charges me double my regular rate.

I’ve been incurring double-rate sessions often recently, but this one has causes that I’m not quite grasping. It’s not like the SACster and I haven’t role played in the bedroom before.

In today’s emergency therapy session I thought I had a breakthrough. “Oh, I get it,” I said. “SAC Ellen thought I wanted her to take Gram’s potion.”

Perfect logic in my mind. As a Special Agent in Charge for the US Department of Homeland Security, my lover can’t partake of my grandmother’s hallucinogenic concoctions. Makes perfect sense.

“Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am responded, “you are clueless. That will be $400.00, your time is up.”

That was an hour ago. Squirt was waiting for me in reception, so I grabbed her and we headed to the lake for a little fishing. Squirt loves to go fishing. She also loves Carta Blanca beer and almost as much as I do. I was just reading her one of the old Spenser novels by Robert Parker while we sat and waited for a bite. It was the book where Spenser meets Paul, the young man Spenser takes to train in how to be a man.

The two of them went to a Mexican place for dinner and Spenser drank a few cold Carta Blanca beers. Just like the Squirt and me.

I can’t get this problem off my mind. If any of you guys can figure it out, let me know. Manana, y’all.

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