Posts Tagged ‘Dr. Sam I. Am’

Mooner Johnson Productions Presents- Melanie

Tuesday, December 27th, 2011


So. I’m finally catching up with my stuff and am almost finished doing all the stuff I agreed to do for others. And I’ve already started this bloggie posting with a lie because I haven’t caught up with shit—mine nor that of others either one. Something about this particular holiday season makes me a co-dependent people pleaser who has no problems of his own, because it’s your problems that are mine. Said another way, I become the crazy neighbor lady who tries to make everyone else happy and solve everyone else’s problems because her world is problem free. Then she’s found in an alcoholic coma with her panty hose bunched at her ankles over to the ally behind the Stephen F. Austin Hotel.

I offer to do errands that I hate to do, I offer to do the fucking dishes after spending three days slaving at the hot stove cooking the Xmas meal, and I offer to assist anyone down on their luck with whatever it might be that I can do to help.

OK, I lied again. I love to cook, and big holiday meals are my specialties.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my first-of-ten ex-wives and long time psycho therapist, tells me that it is my guilty conscience that drives me to co-dependency. I don’t know why I do it the other fifty weeks of the year, but I do know why I do it at Xmas. And by-the- bye, I’m only saying “Xmas” because I know it offends some persons who are too fucking stupid to learn why Xmas is not a sacrilegious word. I have found in my personal observations that those offended by the word Xmas are assholes.

And nothing pleases me more than offending assholes. Xmas, Xmas, Xmas!!!

As a child, Xmas was a magical time for me. While we weren’t yet wealthy we had way plenty, so my Xmas days were filled with toys and food and glad tidings. They were also filled with visits to the Baptist church for spacial Xmas lectures by Pastor Browningwell. But I’m speaking of my pre-rape childhood here, so I almost enjoyed church. Almost.

Anyway, as a kid I led a bountiful existence—I was loved, well fed and had plenty of toys and shit. This one Xmas eve, Granddad and Daddy took Sister and me to the hardware store to get something Gram and Mother needed. I think it was a bundt cake pan and all they had was a metal ring pan dealie, and the same one I used to make the buttermilk cake that Melanie found for me.

On our way to the store, there was an old pick-up truck stalled on the side of the Farm-to-Market road, and there were a dozen or so Hispanics standing around it. The hood was open and steaming, and the Hispanic men were all standing with their heads under the hood.

“Looks like those Mezkins need help,” Sister said. Sister had a slight speech problem with long words as a child so she shortened her big words. She meant no disrespect.

“Yep,” Granddad said. “Looks like we’ve got a Mexakin truck to tow this morning.” My grandfather grew up with the word Mexakin because he was a redneck. He meant no disrespect either, and these people took none.

We chained their truck to ours—an old flatbed that I still use—and we towed them to town to the repair shop. Three of the things about my father and grandfather that are ingrained in my soul happened that morning. The first was when Granddad told Mike, the mechanic, that, “Yes, you will fix the Mexakin’s truck this morning.”

Mike blanched at Granddad’s words but did the work. The second thing that became a deep impression on me was when Daddy pulled the wad of bills he had secreted inside his coveralls and gave several to Mike. Daddy always kept a personal stash hidden from Mother’s eyes. When I asked my father why he kept a wad of money hidden from his wife, he said to me, he said, “You’ll be learning soon enough, Mooner.”

The third of the three things I can still remember vividly from that Xmas eve was that nothing else was said about it. I mean other than saying, “I hope that old truck makes it to California,” the paternal units of my family didn’t mention a thing to a soul about their good deed.

Sister and I, of course, carried on and on about the sweet pecan candy we were given by the little girl on her way to California. She had a little patch of cloth wrapped around several cookie-sized discs of the homemade candy that is a traditional Mexican sweet. I could tell that her little stash was as prized as my father’s, and she gave of it to us as freely as Daddy gave of his.

OK, look. I’m way off the reservation. This was supposed to be where I announce to you the next award to my Bloggie Roller. I’m installing Melanie over there ====}}}}}} to the Bloggie Roller today. I was going to do this several weeks ago but I decided I needed to try the buttermilk cake recipe she gave me before doing so. See, Melanie posts a recipe with every installment over there, and what if her recipes turned out to be shitty?

Wait. That would be an unfair assessment if a recipe turned to shit under my care. Following a recipe is one of the things I do worst. But the Squirt helped me with the recipe and Gram gave me one of her, “Will you fucking pay attention, Mooner” mushroom potions. The cake was incredible.

Melanie is a working mom who home-schools her kids. She pulls a night shift in a hospital up in Michigan, schools and raises children, blogs like mad, and cooks like a maniac. She has the sharp wit, big heart and the twisted sense of humor that attract me to a woman. And the recipes she posts will make your mouth water.

Please go give her a look. You’ll be glad you did. Mel’s got kidney stones in addition to her regularly-scheduled life, so she can use your distractions.

Kisses and hugs, Mel.

Me, I’m headed to deliver that last slice of Mel’s cake to a sick buddy, drop Mr. Dave’s laundry at the cleaners for dry cleaning, and then I’ve got a shopping list of shit to purchase from Victoria’s Secret. I’m just glad Victoria’s Secret is having a half-off sale for all the naughties the half-off old women placed on the list.

I’m in serious need of a Carta Blanca beer, so let me go get my shopping done and get back here to drink. Manana, y’all.

Hocus Pocus, I Got My Focus; Kurt Vonnegut At Fault

Friday, March 4th, 2011


So. I’ve had another Ah-ha! Moment, another epiphany if you will allow me a little literary latitude. I have uncovered the root causal impetus for my recent ADHD melt-down.

Starting last Friday night, a week ago, I started fritzing. Fritzing is when my normal jumble of thoughts and unfocused action/reaction responses to stimuli become super agitated. Imagine the million of so sperm hanging out in a man’s ball sack and nether regions when he has a sexual thought. All the little swimmers are down there in a state of high alertness, crammed together with little wiggle room for each.

If you looked at the little buggars through a microscope, you would see some activity and you could sense the pent-up tension, but most of the spermies are docile and but a few are agitated and seeking attention.

That’s the thoughts in my normal ADHD-addled brain. Like all of the many sperm (sperms?) in a nut sack, my thoughts are simultaneously abundant in population and with only several fighting for the attention of my focus.

Brain fritz is when the entire reservoir of my thoughts start pushing to the forefront of my conscious mind. Imagine of sack full of sperm after they just got the message to, “Prepare for launch!”

That would be my ADHD-addled brain on the fritz.

In a speech to her colleagues some years back, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson described my thoughts as follows, “In this particular adult male patient I can best describe my feelings as his therapist by telling you it is like working with a bathtub full of red wiggler worms. My attempts to find a tangible line of treatment is akin to identifying the fattest worm in the tub.”


But she’s right. Brain fritz is awful. Identifying it’s root causes is satisfying. And because last week’s episode of fritz was significant, having discovered the cause is most gratifying.

Last Friday, I picked up Kurt Vonnegut’s masterpiece Hocus Pocus. Since its first printing in 1990, I have read it maybe thirty times. My copy’s pages are stained and well worn from my readings.

Since 1990, I have had approximately thirty incidences of major league brain fritz. I didn’t put this together until last night when I picked up the book to start where I left off last Friday, when I went off the deep end.

I got maybe two sections into my rereading before my brain started misfiring. If you don’t know Hocus Pocus, Kurt uses a unique writing style wherein he compartmentalizes thoughts into segments– most short and some longer sections, and then he organizes the sections, which are segregated in the book.

The segments dance from subject-to-subject and bounce around in time. This book it written like I think. All helter-skelter and hocus pocus.

When I told Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson about this in my regular therapy session, she says to me, she says, “Wow Mooner, now you know what it’s like for those of us who must put up with you.”

I told you she’s a bitch.

“Bitch,” I called her.

“Look, you are catching additional ADD from the book in the same way we catch ADHD from you. Your contagious ADHD is contagious to you.”

Then she starts laughing maniacally.


Basically, it seems that I’m allergic to myself when I encounter behavior patterns that mimic my brain. How fucking sick is that?

But I caught the problem early and knowing it was caught has limited damages. I’m feeling really good. Reckmonster is getting back into the dating scene and I want to help her. I think she needs to have all of her potential dates get on the Skype machine with me and do an interview. I need to assist her in weeding that garden.

Holy shit do I feel good. I’mma have myself a frosty cold Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

#ADDA: Mooner For President

Saturday, December 11th, 2010


So. I have recently become aware of the group known as #ADDA, which is short for Attention Deficit Disorder Association. Their motto is, “Helping adults with AD/HD lead better lives.”

At least I think you’d call it a motto. Maybe it’s important enough to be their creed. Of course, it might also be unimportant in the greater scheme of things and simply be a saying.

Anyway, I went to their website and blog and found E-stuff that shows a high degree of organization and professionalism. You could see the attention to detail, how they stayed with their style and the lack of typographical errors.

My antennas started twitching instantaneously.

For starters, the hyphen they place between the AD and the HD is the telltale sign of a mental health professional. I could recognize their tracks if I was blindfolded and had my hands tied behind my back. Like when you find bear shit in the woods you can be reasonably certain that a bear was there. It is possible that some silly fuckball moved a pile of bear shit just to screw with people, but I find that highly unlikely.

I mean really– will you find enough people who can distinguish between a pile of bear shit, and say a load dropped by a guy looking for bear shit to pick up and move to fake people out, to have a large enough census to make it worth the effort? Not many piles of fake bear shit.

As for calling the ADHD “AD/HD”, we chronic sufferers will never separate our deficits from our disorder. Won’t do it. Hell, I can’t do it.

Mental health professionals, on the other hand, have no trouble with attempting to break the bonds that bind us up. People like Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my ex-wife and psycho therapist. She absolutely hates it when I separate her psychos from their therapy, my favorite joke, but she gains a certain relish from hyphenating my malady.


I asked Sammy about ADDA in my Saturday emergency session this morning. “They are quite well respected in my community, Mooner. They can, and have, helped thousands of AD/HD sufferers lead better lives.” Then she added, “That’s their motto.”

I guessed that one right. “But it’s not run by ADHDites, it’s a bunch of mental health professionals. They need to feature stuff from crazy people so they can better relate to us.”

“Look, Mooner,” she started, “don’t get revved up over this. It’s not your fight.”

When I looked away, she showed some awareness on her face– the look I get when she’s caught me up to something. “Mooner, what are you planning?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just thinking of who all I need to get holiday presents for. What with all of the Christians and Jews and Muslims and Buddhists in my life, I don’t feel right calling it Christmas any more.”

Now I get the stern look that says, “You are fucking with me, Mooner.”

“Are you fucking with me, Mooner?” she asks.

“You’re right,” I tell her. “I should have said I was thinking of all the persons for whom I need to get presents.”

“Mooner, I’m warning you.”

I look away and don’t answer again.

“Mooner, do I need to lock you up to keep you out of trouble until Christmas?”

When I don’t answer this time she says to me, she says, “You know Shoal Creek Mental Hospital s number 2 on my speed dial.” To underscore her point, she picks up her handset and points a prettily-manicured finger at the 2 on her dial.

I have always liked her hands. She’s small-boned anyway, but her hands have always been delicate– long and sexy. Today she’s got Santa Claus red nail polish tipping each nail. She’s never lost a fingernail so she can get them very sharp. I still have daydreams about when we were married and she would scratch my back.

“Mooner!!! Answer me!!!” With this, she touches the magic 2 on her dial.

“Fine,” I say. “I was just thinking about a hostile takeover of the ADDA.”

Now what I’ve got looking at me are twin laser beams tracking from normally beautiful hazel eyes. “Oh for crap sakes. Leave them alone, Mooner. Promise me you will leave them alone.”

“Fine,” I say again. “But I’m going to run for office of something.”

“No, you are not. In fact don’t you even join the ADDA except under my direct supervision.”

“Bitch,” I say to myself.

“I may be a bitch, but you’ll be in a bitch of a mess if you screw with the ADDA.”

“Fine,” I say one more time. “But I’m not making any more promises.”

“And that’s fine with me. Now, let’s talk about your problems,” my therapist says.

“Well, how about I start with the obnoxious bitch that I pay to assist me with my mental health issues. The over-priced, pushy bitch one.” I am a seriously funny guy.

“Oops, sorry Mooner. Your time is up.”

Actually, I’m releived because I have a busy day. I rise from my chair and she adds, “Oh, by the way. Did I tell you that I’m now charging $480 per hour for Saturday emergency sessions?”

“Bitch.” It was all I had in me.

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

Psychotherapy Lies Part 2

Monday, December 6th, 2010


So. Psycho therapists will lie to you. Go figure. The sad thing is that I think that most of them believe their bullshit. Like Dr. Sam I. Am.

When she tells me that how I react to getting raped as a child is more important than my having been raped is, I’m choosing to not think of it as a lie. I’m choosing to call it “fuzzy logic of the over educated who mean well”. Let’s call it FLZOEWMW, for short. OK, let’s call it FLMW for shorter still.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, MD/PHD and Board Certified head shrinker is a wonderful woman– a woman who managed to stay married to me for twenty years before giving up all hope. She’s loving and caring, and thoughtful and smart, and dedicated to helping all of her patients get better.

She scored in the top ten-percentile in all of her education, and all of her graduate degrees came with highest honors. She’s been voted Best Psychotherapist In Austin by readers of the Austin Chronicle too many times to bother counting, is well respected by her peers and all of that other blah, blah and blah.

But sometimes, she simply doesn’t get the basic structure of a problem. Sometimes she focuses on the curative aspects of a problem and misses the import of the cause and effect parts. This child rape business is a perfect case in point.

My position is simple. If my Boy Scout leader, a respected Deacon of the Baptist church that sponsored my Troop, hadn’t decided to be inappropriate and play house with me on a camping trip, then I would not have spent the rest of my life acting inappropriately in response. Again, a simple concept as I conceptualize.

By the way, I was a member of Troop 69, and that is the absolute God’s truth. I had no idea about any of the 69 sexual references at the time, but I now envision my asshole Scout Leader reveling in that special joy as he relived his escapades.

I’m digressing from my point, again. Point is, no rape– no reaction to rape.

OK, I get the response. I get that if I had found a way to accept the fact that the asshole stuck his dick in my face and then, and in an act of brave humanity forgiven him, I would not act inappropriately because of that event. My inappropriate behavior could be linked to some other causal issue. Like my ADHD. I get all that.

However, I must say, “FLMW!” It’s OK to try to help me feel better and give me a path to healing. But don’t lie to me. It’s just like that other psycho therapist lie. “Your therapy is most effective when it is somewhat painful to pay for the session.”

Who are they kidding with that one? It seems to be tied to the old adage that something is worth what you pay for it, and I know that to be true to a point. But I can tell you this with absolute certainty. The only things I get extra from my new rate of $175/hour as compared to my old $150 rate is heartburn and aggravation. And the desire to break $1,695 crockery. I just picked up the replacement I broke Friday and the price has gone up on that as well.

Potter says to me, he said, “Look Mooner. Maybe you won’t break it if I keep raising the price. These pots are my babies, for shitsakes.”

In my eyes, that’s a dealie wherein the price effects how I feel about the endeavor. This is a case of the reaction having more import than the cause.

Here’s another lie. “You will feel better as soon as you accept yourself.”

Are you fucking kidding me? I accept myself just fine. It’s all those Baptist right-wing Republican shitwads that don’t accept me that gives me the squirts. If those fuckballs would go away, or accept me for who I am, my life would be great.

Or how about this one? “Electro-shock therapy doesn’t hurt.”

Fine, OK, I’m with you. How about we do a quick demo on your shaved torso just to calibrate the equipment. Huh, whadda ya say?

Or this one. “Your lobotomy will be a temporary condition Mr. Bush. It will only last eight years.”

I’m running out of steam. Why don’t you guys tell me your psycho therapy lies and I can get pissed about them. Or maybe if I drink more cold Carta Blanca beers I’ll find a way to accept myself and forgive my transgressor. Manana, y’all.

Psycho Therapy Sucks; I Need Carta Blanca Beer

Sunday, December 5th, 2010


So. I was required to undergo a Saturday morning psycho therapy session with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, the punishment phase resulting from my near arrest in the Great Leaf Caper. Squirt and I were unfairly accused, and punished, for returning leaves to the neighbor’s yard after the neighbor’s landscape service crew blew them into Dr. Sam’s yard.

The landscape crew’s actions were in retaliation to a little incident that occurred last May, or June, that involved one of the crewman’s balls and the tiny, sharp teeth that reside in the small, yet amazingly strong jaws of the Squirt.

Anyway, I have felt that my ADHD has been mostly in regression, as my digressions have been fewer and farther between. In fact, the last digression I remember even having was when SAC Ellen and I were in bed one night last week starting sex. I’m unsure what the problem was, but I was deep into foreplay one minute, and sitting in my car at the stoplight there to RR2222 and Balcones the next. I was wondering why I was alone and feeling sexually frustrated.

I punched speed dial for SAC Ellen’s apartment to find out, but all I got was the recorded message. When I got home, I tried again but still no answer, which made me worry. So, I drove back over there to check on her. When I got there, I walked to her front door and there was a note pinned by the doorbell.

Since a situation just like this has happened before, I pulled the note from the door and held it up to the porch light so I could read her message. “Not tonight, you inappropriate shitball. No more sex until you apologize.”

It wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular, but I’m reasonably certain the note was addressing me. When I was back the second time in my car– stopped at the light there to RR2222 and Balcones, my cell phone rang. “Hello,” I answered.

I have always liked “Hello” as a phone greeting. All of that other bullshit is stupid when you answer a personal phone, if you ask me. Why say your name when you answer your own fucking phone?

Anyway, SAC Ellen spent the time it took for me to drive back to the ranch describing precisely what it was I would not be doing with her because I am such an inappropriate shitball.

Which brings me back to my Saturday morning therapy session.

Since I have not been ADHD brain fritzing and doing stupid shit because I digress or fail to pay attention, when Dr. Sam asked me why I fucked up with the entire leaf thingie– I had no readily available answer.

“Would you like a little nudge with this one, Mooner?” she asked me.

Now me, a psycho therapy participant in thousands of sessions held over decades, both in and out of confined mental health facilities, I am always hesitant to respond to a question such as the one now posed.

“Maybe,” I answered.

Of course, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my therapist and ex-wife for all of the mentioned decades, feels no need to hesitate the enforcement of a nudge without permission. “Mooner, you are spending so much time talking about the Pope and his silly positions regarding priests’ molesting children. I have been reading that blog business of yours, and I have to tell you that you are acting as if you are consumed with it.”

“Bullshit,” my typical clever retort.

“OK, mister, how many times have you blogged about child molestation?”

I had to think. “Maybe thirty since May,” my best guess.

“I see,” she says– chin in hand, leaning forward with her top crossed leg tapping its foot in the air in a little staccato.

“You don’t see shit,” I told her. “I’m over all of that. I just want to spread the word and maybe help fix the problem.”

“Mooner, how can you be so clueless after all of these years. You won’t ever get over your own molestation until you can fully forgive your molester.”

I just sat there staring into space, burning holes in her wall with what I’m told is my hot-eyed look. She gets this frustrated expression that frequents her face in my sessions, and she says to me, she says, “Look in my eyes Mooner.”

I looked into her eyes. “Like this?” I asked.

“No, silly, like you are going to pay attention and listen to what I say.”

I adjusted my ass in my seat and re-looked into her eyes. “That’s better,” she told me. “Now listen to me. It isn’t the fact that you were raped as a child that has fucked you up so badly. It is how you react to getting raped that fucks things up.”

Huh? I’m sure that I must have heard this before since having been raped as a child is a recurring theme in my therapy. I can’t trace thought to memory. “That’s a lie,” I said.

I stood up from my chair and this time I shouted. “That’s a fucking lie. No bomb, no godammed explosion. So fuck you!”

As I stormed out of her office, I grabbed a vase from its pedestal and crashed it on the floor. This action will cost me another $1,575.00 plus tax tacked on to my $175.00 session bill. I know the precise cost of the vase because I buy them often. I’m on a first-name basis with the potter.

I’ve been thinking about the lie my psycho therapist told me and I’m now thinking that she lies often. I’ll drink a few Carta Blanca beers and write down some more therapist lies.

Manana, y’all.

@ColleenLindsey Alerts; James Frey Is Major Shitball? A Dinner Story

Saturday, November 13th, 2010


So. The Squirt and I, SAC Ellen, Gram, Sister and Anna the Amazon, Mother and Aunt Hilda, and Squirt’s mom- Doctor Sam I. Am-Johnson, had dinner last night out to the ranch. Everyone was responsible for one dish except for me. I was responsible for my own dish plus one for Squirt. Even though Sam was there, I’m a better cook so I always prepare her, and my, dog’s dishes.

I’m usually OK with cooking for the dogs because they typically have less refined and simpler tastes. But the Squirt and I have been spending considerable time together, and it seems that her palate has moved from grade school to entering college freshman rapidly.

We always draw cards to see who prepares what, so when I drew a “Starch” card for myself and Squirt plucked one titled, “Main Course”, I was unconcerned. “Alrighty now, Miss Squirt. Tell me what we’re gonna make for the main dish and I’ll make a complimentary starch side.”

She cocked her head sideways, which makes her one renegade ear flap out like a bird’s broken wing, and looked me square in the eye. “Mi gusta osso bucco con barany, Monsieur Mooner.”

“Huh,” my best response. “Osso bucco with brains?”

“No, no, no,” she laughed. “Kein dummer mann, mitt lammen. You know borrego, kondo,” and then she laughed some more.

“Oooh, with lamb. Barany must be a Slavic language, right? Hungarian?”

“Si, Bwana Mooner.” Now she’s looking at me with a face showing something like pride.

“Yea, I’m starting to understand you better. I think that might mean my sanity is slipping.”

This comment by me brought a hush to the kitchen, and got six women’s heads bobbing “Yes”.

This also gets me more puppy guffaws, and then Squirt gets into her “sit pretty” pose. “Cerveza Carta Blanca, por favor.”

My god but she’s a cute little shit. I popped a cap and served her a thimble-full of amber gold from my palm. She stuck her tongue into the little pool of beer and just let it sit. The beer fused most of its carbonation into orbs that latched to her taste buds like soap bubbles on a plastic blow ring.

She shut her eyes and made a noise that sounded like, “Mmmmm,” and slurped the beer in the single lap, then giggled. “Mas cerveza, Senor.” More a demand than request.

“Unh uh, little lady. Just because you have slowed down to savor the master brewer’s efforts does not mean you get to over-drink. But I’m proud of you for listening.” I’ve been teaching Squirt how to better enjoy life as we spend time together. I feel like the father of a young daughter- steering her towards life’s pleasures. Teaching her to live with gusto and to not compromise her beliefs.

I gulped a big slug of our beer and asked, “Since you used Hungarian on me, I guess you want me to use that smoky paprika we got from Whole Foods the other day.” Getting excited tail wagging and dancing, I knew I was on target.

“And los tartufi, OK?”

When I didn’t answer her immediately she said, “Please, please please. I adore truffes.”

“Alright, for shitsakes, but you owe me one for this. How about I grade some truffle onto the platter before service. Will that do it?”

It did, and that made me think that maybe Squirt was already a culinary upperclassman. But if she starts asking for French pressed duck- then I carve a line on the cutting board. I’m not very squeamish about stuff, but the sound of those baby duck bones crushing in a sterling silver press is unsettling.

Anyway, I made a risotto with eggplant and sage from the garden, and Parmi-Reg and some heavy cream to match the richness of Squirt’s lamb dish. Everyone else fixed simple veggie dishes that lightened and balanced the meal.

I talked Sam into leaving Squirt with SAC Ellen and me so she can go fishing with us this morning. Squirt loves to go fishing.

Anyway, I need to ice the Carta Blanca and dig some worms from the garden.

Manana, y’all.

Oh, and Ps. @ColleenLindsey has alerted me to this James Frey asshole. Is all of this for real?

Rick Perry and Sarah Palin Combine Intellect; Failed Effort To Make Half A Brain.

Thursday, November 11th, 2010


So. I thought I was done with abortion-influenced bloggie postings for awhile, but once again my thoughts aren’t worth a shit. Actually, had I known that Heroic Media was having another confab, this one up to Dallas, I might have avoided my latest ant-anti-abortion arrest here in town.

The asshole known as Texas Governor Rick Perry and his main string puller, Sarah “Just Call Me Lobotomized” Palin, were again speakers at a Heroic Media rally. Before I go any further, or farther either one, let me say this”

“Fuck Rick Perry and Sarah Palin too!”

Heroic Media are the fine Christian right-wing religious Republican fuckballs who bring us those sweet commercials about how all pregnant girls/women are better off with adoption than abortion. Sweet sentiments and OK with me if they would simply stop when they plaster their message in the media.

However, since they are fuckballs, they have determined that womens’ abortion rights are Heroic Media’s to take away. These gatherings are one of their methods to contribute to the politicians evil enough to support them. Like little Ricky and Sarah Poo. Pay big speaker fees and avoid all of that Tom Delay aggravation.

I’m warning you guys again. Rick and Sarah are running for the oval office and I’m sick about it. Together, these two have a combined IQ of maybe fifty, so together they are almost as smart as GW Bush.

Which reminds me. Colleen Lindsey Tweeted that Bushie needs to do something for our returning Vets. My suggestion, OK my latest suggestion, is for GW to donate all of the proceeds from his book sales to our proud Veterans.

Anyway, my ADHD is on the fritz and I can’t stay focused on anything. I forgot that Squirt was grounded until Friday at midnight, so I stopped by and picked her up for lunch. We were sitting outside Guerros Taco Bar down on South Congress having some queso and chips and salsa, and secretly sharing a Carta Blanca beer.

And don’t go getting pissy on me about feeding beer to the ten-pound language trainee. She gets maybe a half-thimble full from each bottle and I swill the rest. She simply refuses to eat Mexican food without Carta Blanca, and I’m with her on that. “Me gusta cerveza Carta Blanca con mi comida especiale de Mexicana, Senor Mooner.”

I was wondering why she didn’t tell me that in half a dozen languages, when these two nice ladies approached our outside table and remarked about my cute little poochie, and asked to take a picture of us together. In spite of the fact that I hate the word “poochie”, Squirt and I struck a pose with our fresh beer.

The ladies took a couple cell phone photos, and started laughing as they walked away. Five minutes later I’m still wondering what was so funny when my cell starts ringing. “Hello.” I answered.

“You sonofabitch. Do you even know what day it is?”

“Oh, Hi Sammie,” I answered. “It’s a beautiful Thursday afternoon, and the Squirt and I are having a blast.”

“Jesus, Mooner, but you are hopeless. Did you forget that she’s grounded?”


“One of my patients sent me a photo of the two of you drinking beer together in the middle of the day. For shit sakes, Mooner, do you ever think before you fuck up?”

I could tell my ex-wife and psycho therapist was pretty pissed that I took her dog on this outing, so I was careful with my answer. “I think I do.”

This gets me the sound of deep breathing and deeper sighs. “Oh fuck it. Have her home before ten tonight,” and she slammed the phone in my ear.

“Good news, Squirt, we’re free for the day. How about we go by and try to apologize to the Catholic Abortion Protest Lady. I’ve got my bull horn in the car, so we can talk to her from down the block.”

Restraining Order says we have to keep 250 feet away from her person, but we can make this work. Manana, y’all.

Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh in Lover’s Spat; Mooner’s Pig and Ostrich Stay in Closet

Tuesday, November 9th, 2010


So. It’s Tuesday,  I can’t see Squirt in person until Saturday, and I’ve got a problem. Squirt is grounded through Friday night for her part in getting us arrested over to the anti-anti-abortion protest. I had the cashier’s check delivered to Catholic Abortion Protest Lady’s lawyer earlier this morning, and I’ve got a hearing this afternoon to get my name cleared on this round of charges.

My problem is this. Since Squirt is grounded, she can’t come out to the ranch to translate for me, and Dixie isn’t talking to me. Well, she isn’t talking except to chew my ass out.

“Oh for shit sakes, Mooner,” she started the phone conversation last night. “I can’t leave you alone with that poor little puppy for one minute without you getting her in trouble.”

I was trying to think of something witty to say to the verbal assault I knew was coming, when Dixie added, “I don’t want to hear a single smart-ass comment from you, buster, so listen up. First, I trusted you to watch out for Squirt. She’s young and impressionable and for some insane reason she looks up to you.”

Deep dog sigh, then, “Second, I can’t keep taking care of your messes and do anything for myself. In my therapy, Dr. Sam I. Am is attempting to show me how to enjoy my senior years without the stress of being your dog. I can’t relax if I worry about Squirt.”

Deep sigh from me before I say, “It wasn’t my fault, Dixie. The Squirt thought I meant, ‘Kill the Catholic Abortion Protest Lady,’ when what I meant was, “Give the nice lady a little nip.’”

Now I get the deep rumble of a growl from my matronly Golden Retriever. “Mooner, you crazy, inappropriate asshole. Do you ever think before opening your mouth?”

Me, I’m thinking this question is rhetorical in nature, so I’m waiting for the punchline.

“Answer me. Do you?”

OK, not rhetorical. “Well, let me think for a minute.”

“Damn you, Mooner.” Then all I had was dead phone air.

Anyway, here’s my problem. I understand just enough of the domesticated American porcine language to order ribs and a BLT sandwich, and I comprehend even less of the ostrich. Why this is a problem is because I’m having problems with Rush Limbaugh the pig, and the ostrich Rick Perry.

For months on end now, the two of them have been hiding from Gram in the closet in my master bedroom. Gram has promised to make dinner, fine leather accessories and an assortment of luggage from their mangy carcasses if she can catch them.

I agreed to let them stay in my closet as long as it takes for Gram to simmer down. And for as long as they behave themselves.

They aren’t behaving. They keep denying it, but I think they are homosexual and in love with each other. While I’ve never caught them having actual sex, they snuggle like lovers when they sleep and the noises coming from behind the closet door can be quite disturbing.

I’ve been OK with all of this, but now they are fighting like a pair of grumpy old queens. Rush, the apparent “bear” of the pair, and Ricky, a very feminine bird, have turned my closet into the set of The Birdcage. Rush’s Robin Williams is mostly sensitive to Rick’s Nathan Lane, but I haven’t seen so many tears, or so much disgusted pig grunting in my life.

I’ve tried several times to get the boys on the Skype machine for a conference with Squirt. But the two of them are just too unhappy to discuss their problems on camera.

My attempts at helping them get through this lover’s spat are worthless. After ten failed marriages, I still can’t mitigate the disputes that occur between a man and a woman. I can’t even understand the differences between my closeted, apparently gay pets.

“Your sister is gay,” Rush Limbaugh oinked at me when he sought my help over the weekend. “Haven’t you learned anything?”

“But you say you aren’t gay, Rushie. What difference does Sister’s lesbianism have to do with your spat with Rick Perry?” All I got in return was a disgruntled grunt from his wrinkled snout.

Life would so much simpler if Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh would just come out of the closet. I need a Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

Anti-Anti-Abortion Dibacle; Punishment Fits Crime?

Monday, November 8th, 2010


So. I just finished my first psycho therapy session of the week and I’m feeling pretty good about myself. I convinced Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson to let me attend therapy sessions twice daily rather than have her commit me to the Shoal Creek Loonie Bin for a month’s stay.

Why I feel good about myself I don’t know. I just do. I want to say my good feelings stem from my psycho therapist’s understanding of my recent actions, but that’s not it. Sam said the only reason I escaped commitment and confinement was because she feels that Squirt is just as guilty as me, and they didn’t have room for both me and the dog at the mental hospital.

Maybe I’m just feeling good about being free.

I’m required to do some homework for therapy that includes restarting a journal. This I am unhappy about. A journal is like a diary except more manly. I’m required to write down each time I sense that I’m getting ready to do something stupid.

“Define ‘stupid’ if you can,” I asked my ex-wife and therapist.

After giving me another strong exposure to the angry psycho therapist glare, she says to me, she said, “Stupid, Mooner Johnson, is what you are when you think you’re being smart.”

“Oh for shit sakes, Sammy. I always try to think smart.”

“Sounds like you’ll be making a lot of journal entries.”

It took me a moment to grasp her meaning. “Bitch.” I really need to come up with a better response for moments like this.

“Ooooo, listen to Mooner’s intelligent repartee.” Then she added, “Suck it up big boy. I’m keeping a room reserved over at Shoal Creek Mental. You screw up one more time before Squirt is off her grounding….”

“Why’d you have to punish the Squirt, Sammy? She was just doing what she misunderstood me to tell her.”

“Don’t you question my parenting skills, Mooner. And don’t you dare go near her for the rest of the week.” Then she added, “That nice Catholic woman let you guys off the hook pretty easily. You’re lucky her church needs a new roof.”

“I think she’s planning to use the hundred grand to buy bingo cards. She plays with Gram and Mother at that bingo place down on Research near North Lamar.”

“Don’t you worry about any of that, buster. You just keep your distance from my dog.”

I got to thinking that maybe my ADHD was interfering with my life and decided that the actual blame for the abortion debacle was an ADHD dealie. I know Squirt takes things in their most literal sense, so I bet my ADHD distracted me and interrupted clear thoughts.

“Mooner, dammit!” Sam yelled at me. “You pay attention to me! I said to stay away from Squirt until Saturday.”

“Fine. But she’s doing some interpolating for me that needs to be done this week.”

Sam gives me the evil eye. “Alright, Mooner, but you do it on Skype. Do not go to my house.”

“I said fine.” Bitch, I thought to myself.

“And you have got to learn to do better than ‘Bitch’.”

Maybe I’m saying things out loud when I think I’m saying the to myself. [Journal entry: Am I saying things to myself out loud? Is that why I keep getting into trouble? Is it the ADHD?]

But I’m in too good a mood to be bothered. I’m ready for a Carta Blanca beer and some Skype time with the Squirt.

Manana, y’all.

Pretty Weather; Petty Problems. Jailed Again, Grumble, Grumble.

Saturday, November 6th, 2010


So. I’m trying to get my mind off of the election results and start thinking about everything I love about the fall months in Austin, Texas. These months are the best- warm days and cool nights, UT football, and fewer hours needed in the garden.

But this year, UT football is in shambles. I’m OK with that, because we are always so good that we need a year like this to help keep us centered. Having an off year gives perspective and makes you willing to work harder to get better. Life just works that way- some good, some bad.

Knowing that doesn’t brighten my mood any more than admitting that I put myself in dubious situations makes me feel better as I sit in jail. As I sit in jail, waiting for somebody to bail me out after another unjust arrest. Like last night, as a perfect example.

See, there is a clinic where abortions are performed near Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house, and there are always protesters standing in the drainage ditch in front of the building. Among the usual protesters is this one particular Catholic lady, and this lady and I have a history. The two of us have tangled swords with cross words many times.

Maybe we crossed swords in a tangle of words, but I think you catch my drift.

Her Catholic brainwashing is so complete, and her anger at anything contrary so vehement, that she lacks any ability to engage in polite discourse with a naysayer. The attitudes and platitudes emit from this woman in waves.

Attracting me like a bee to a lavender field.

I was on my way to Sammy’s to collect the Squirt, and the two of us had plans to go fishing before going to dinner with SAC Ellen. As I passed, I saw Catholic Abortion Protest Lady standing with her anti-abortion sign in front of the clinic. I slowed my car to a crawl, honked and waved.

Since honking usually demonstrates support for the protest, she waved enthusiastically and with a huge grin on her face.

Then it registered that she had just been nice to me, and she shook her fist, angrily, and then did the unthinkable. She flipped me the bird.

“Hoo-ya!” I said out loud to myself. “Somebody’s having a very bad day.”

When I got to the house, Sam and Squirt met me at door. “Come in for a minute, Mooner,” my ex-wife/psycho therapist/fun killer said. “The weather has gotten nice, and you need to be reminded that this great weather brings out the worst in you.”


“Don’t look at me with that childish bewilderment on your face, Mooner Johnson. I showed you the historical arrest statistics last October.”

“Oh, for shitsakes, Sammy,” I responded. “I’m having a great day and I don’t need you to ruin it for me.”

She gives me the psycho therapist evil eye and looks down at Squirt. “And you, young lady, you listen up as well. I let you go with Mooner because I expect you to help keep him out of trouble, not to spur him on.”

Now, she gives us each the psycho therapist evil eye- looking from Squirt to me with this reptilian glare. It reminded me of this one time I was in the swamp over to Louisiana.

“You look like a crocodile staring down his lunch, Sammy. Verrrry sexy.”

“Get out of here you two. And remember what I said.”

“Vas es los?” Squirt asked me as we walked to the car.

“I think she means stay out of trouble.”

Anyway, I just happened to have my anti-anti-abortion posters in my trunk, and the Squirt does love to anti-anti protest. So when I asked if she wanted to stop by to visit Catholic Abortion Protest Lady for a few minutes, she wagged and wriggled almost out of her seatbelt.

“Si, Monsieur Mooner. Mi would like that muy mucho.”

I had these sandwich board signs made for Squirt and myself for when we anti-anti protest together. For yesterday’s festivities, I chose for myself the one that says, “The Catholic Church is an abortion,” on the one side, and “Fuck the Pope,” on the other. Both sides of this sign accurate expressions of my thoughts.

Squirt’s sign says the same thing on both sides, “Bet you wish he was aborted!”, and then there’s a caricature drawing of my face.

Clever, no?

Squirt looks totally fucking adorable in her sandwich sign, running to keep up with my steady pace as we walk the protest grounds.

As usual, Catholic Abortion Protest Lady kept bumping into me with purpose, an act of petty violence that makes my efforts worthwhile. But then she starts crowding Squirt, bumping and knocking her over.

“Bite the bitch if she does that again,” I instructed Squirt. “She has no right to pick on you.”

Have I ever told you about Squirt’s teeth- how sharp they are and how powerful her miniature jaws are?

They placed us in the same cell after our arrest, and we spent most of the time settling on our story for when Dr. Sam I. Am arrived to bail us out. But we also tried to decide precisely which of our actions actually led to the arrest.

Squirt thought it was because I didn’t distinguish between biting to scare the Catholic lady, and biting to kill the Catholic lady.

Me, I’m thinking if I took the signs out of my car trunk and store them in the barn, then I wouldn’t do any anti-anti protesting without aforethought.

But look. I was charged with, “Inciting a viscous dog attack.” There was blood and screaming and shredded clothing and shit, but nobody lost a leg, or anything. It wasn’t like Squirt killed anyone. I admit it appeared she tried, but her actions were not a direct reflection of my intent.

Anyway, we’re out. But Squirt is grounded for a week, and I am going to start the community service I just know is coming my way when Jeff pleads me out of this mess.

Drink Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Let’s Play Nurse

Friday, October 1st, 2010


So. As my gorgeous butt continues to heal, I continue to be dumb. Count the number of “Be careful until you heal properly” warnings as I received from my caregivers over to North Austin Surgical Center, and you can determine the number of times I’ve ignored said warnings.

“Look, Mooner,” Dr. Ashworth carefully instructed me as I lay in my recovery room bed. “Don’t write anything and post it on your blog until after you finish with the scrip for pain meds I wrote.”

I think I remember him asking me to pay attention, but then he added, “You will not be thinking clearly until a few days after those medications are out of your system. Don’t write something you’ll regret.”

Must have drifted off because I hear, “Mooner! Pay attention for once!” This was barked at me by the good Doctor.

Now patiently, he says, “You say enough questionable things when you’re stone cold sober. Please don’t write anything for at least a week.”

Sage advice basil’y ignored.

I just did a word count of everything I have written since returning back to the ranch since last Friday’s operation, and I clocked 47,568 words. When you take off the 19,226 “hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh’s” that my nose typed that one time I passed out, you still get some pretty impressive numbers.

But as a fully responsible adult, I need to make an apology for a mistake I made earlier this week. When I was thanking my team of caregivers, I mistakenly said that Stacie took time from her busy schedule to gather names for me, when it was Shelly. Shelly wasn’t a nurse on my team this time, but she did the follow-up call to make sure I was doing OK.

Sorry, Shelly.

I wonder why I think nurses are so sexy. In my numerous visits to hospitals and emergency clinics throughout life, I think I have thought about sex with each of them. Maybe that’s a mind trick my brain plays to take itself off the anxieties associated with anticipated pain.

Maybe I’m a horny old goat with no impulse control.

I think it might be that I have always thought that nurses and other medical professionals know things about the human body that we non-nurse types don’t. In my mind, a nurse will know how to have fun in ways unimagined by the untrained. Otherwise, why would, “Let’s play Doctor, Susie,” every have become so popular?

Sounds like I have some research to do.

Dr. Ashworth also advised, “And whatever you do, don’t sneeze.”

When your ass already feels like your neighbor parked his 1992 Dodge Ram pickup there, using your prostate and coccyx as curbs and resting the front bumper on your bladder, what’s to fear from a little sneeze?

E-mail me if you want to know the answer.

“And don’t do any heavy lifting or straining and end up back here again, Mooner.” This from one of my nurses. “You’ve got a cute ass, but I’ve seen enough of it for now.”

This one I got right, except for now understanding the limiting factors on the word “strain.” Who would know that mowing Dr. Sam I. Am’s lawn is a strain?

Anyway, I feel better than yesterday, and that was all I was promised. And I’m ready to move on from all of these sore ass discussions.

So, I got a call from one of my five Project Coordinators over to CreateSpace Publishing. I bit the bullet and signed up to publish with them, and Caitlin, not affiliated with any of the Vivo Caitlins, called.

She just wanted to say, “Hi,” and walk me through the process. She carefully walked me through the many steps required of us both to have a successful book publishing experience. She was knowledgeable, helpful and supportive.

As we were going through all of this, I had a renewed appreciation for all the hard work traditional agents and publishers extend on behalf of authors. This publishing stuff is a lot of work.

She told me that I had a team, and that my team was always at my beckon during business hours. Either by phone or I-net, someone would be there promptly to assist me. I asked her if my team had a name.

“Apollo,” she said. “We’ve always been Team Apollo.”


Anyway, my ass is throbbing and I need to take my mind off the discomfort. Maybe I’ll take the Squirt and a cooler of Carta Blanca beer fishing. I’m keeping her company full-time while Dr. Sam I. Am takes a vacation. When I asked her what she wanted to do today, she said to me, she says, “Moi voulez go fischen mit you, Bwana Mooner.”

Fishing it is. Manana, y’all.

ADHD is a Terrible Thing to Waste; Not a Camel Toe Story

Sunday, September 12th, 2010


So. I am a jumbled mess of ADHD thoughts. My psycho therapy is not going well, I’ve managed to place distance between me and my sweetie, both the dogs in my life are pissed at me, and the search results for my bloggie are disturbing.

And all of this shit comes rolling my way during the start of college football season. I don’t do well with distractions and aggravations during football season. I am a Texas Longhorn football fanatic. I’m a certified, lunatic supporter of my team. I am such an awful fan that I lost my season tickets long ago because of my foul mouth and animated antics in the stands.

I rag the refs, the coaches and other fans. I don’t rag the players unless they make stupid, flagrant plays that result in injury to another player. I was a player many years ago, and I have the keen understanding of what the young players feel and think from having been there.

But if some asshole referee makes a boneheaded call, I’m there with a, “What the fuck was that, you shitball?”

Or, if we run fifty consecutive plays without a single play-action pass, and our receivers are suffering from blanketed coverage- I’m up the offensive coordinator’s ass. “Run a fucking play-action pass, dumbass.”

And if one of the fans around me starts getting on an eighteen-tear-old corner back for making a mistake in front of 100,000 screaming fans, I’m at my worst. I think what I said was, “If you think it’s so easy fuckwad, try tackling this.” That was the particular remark that ended with my loss of season ticket holder status down to the Stadium.

And subsequent arrest.

I can’t help it. So, now I watch Texas football while locked away to my bedroom. Alone, because nobody can stand to be near me when I watch.

But my football mania is but the backdrop for my real problems. My ADHD has gone to DEF-COM 8 on the brain fritz meter. My synapses are scattered and smothered and covered and burnt to a crispy well done. I have so many divergent thoughts spinning around that I can’t hang on to anything tangible.

Another ingredient in my problem pie is my psycho therapy sessions. Dr. Sam I. Am is on this, “Mooner, you must learn to develop commonality of interests with people. You have got to start building concrete bonds between yourself and others. Healthy bonds.”

I told her, “Easy for you to say, psycho-babble breath. I keep putting myself out there and all that happens is that I get slapped.”

When she gave me that look that said she was winding up for the payoff pitch, I added. “And arrested.”

“Mooner,” she started, in her calm therapist voice that makes me want to kill myself. “You need to stop excusing your bad behavior by placing the blame on others.”

“Fuck you and your commonality of interest both.” I’m thinking I knocked her off kilter with that one. “You always blame me for my troubles.”

Now, I’m getting the “I’m a patient psycho therapist and you are crazy” look.

“Bitch.” Well said, Mooner.

Then, with a smile, and that patient psycho therapist tone of voice that makes me want to choke her, she says to me, “Ahhhhhhhhh. You’re angry. Now we are getting someplace. Find the center of your anger, Mooner, and let’s talk about it.”

“I’m angry that my psycho-fucking-therapist is a tacky amateur fuckball, and she’s ruining my life,” I almost yelled.

“Oh,” she answered. “I thought you must have received the notice that I’m increasing your rate by $25.00 per hour.”

The bitter filling in my pity pie stems from my relationships with the two dogs in my life. Dixie is pissed at me because she thinks I have abandoned her- traded her in for the Squirt. All I thought I was doing was taking some pressure off of Dixie and letting her enjoy her golden years doing what she likes best.

I have let her do everything she asks, and without a single complaint as to any negative effects on me. Using Squirt as a translator allows me the pleasure of the little shitbird’s company. But untangling a seven word sentence spoken in four languages can be trying.

Like when I was trying to get the ostrich Rick Perry to take a bath the other day, and the Squirt was interpolating for us. I asked him why he was refusing to take a bath and Ricky started crying and sniffle-snotting. His answer sounded like the the background track for a slasher movie, and would have disturbed me if I wasn’t already used to his method of communication.

“What the hell did he just say?” I asked Squirt.

“Dijo, sie versprach kaufen baadhi yake Bwana Bubble. Nein Mister Bubble, senza bagno.”

“Oh, for the love of God, Squirt. I know I promised to buy him some Mister Bubble. But would you please try to stick to no more than three languages at a time?”

She waggled her tail and grinned up at me. “No difficotta, Senor Mooner. Ich werde se adhieren a the romantik jezykach en todo.”

I started to tell her that neither Czechoslovakian nor Swahili are romance languages, but why bother.

Then I’m talking to Gram about Dixie at the dinner table last night, and she says to me, she said, “Ya need ta call yer dog an tell her ya miss her, Mooner. She thinks ya done aband-molated her, and give her off ta Streaker Jones.”

“Oh for shit sakes, Gram,” I responded. “Can’t she tell I’m just letting her do what she wants? I thought she wanted to be with Streaker Jones.”

“Who gives a shit what you think, Mooner. You don’t know diddly-squat when it comes to a woman.”

Well fucking duh!

And to finish with the women in my life, I managed to piss off the Squirt and SAC Ellen both at the same time, with the same actions. Actions which I thought were thoughtful to each.

When I got back from Dallas last week, I picked the Squirt up from Sammie’s place on my way into town, and took her with me to get SAC Ellen for our date. That was convenient for me, helpful to Dr. Sam I. Am, and I thought what SAC Ellen would suggest.

Then, I brought Squirt with me to go on the date. I do this often and usually at the SACster’s request. But this time, I show to her door with the cute little dog, she grabs the dog and slams the door in my face.

I guess that SAC Ellen spent the entire evening bitching about me, and the Squirt didn’t have any fun. So now she’s pissed at me too.

Now, I have an appointment to have the specialist fix my tooth on Monday, and I’m scheduled for the ass surgery on Friday, first thing. With my luck, I’ll end up with a cross-hatching of stitches that will ruin my look back there, and a snaggle-toothed grin in the front.

Good thing I got my ass insured.

Then this morning I’m reviewing my bloggie stats and I get this e-mail from a reader. She wouldn’t do a comment so I can post it, she personalized it in an Email, and asked me not to use her name. What she did was bitch at me about, and here I’ll quote her, “… all of this Internet activity you are stirring up with your tasteless camel toe stories.”

So, as I’m thinking of possible pithy retorts, I checked my viewer stats and discovered that 75% of all my visitors first find me through some variety of camel toe search. Something less than ten percent of my postings are camel toe stories, yet three-quarters of my readers find me that way.

That’s not right.

I don’t want you to think that I rely on pocket poochie stories to garner readership. I must admit that I am an admirer of ladies who pack their meat in their pantie lunch pail, but I don’t think I have overdone it. Do you?

I don’t make any of that shit up just to snag another adolescent-thinking man in my webber of blogging. Which reminds me. I asked Sister and Anna what they thought about the entire camel toe dealie as an issue among the lesbian community. I don’t mind fist fighting with lesbians when they start the fights, but I do want them to respect me for my principles.

“What a silly question, Mooner,” answered my sister, Sister.

“Yea, Mooner. Straight ladies check out a man’s package. Why would you expect us to think any differently just because we’re lesbians?” This from my ex-wife, Anna, and now-wife of my sister, Sister.

Even still, I want to feel bad about liking camel toes. I just can’t.

And that leads me to wonder about my impulse control. It’s like not looking at a car wreck, or a five-hundred pound man in a Speedo. Except it isn’t disgusting. What’s so wrong with admiring a woman’s stuff when she stuffs it in your face?

Ugh! Maybe I need to take a lesson from Gram and say, “Who gives a shit?”

I need a cold Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

What the Hell is a YA?

Thursday, September 9th, 2010


So. I went to a writers’ group here to Austin in an attempt to connect with that whole commonality-of-interest dealie. Both Dixie and Dr. Sam I. Am preach at me to understand and practice the concept in its full width, and breadth.

They seem to feel that I spend too much time with my own ADHD-addled thoughts, and don’t put enough effort into understanding other people. They have been beating this concept into my head for months now, and I think I’ve got it.

If I grasp the practical aspects of the concept, they are that:

  1. Commonality of Interest is the foundation of human nature which says that people will connect easier and quicker, and form tighter bonds, with other people who appear to share their same interests.
  2. Finding common ground with another person, and therefore the implicit support for your own thoughts and ideas, helps with your sense of self worth. This is the basis for Dr. Sam I. Am’s psycho therapy support groups.
  3. As a salesman, you can get prospects to feel comfortable with you if you can find some common ground to discuss. Show the prospect that the two of you could be buddies.
  4. Said another way- people like people who are like themselves.

I think I get the idea. The problem I keep having with this commonality dealie is this: the harder I try to find things I have in common with other humans, the more differences between us crop up; the more differences I discover between us, the more likely it becomes that a situation could unravel; the more things unravel, the more likely it becomes that I will spend some time in jail.

Take last night, for instance.

I was excited to be meeting with a group of local writers, and some of them actual authors. I distinguish the two in this way. I am a writer- I’m full of shit and find myself compelled to put thoughts to print. An author is a writer who doesn’t realize he’s full of shit, and feels compelled to use big words and confusing literary concepts to distinguish himself from us writers.

But, I harbor no resentment for writers or authors, either one. I can either like or dislike both with an unprejudiced eye. Same way that I like Carta Blanca beer and detest Dos XX.

However, I think I’m an amateur at getting along. For starters, as soon as I arrived at the meeting, the commonality of interest I sought was divided down the middle. Half writers and half authors. Then, I discovered that we word-smiths require additional layers of separation beyond writer vs author. Are we fiction, non-fiction, self-help, memoir, biography, children’s or young adult? Young adult is the infamous YA category.

In last night’s group, we had four writers and four authors. We had one fiction writer, me, and seven non-fiction. I have always thought of myself as a biographical memoirist. The group decided that I am a fiction writer after reviewing my webber and bloggie.

Of the seven others, one was self-help, four were memoirists (memoirators, maybe?), one historian, and the last a biographer. And each and every one of the seven was a Young Adulterer. Young Adulterator? I’m something like two minutes into the meeting and I realize that I have almost nothing in common with this group.

So, basically, I was a group of one, and segregated from the others by several invisible barriers. Confused? You should have been there.

These guys were all in their late twenties and older. Average age, I’m guessing, was maybe forty-three. And even with all of the commonality of interest they shared with their YA cohorts, these silly guys are fighting over everything.

“You simply cannot categorize vampire themes as anything other than YA,” this one guy says. “I’ve done the research.”

He was maybe fifty and was dressed like my college lit professor back to 1967. Long mop of stringy hair, thick black eyeglasses, tan cord pants with those shiny spots where they get rubbed with use, and this vintage wool blazer with elbow patches. This guy I had pegged as an author.

Now me, I’m thinking, “What research?” and, “This yahoo has his head totally up his ass.” That’s when I hear, “Oh, pull your head out of your ass, Johnathon. Last year when you were writing adult sexual fiction, vampires were for adults only. I appreciate your attempting to fit in, but try to say something smart. Stop being such a yahoo.” This from a writer, a handsome younger woman who said she writes for the lesbian and gay YA audience.

I have met her several times before, when I attended Sister and Anna’s lesbian meetings. Lisa is her name. I think she was the date of the lady who hit me with my own Carta Blanca beer bottle in that little scuffle we had over to Guerros Taco Bar that one time. That last fight- the one I didn’t start.

I have been accused of starting several fights while attending my Sister and her wife’s lesbian support and action groups. Once I actually said something I wished I hadn’t said. All the other skirmishes were caused by simple misunderstandings.

Like, for example, the difference between “more manly”, and “manly more”.

Lisa then turned to me and said, “Yo, Mooner. Of everyone here, I think you have the best perspective since you’re the oldest.” Her look was challenging. “Give us your erudite thoughts on the subject.

Maybe she’s an author.

Now all eyes are on me. “Tell us, Mooner. Are vampires the exclusive property of Young Adult writers?”

“Well,” I started. “I watched my first vampire movie to the drive-in theater back in 1958. Scared the shit out of me and gave me bad dreams. Then last Sunday night, I watched True Blood over to HBO with SAC Ellen. All of that neck sucking gets the SACster all randified, so I know vampires are in her wheelhouse.”

I took a sip of coffee, then added, “But who gives a shit anyway? Don’t you want a broad range of people to read your stuff even if you do write to a target audience?”

Am I wrong?

Of course Mr. Elbow Patch pipes in, “Well, I can only speak for the serious authors among us, but missing your target audience is a sign of immaturity and failure.” He sniffed, adjusted his cuffs and added, “A dismal failure, Mis-ter Johnson.” He emphasized the “Mis” in Mister and this little bubble of spittle flew from his mouth onto his sleeve.

Then everybody starts opinionating and the conversation turned to shit.

It seems to me that, as a group, we’re one angry statement away from a fistfight, when this little lady sitting across from me starts slapping her hand on the table. “Stop it. Stop it right now!”

Things got real quiet and she says, “Now listen to me, everyone. We had a nice group here before this fiction writer barged in. I know who he is.” Here she looks me dead in the eye and says, “I know you Mooner Johnson. I go to church with your mother and Gram.”

Now, she stands up and points her finger at me. “You are a heathen and a disruptive shit. Go away and leave us alone.”

“And you, Mrs. Ellis, are a right-wing Baptist religious fuckball.”

How’s that for erudite?

That’s when little Mrs. Ellis came across the table at me like she was a rabid raccoon and I was last week’s leftover chicken carcass.

I held my hands up and backed away. “No need to get violent, Mrs. Ellis. I’m thinking that maybe I need to find myself a different group to bond with.”

They clapped, and I left.

But it wasn’t a total waste of time. I got to thinking about this YA business. If seven out of eight writing persons are focusing their works on Young Adults, that sounds like a marketing trend to me. Maybe I can start slanting some of my content their direction and get more readership.

I’m going to call John Egloff and set a meeting. I bet he can help me with this. But answer me this if you will. What, precisely, is the definition of a Young Adult? I’ll twitter tweet that one.

Manana, y’all.

RushLimbaugh and RickPerry Destroy Garden; Gram Gets Bent

Friday, August 20th, 2010


So. An unexpected pleasure that became a benefit of my rescheduled incommunicado event, and return to Austin, was for me to be able to spend time with the SACster’s sister from out to the Pacific Northwest. Her sister, let’s call her Kathy, is a research scientist in the behavioral issues field. She and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson have become fast friends, so when we made dinner plans for last night, Sammy was on the list.

I am trying to get more in tune with the whole “commonality of interest” syndrome. Since Dr. Sam I. Am and Kathy both work with human behavior, they have much to talk about. I must admit I was a touch taken aback when they started discussing a joint research project that would entail scientific observations of me.

Maybe it’s not a syndrome but simply a dealie. But like Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner?”

Kathy wanted Mexican food, so of course we went to Vivo, and for the first time ever we had wait staff not named Caitlin. We did have Katelyn’s husband, Garrett, and his pal Kyle, and still no Carta Blanca beer for me. Caitlin and Katelyn were working inside but we, of course, sat out to the patio.

We’ll call SAC Ellen’s sister Kathy, because she remains uncertain if she is comfortable having a close identity with my rantings. She and I share mutual leanings on most important issues, she is smart as a whip- which seems to be a family trait, and she laughs at all of my jokes. Well, she laughs at most of my jokes.

Some of my jokes.

Anyway, she’s smart, well read, thoughtful and compassionate. When we first got seated for dinner and our drinks arrived, I asked her if I could use her name here to the bloggie. She thought long and hard, with her pretty facial features scrunched studiously.

“Well, here’s my evaluation of the available evidence, and my unscientific conclusion. I say unscientific not because I lack the skills to evaluate, but rather because I don’t have any baseline data to use for comparative analysis.”

Deep breath, then, “In my rural home area, the bulk of the settling populations who migrated from around the country, did so in the 1960’s and 1970’s. And in a strangely unscientific way, that census was a distinctly dichotomous array.”

Deep breath, re-scrunching of pretty facial features, and slow exhale. Then, “These war baby pioneers were either Hippies, like me, or persons holding opposite world views.”

Stare blankly into the distance, deep breath, adjust reading glasses and take a deep sip of Eastside Margarita. The Margarita was on the rocks, with a lightly salted rim. “The old timers in town call my group the Hippies, and have named our opposites the Hicks. I don’t approve of that name, Hicks, Mooner. I think it’s disparaging. Let’s call the others Them, shall we?”

Breath, scrunch, gaze and another long sip before, “However disparaging I might find the old timers’ name for Them, their politics are distinctly revolting. And often unnerving. More guns, no taxes, no public schools, kill abortion physicians not babies, Jesus is my co-pilot and let’s have a whale for lunch are but a few of the many mantra of Them.”

Me, I’m thinking maybe it should be “…many mantra of the Them.”

Now I get an expression-less look followed by, “I wouldn’t want to be hunted by my crazy neighbors for anything you might say, Mooner. I can put my face on a wanted poster any time I choose to, and without your assistance.”

See, I get that. And I love when a scientist talks science to me. Maybe I can get SAC Ellen to dress-up in scientist clothes before she zaps me with her stun gun.

So, we’ll call her Kathy had the Enchiladas Verde and fell in love with Vivo. Me, I still love Vivo, but I’m getting testy about the entire Carta Blanca beer thingie. Maybe I should offer to bring my own beer and pay them a bottle fee. I’ll need to research the records of the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission and their archaic rules. Wouldn’t want to put the Vivo’s liquor license to risk.

Which reminds me to tell you that Rush Limbaugh the Pig and his sidekick, the ostrich Rick Perry, got into more trouble with Gram while I was gone that short period of time. I told the two of them to stay in the closet and out of Gram’s sight while I was incommunicado.

But you guys know Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh. They want to stay hidden in the closet, but just cannot control their impulses if their lives depended on it. Those two shitballs headed out to the garden in the middle of the night, because Rushie felt, and I’ll quote him here, “Ricky and I felt we deserved to take what we wanted as long as we left a little for everyone else.”

And armed with that asshole demeanor, they ransacked the just ripened sweetcorn.

To quote my Gram, she said, “Tha pig is gonna be a hulie how with a apple up his ass Mooner. An that fucking bird a yurs ul make me a nice chickin dinner.”

When I corrected her to the fact that Rick Perry is an ostrich, she says to me, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. By tha time I roast ‘im alive he’ll be squawkin lik a chicken.”

I decided not to risk telling her that pigs are the guest of honor at a luau. I did tell her, “I love you,” and, “I’ll plant more corn.”

When I inspected the garden, I once again realized that we had named these two animals correctly. Our big garden has, well had, four long rows of Silver Queen sweetcorn. Maybe a hundred big stalks of corn with just browning tassels when I last looked Saturday night.

Now, what we have are six lonely stalks, standing tall, and what appears at first glance to be the aftermath of a tornado. Uprooted corn stalks and empty corncobs strewn all over the place. At least they cleaned the cobs. Hell, they ate many of the cobs.

And let me ask you this. Have you ever smelled when an ostrich with a distended belly full of fresh sweetcorn takes himself a big old number two? Holy shit! Maybe the sixty-something feet of intestines in that bird might help to get that meal to sustain him for a month. However, the pile of ostrich poop resulting from the digestive process can only be called foul smelling.

I wonder if that smell is the origin of the word foul?

Just thinking about it causes me to need a Carta Blanca.

Manana, y’all.

Feminine Hygeine Product Exposes Mooner

Thursday, July 29th, 2010


So. I’m feeling better with all of my butt problems and will go in to see Dr. Ashworth in the morning for a checkup. That will make it a week since he carved on me, and hopefully he’ll see good progress. I have learned my lesson, so I won’t talk anymore about that subject.

I got up early this morning and felt well enough to actually go out to Mooners Compost Plant and work at my job. I picked the Squirt up from over to Dr. Sam I. Am’s house on my way so she and I could spend some time together. Dixie is mostly with Streaker Jones anymore, but I don’t take it personally.

Dixie is getting older and it breaks my heart. She has been a loyal and valued friend for a very long time. She’s been grooming the Squirt to take her place and she’s got the little shitbird almost to the kick-out-the-nest stage. Actually, what Dixie said was, “Well Mooner, Squirt needs to learn how to fly blind, so I’m leaving her with you.”

I ignored the blind-leading-the-blind jab from my trusty dog. She deserves to live her last times doing what she wants, and she wants to work with Streaker Jones developing new spoor varieties.

When I walked up to Sammy’s place, Squirt was through the tiny doggie door and at my feet before I could knock.

“Buongiorno, Bwana Mooner, nie ist your day?” This greeting was made with her “sitting pretty”- on her haunches like a bunny rabbit, a smile on her face and tail going at 90 MPH. This is the pose Dixie has Squirt use during proper, polite conversation.

“I’m hunky dory Miss Squirt, how about you?”

She got a quizzical look to her face and asked, “Que significo eso ‘hunky dory”, Monsieur Mooner? Est ist Snufft Oink Pflushott, ode es inner Suahili?”

I had to think about all of this before I answered. Squirt had just asked a question in Spanish, German, Polish, Italian, common barnyard porcine, French and I think, Swahili.

“Well,” I began. “It’s not piggy talk nor Swahili either one. Hunky dory is an American slang term used to mean “OK”, or “all right”. You asked how my day was, and I told you it is OK, I’m doing all right.” I thought to add, “And before you get too deep into quizzing me about the origins of the phrase, ask Dixie because I don’t know.”

She wasn’t happy, but she walked to the car with me and let me buckle her in without too many more questions. The ride out to the plant was cheerful, and funny, as Squirt entertained me by reciting the Gettysburg Address. She can give the entire speech where she speaks every three words in a different language, changes languages with each three words, and she doesn’t use any language twice.

When I get more time, I’ll write it down for you. But for now, take my word that you’ll laugh your asses off with this one.

I drove the Squirt around the plant when we first got there so she could see everyone and spend some time watching the big machines. Squirt is fascinated with all the big yellow iron. We professionals call the loaders and other big machines yellow iron. I parked in my slot in front of the office, and Gnat got real pissy at me when I walked through the door.

“Can I help you sir?” she asked. And then, “Mr. Johnson only sees visitors with an appointment, and we don’t expect to be seeing him around here for a few more months.”

I guess it had been awhile since I was sitting to my desk.

“Un-wad your panties and tell me what you got for me this morning, Gnat. I feel like getting something done.”

“Well,” she started, “I’ve got quite a bit to do myself and I wasn’t planning on babysitting your whiny ass all day.”

My trusty assistant shuffled some papers around her desk and said, “Why don’t you start by going through the spring catalog for If You Can’t Smoke It, Wear It, LLC. Streaker Jones and Dixie are waiting on your thoughts before going to print. I looked through it and it all looks good, so you can do that in less than an hour.”

She hesitated a second, then added, “But don’t you dare get on the computer and start messing with my financial reports. Steve Midgett is expecting me to send them this afternoon and they’re almost finished.”

That catalog would be the spring line of hemp fabric clothing we make over to New Mexico, and Steve Midgett would be our trusty CPA accountant. The hemp, as a raw material, is a bi-product from one of Streaker Jones’ growing operations. When I get the chance, I’m going to logoize some of our hemp clothing and make it for sale here to the webber and let you buy it. Tee shirts and stuff.

What would you call it when you print your logo on something- logoize or logotize? Logorate maybe.

So, I’m going through the catalog and it is obvious that the clothing guys have done a great job again. I’m still working on the ultra-lightweight protective body armor for the military, my personal contribution to the spring line. We’re using hemp and bamboo fibers in a special weave that is proving to stop the bullets from most street guns.

Anyway, I stopped taking my pain meds since I was driving and I was starting to throb with pain. Now don’t get me wrong about this pain because it was nothing compared to what I had before Dr. Ashworth lanced me. If the pre-lancing pain was a 10, this is maybe a 0.036 on the pain meter.

But I guess that I’m a big baby when it comes to pain because I wishing I wasn’t driving. Speaking of driving, I had a surprise for Squirt. “Hey Squirt, you want to go drive a front end loader with me?”

Squirt had a stunned look on her face and said, “Voglio drive los loader die mich? Are you serious?”

“As serious as the open wound on my ass little lady. Let me change my absorbent pad and we’ll head out.

I already told you I’m using what I have always called a Kotex as both a cushion for my sore tushie, and also to soak up my oozings. Actually, I use an ecologically friendly brand. Cut them in half so I’m not wasteful. They slip and slide some but I’ve gotten used to having a cotton wad stuck up my butt.

The Squirt and I were driving the loader around the plant, she in my lap and me letting her touch controls to lift and dump and stuff. She was having a blast and I managed to do but minimal damage to Javier’s carefully-managed wind rows of compost.

Sammy called as we were finishing and asked if Squirt and I would mow her lawn. We said, “Sure,” and we parked the loader and told Gnat we were leaving.

Once back to Sam’s house, I changed into my gym shorts- loose, short billowy nylon things, and Squirt and I headed out to the garage. I unplugged the heavy duty electric mower and started mowing. Dr. Sam I. Am’s lot is big, maybe 200 feet wide at the street, and her street is very popular with the neighborhood’s walkers. It’s got light traffic and the entire half-mile is tree lined and shaded from the nasty summer sun.

When I mow, I like to make long runs across the lawn parallel with the street and starting at the street. Squirt likes to help by nipping at my ankles and getting in my way. The street was crowded with walkers and as I made the turn at the far end to come back, I spotted two of Sam’s neighbors walking towards me. They were waving their hands and pointing. When I reached the end of my pass, the two nice ladies were at the curb beside me.

One said to me, she says, “Afternoon Mr. Johnson. You dropped something back there and it looks like Squirt is going to retrieve it for you.”

The other nice lady says, “Isn’t Squirt just the sweetest little thing?”

“Yes,” I replied as I turned to see the Squirt prancing my way across the grass, a blood-stained white cotton wad in her mouth.

I thought to myself, I though, “Oh shit.”

Squirt raced the last ten feet and dropped the fallen feminine hygiene product to my feet.

“Oh my,” gasped one lady.

“Why that’s a bloody Kotex,” said the other. “What the hell…”

“I can explain, it’s not what you think,” I tried.

“Oh for God sakes Mooner Johnson. Have you no shame at all?”

I thought about that. “Well,” I started, “I think I might be full of shame, but I’d need to consult with Sammy.”

“Well Dr. Am-Johnson will certainly be consulted about this, Mooner. My God but you are inappropriate.” And she finished with, “For the life of me I don’t know what Samanta ever saw in you.”

And with that they huffed off.

I finished with the lawn and wondered about two things. First, I wondered just how pissed Sam was going to get about me dirty-wadding her neighbor ladies. She thinks I intentionally disrupt her life, but I know most everything is just bad circumstances. Like this particular circumstance.

The other thing I was chewing on was the whole, “Have you no shame?” dealie. What does that really mean? I mean, whatthefuck?

I know I can be ashamed of my actions, I know I can recognize shame in myself and others, I try not to but I know I sometimes shame others. Shame is not one of my goals, and I certainly don’t like it, but where does any of that fit in with the question.

And why isn’t the question, “Do you have shame?” Isn’t that a cleaner way to ask, or am I even getting that part wrong?

“Come on Squirt. Let’s go to the ranch and have some Carta Blanca beer. Let’s finish our day at the BBQ grill.”

“Yo soy love BBQ, Signore Mooner. Vamanos!”

So, I bid you, “Manana, ya’ll.”

Vatican Scews Child Abuse Problems Again

Tuesday, July 20th, 2010


Well- here we are again, in that place where I have way too many topics to discuss and not enough room at the Bloggie Inn. Just so you know, my fancy pants Editorator spent the last three hours reaming my ass out about the volume of content I have been posting here.

“Oh for God sakes Mooner,” she started. “You have placed 190,000 words on your website since the middle of March and that is almost two full books-worth of words.”

Two fulls book worths?

Then she got that sour look a person gets to their face when they realize that their mouth full of “mountain oysters” did not come from the sea. “Mooner, you write down so many thoughts, your readers are going to start thinking you’re crazy!”

Well fucking duh!

“Poppy-Cock,” I told her. “If readers are just starting to realize that I’m a nut case, I’ve still got Republican readers. Intelligent visitors to my site know I’m crazy right away.”

Then she called me a brain dead shit head, and I reminded her one more time that she needs to use fewer curse words, and exercise that big Dartmouth College brain of hers. Then she said to me, she says, “I must be crazy for putting up with you. Call Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and authorize her to bump me up to three times a week on your dollar. I need help.”

Yes, I pay for my professional word smith to attend therapy sessions with my ex-wife. If I didn’t, she would want to edit (read censor) all my bloggie postings.

But look, I have a main thing scorching my ass besides the recent medical malady that will be the subject of my next bloggie. This butt burner is the Holy Roman Catholic Church, the subject of today’s thoughts.

Before getting into the mess that is the Catholic church, let me disclose that my most trusted advisor has asked me to not post this to the bloggie. “Too much disclosure, Mooner. You will open yourself to public ridicule, and maybe worse,” were the precise words. And then, “This is not in the spirit of your other writings.”

I have spent some time cogitating the matter and decided that I agree with Gram. My Gram said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. You are…. you.”

Gram’s right, I am me, and you can bite my butt if that’s a problem. I think you will see that I have a unique perspective on this subject. For certain, I have well-thought-out opinions. So enjoy, or not:

As a victim of child rape, I keep a sharp eye tuned to any news related to pedophilia. My personal rapist was a Baptist Deacon to my own church, and he was the Boy Scout Troop Leader of my troop. Rotten fucker. But even though my particular shitball rapist wasn’t of the Catholic species, he was a trusted religious leader who vilified me in the same way that priests abuse alter boys.

Have you read that the Holy Roman Catholic Church has issued new guidelines for pedophile priests? Oh yea, fancy new, far-reaching rules. Now, instead of a child-raping starched-collar wearing fuckball getting the protection of a protracted, full ecclesiastical trial, they can be disciplined with a judicial procedure. Same bunch of possible/maybe/probable child rapist upper management priests will do the judging, but several fewer layers of red tape and hand jobs between bad acts and punishments. Maybe this will get some action to remove offenders within years instead of decades. Woo-hoo.

However, they still will not feel compelled to notify civil authorities when they discover one of these bastards, which means prison time will be rare. Nor will they hold accountable the offender’s main boss, the Bishop, for allowing his priests to be bad boys. Even if he knew. Even…if…he…knew!

And by the way, there are no new rules providing for guaranteed reparations to the abused. Hell, they don’t even have suggested guidelines for reparations.

Now, and again I’m not Catholic, but this pisses me off. These SOB’s to the Vatican claim to be the moral compass for the hundreds-of-millions of Catholics worldwide. They sit around in their gold-gilded chairs, hoarding the unimaginable riches their Church has stolen from conquered peasants over twenty centuries. They sit in judgment of the Catholic masses, holding the moral compass of their faith.

But after decades of public exposure from literally thousands of confirmed cases of child rape by priests, the high and mighty Vatican is still cruising the waters of the Morality Sea with a broken compass. They stick their heads in the sand and poke their fingers in their ears for fifty years. Deny, deny, deny, and deny again, the reports of abuse. When they get caught with their pants down and a pedophile priest is caught red handed, they just move him to another parish so he can build a new stable of wrecked lives.

The Vatican would have you believe that these new rules are bold actions to end child rape in their church. But until the rulers of the church stop acting as if they are guilty of those same crimes themselves, no real changes will be made.

My Catholic friends accuse me of spoiling the entire barrel of priests because a few are rotten. I will admit that I don’t think that all priests are pedophiles. But if those rotten apple traits are not the prevalent nature of priests, why are offenders still getting treated as if they did nothing worse than break priest curfew?

These men rape children. Is that such a difficult thing to get your mind around? They rape children, yet the Vatican moral compass does not see the need to report them to civil authorities, where society’s moral compass gets to point directions. In my world, if you rape anyone you need to be put in jail for a very long time, and maybe worse. And the rape of a child is the most egregious rape. You don’t deserve probation for rape.

Unless you are a Catholic priest.

Again, my only logical conclusion to the Vatican’s actions here is to assume that so many priests are infected with the pedophilia disease, that they fear an epidemic should they make a truly serious effort to identify and punish. An epidemic that could lead to the collapse of their institution. My sense is that the problem is systemic.

And get this. Vatican leaders felt that along with this bold overhaul of their child rapist policies, they want to announce that they put women priests on the same Sin-O-Meter level as child rapists.

That’s right, to make a woman a priest is just as bad as raping a six year old boy. But the punishment is worse than for a child rapist. If a priest ordains a woman, he will be defrocked and excommunicated from the church. If he rapes a choir’s worth of adolescent boys, they will simply move him to a place with fewer pressures and temptations.

And you want to tell me that your religion is better than that of a Muslim extremist.

Where in the Bible are you granted the right to treat women as inferior, and children as your sex toys? You don’t place any more actual weight of guilt on a pedophile than you do for committers of those other mortal sins. Terrible sins like cowardice, envy, greed, fornication and liars. Terrible, scary sins. Ooooooo, you’re going to hell because you like my car, you envious bastard.

And those Vatican bastards want us to think that they make these decisions because they have been anointed by their God, and they only follow His orders. If that is the case, then it’s their God to blame.

Do I sound bitter? Do you get the feeling that I would have had a different punishment in mind for any person I discovered had raped one of my kids?

But you know what? I just had a thought, and I don’t like it. I’m starting to think that the people at whom I am really mad, are those hundreds-of-millions-of Catholic parishioners who continue to tithe and fund the lavish lifestyles of their church leaders. It’s the blind followers of Vatican edicts who continue to breed new children to put into the priests’ hands. I now realize that you are the most guilty Catholics. You should be ashamed enough of your church to fix it.

All of you Marys and Catherines and Agathas and Josephines- stop raising livestock for these asshole priests to slaughter. Send your Mathews and Marks and Johns to the cathedral and kick somebody’s ass.

Fuck the Vatican.

Me, I’m one of the lucky victims of child rape as I have come to adulthood relatively unscathed. Luckily, I remain a victim only and did not become an adult perpetrator, committing the same horrible act as so many victims do.

In my thirty years of psycho therapy with Dr. Sam I. Am, she is always careful to avoid casting blame for my lunacies on anything other than me. Sammy doesn’t let me tie my thoughts or actions to external events closely.

But I sometimes wonder- if I hadn’t been child-raped, would I still have ten ex-wives, would I cuss like a sailor? Would I have killed a man and needed a nationally-publicized trial to be acquitted? Would I have an arrest sheet that reads like the encyclopedia, or would I still enjoy getting stunned by a tazer as sexual foreplay?

Would I need periodic lodging over to the Shoal Creek loonie bin to get re-grounded, or would my best method of communication be the flashing of my adorable ass in public?

Would I be the most inappropriate man in the world?

I’m unsure if any of those questions are related to my rape. Psycho therapy can’t provide guaranteed answers to much of anything. Psycho therapy has no certainties.

However, I am absolutely certain that I need a Carta Blanca beer.

Manana ya’ll.

Squirt Kicks Environmental Butt, Polluter Might Live

Friday, July 16th, 2010


So. I think I’m tired of talking about the many things I do wrong here to my webber and bloggie, so we’ll just drop that subject. Like my Gram said to the dinner table last night, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Us Johnsons make tha rules, we don’t foller ’em.”

While Gram’s logic is faulty at best, even a blind boar hits on an accurate thought every now and then. When I signed-up with Word Press and Go Daddy to do this nonsense, they didn’t have me sign any promise to obey rules about word count or any of that other nonsense. I’m really starting to wonder if those guys are all Republican.

Republicans are a pain in the ass, by definition.

Anyway, I was late to my dinner last night because I was over to Dr. Sam I. Am’s house to mow her lawn for her. She’s at some big brain doctor conference and I’m watching the Squirt while she’s away. I’m also doing chores like mowing the grass, cleaning the swimming pool and watering her plants.

When I finished with the grass, Squirt asked me to take her on a walk around the usual route she walks with Sammy. She wanted to see if her nemesis was around and available to be chased.

“Maybe Herr Squirrel es in los arboles up by la golf course. Yo es dying to estrangle der squirrelenbastard mit mine own deux hands.”

Squirt thinks that there is only one squirrel in the world and said one squirrel lives in her neighborhood. The tree-climbing rat moves around the neighborhood as Squirt walks her route- popping in and out from different locations to posture. And making the Squirt maniacally nuts. I keep telling her that it’s more than one ratlike varmint that tortures her, but she won’t buy it.

“Same uno, Mooner,” she tells me.

“Not the same one, sweetie,” I try. “It’s just that all squirrels look alike. That’s how you know they’re a squirrel.”

Too bad all Republican right-wing religious shitballs don’t carry the same genetic features. That way you could see them for what they are before they open their big yaps. Give you time to escape.

Anyway, I cleaned the rechargeable electric mower I gave Sammy for her last birthday, and placed it back in its spot in the garage, and off we go. Maybe three doors down from the house, and after Squirt has pulled me to the grass so she can dribble one drop like maybe a dozen times- Mister Squirrel shows for the first time. He runs a few feet into the street ahead of us, stops and turns to look right at us, and does that tail twitch thingie that squirrels do just to piss you off.

“Arf, arf, grrrrrrrr, you varmint die uber pain en la ass!” And then, “Grrrrrrrr, matako volmas!”

Now me, I know exactly what the Squirt just said, she called him an asswipe. Matako is Swahili for ass, and volmas is Lithuanian for wipe. This I know because it is one of Squirt’s favorite expletives. The squirrel obviously misses the threat in Squirt’s outburst and lazily runs and bounds up a tree.

The miniature dog and I have the same, “It’s more than one squirrel,” talk we always do on these walks, and I don’t make any more progress with her than the hundred before this. So, we’re walking along and we can hear the buzz of a landscape crew working a few houses ahead of us. We walk past four houses, and while the noise is louder, we still don’t spot the crew. We get to the corner and turn left, and two houses down is this beehive of activity, an almost deafening level of gas powered lawn equipment noise. And smoke.

Giant billowing clouds of dense, gray two-and-four cylinder lawn equipment smoke.

“Que en la inferno est dies?” Squirt started that full-body vibrating things she does when scared or angry. Trust me, it pays to know which, and the Squirt wasn’t scared.

“Assholes, baby. That hell is assholes,” I told her. “Small minded, air polluting fuckballs.”

OK, let me stop here to provide you with some background information that just might help you to understand what happened next. See, I am a firm believer that our delicate planet is under attack from many directions. Other than if religious terrorists were to get a hold on some nuclear weapons, I believe that the most serious of those threats comes from our consumption of fossil fuels as we burn them for energy.

I’m not stupid enough to think that we can just pull the plug this afternoon and never burn another barrel of oil or ton of coal. But I know with absolute certainty that we can pull the plug on certain fossil fueled devices.

Like lawn equipment.

I am what I guess you would call a madman on this issue. Battery powered lawn equipment is already a proven alternative to old fashioned gasoline varieties and if you still use gas-powered devices at your house, you are an uninformed moron. You are uninformed or you’re Republican, which makes you a moron, once more by definition.

Rechargeable battery technology surpasses the requirements for lawn care, and did so years ago. If you are using gas powered lawn stuff, I think you should be warned once, and then handcuffed to a bed that sits in the jail cell occupied by only you, and my Gram.

Gram is a big role player when, as she puts it, “I’m all randy an sexilated.”

I share my feelings about environmental issues with anybody who will listen. Since Squirt has been with me for a few days straight, she has had a pretty thorough indoctrination. When I start going off about the smoggy, noisy demonstration from this lawn crew, Squirt springs into action.

She yanked free the leash I held loosely in my left hand, and took off. She’s yapping and flashing her mouthful of tiny razor sharp teeth at the workers, actions seen as harmless by the men polluting our world. I’m not at all unhappy by her rants so I just watch to see what happens.

Why do I seem to get into as much trouble for what it is that I don’t do, as for what I do do?

After a minute of them ignoring her, the Squirt has figured a new tactic and she starts getting in front of the workers, putting herself between the men and their work. Me, I’m thinking to myself, I thought, “Mooner, this might require a little personal intervention.”

But, by the time that particular thought fought its way through my ADHD-addled brain- it was too late. This one worker got this pissed-off look on his face and decided to take a kick at the Squirt. I know he didn’t mean it to be a cause-harm kick, but Squirt is still young and misses many of the nuances of body language.

I have told you before that Streaker Jones is a martial arts and self defense guru and that he trains all of our family, blood and extended family both, how to fight.

And kill.

The gas-powered, environmental asshole takes this exaggerated kick at Squirt, and just as his boot reached its apex- she leaped and attached those tiny razor-sharp teeth to his crotch.

Let me say something before I end this already 1,200-word bloggie posting. I now know how to encourage a man to stop polluting. Clamp a rat trap to his nuts.

So, that’s why I was late to dinner. What with the incident report, and the proof of rabies vaccination and trip downtown for booking. Maybe I can get a copy of Squirt’s mug shot and post it to the bloggie. She’s a cute little shit for sure.

Anyway, it’s Friday and all of my full-size tomatoes have burned out in the summer heat. We’ve got an entire pantry crammed full of canned red goodness, but they just don’t cut it at Carta Blanca beer time. It’ll be a few weeks before my system adjusts.

I always get kind of weepy with the last big tomatoes of the season, morose even. I’ll need to call Doctor Sam I. Am for a psycho therapy session tonight.

Manana, ya’ll.

More Jury Woes; Squirt Helps Mooner (Part 3)

Sunday, June 27th, 2010

So. Before I attempt to finish telling you about my jury duty dealie I want to discuss this thing that happened to me this afternoon. I was over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house babysitting Squirt for a few hours and working with her on her English.

Dixie is teaching her to talk using this system that teaches multiple languages at the same time. When immersed into a pool of five human, three barnyard animal, four plant and the basic spoor languages, a student learns to sink, or swim, quickly. Since the Squirt seems to have grasped the basic ideology of verbal communication and has not drown in her teacher’s word pool, Dixie wanted me to work with her on speaking English exclusively.

Me, I think that the best way to learn the nuance of any language is through its pop music. To help Squirt catch on to English, we watched HBO on TV. HBO is running and re-running this special called the Thirtieth Anniversary of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Now I want to be the first to say that the name is way too long, but the show was appropriately named. The list of acts performing read like a who’s who from popular music.

I won’t go into all of it because that isn’t the subject of this bloggie posting, but I must tell you about this deja-vu dealie that happened to me. Simon and Garfunkel walked out on stage and started singing, and I flashed to this time I lived with my buddy Lloyd up to Lubbock. It was 1968 and the summer after the big tornado ripped through Lubbock and lay waste to big patches of town.

Lloyd, who wants to be called Curtis now- his actual first name, had a nifty new stereo and all of the Simon and Garfunkel records. I could hear the music from his room through two closed doors as I lay in my bed at night.

When S&G sang, “Hello Darkness my old friend,” on the HBO special, my mind flashed to that summer and tears welled in my eyes by the bucket full. I didn’t actually cry, like boo-hoo, but I silently cried through the rest of their set in the same fashion I do when I hear Andrea Bocelli sing Time To Say Goodbye.

When the Italian tenor sings that song, I cry over the loss of my father and Dr. Sam I. Am’s mother, Marie- the two people I most miss from my life. I think of them often and wish I had spent more time with them before they died. The tears and dense sense of loss hits me two notes into that song and those emotions crescendo with the music and then fade just as quickly with the song’s finish. It wasn’t that way in the early aftermath of their deaths as I would be morose for days at a time. Now I go from OK to bucket-of-tears-and-emotions and back to OK in the time it takes to sing a song.

I don’t get morose anymore, in part because my remembrances are as much the joy of my memories as the deep losses. When the song ends, I always take a deep breath and feel as if I was visited by those two favored spirits. I have learned to embrace these emotion-filled happenstances when before I dreaded them.

For shit sakes I’m tearing up now.

Anyway, as for the tears shed today for Bridge Over Troubled Water and the other S&G hits, I can only guess at the root cause for my emotions and tell you that I fear I am spending too much time looking back at my life with regrets. Or maybe guilts. In my entire life I have never intentionally tried to harm anybody, except when they fully deserved it, but I have caused considerable harm none the less. Sometimes I hurt people when my intentions are to bring them joy.

I have these moments more and more often now and Dr. Sam I. Am tells me that it is a sign of my impending maturity. “When you truly accept the responsibility for your actions, which can only happen after you realize the impact those actions had on others, you can then actually feel the pain that you have caused. Once you can actually feel the other’s pain, that experience Mooner, is the hard evidence of growth.” A Pause, and, “Maturity will come when you can manage to discontinue hurting by accident.”

She looked right into my eyes and said, “You have left quite a swath of destruction in your path Mooner, but always in an almost childlike innocence. You are the most responsible man I have ever met and I think you are making remarkable progress. But you remain mostly clueless.”

Then she finished with a kiss to my cheek and said, “Did I tell you I have increased my hourly rate to $175.00 per hour?”

Maybe that exchange can help you understand my love/hate relationship with my psycho therapy.

Squirt has that sixth sense that good dogs have and felt whatever it was that bothered me as Paul and Art sang. She jumped into my lap with her front paws on my chest as I sat in front of Sammy’s big TV. She looked right into my teary hazel eyes with her little brown ones, and she teared-up as well. Then she snuggled onto my chest, pushed her head under my chin and nuzzled my neck.

Silently the two of us soaked the front of my shirt as the music played. Her itty bitty puppy breath was like a salve on my neck as we listened to the sounds of my youth.

As quickly as this moment began, it ended when the next act took the stage. Aretha Franklin is a special lady but for whatever reason her finger doesn’t grip the trigger to my emotions. I took a deep breath, kissed Squirt on the top of her adorable head and told her, “OK you little shitbird, tell me what you want for dinner using only the English language.”

She backed up to where she was sitting in my lap, cocked her head sideways and thought. She brought her now dry eyes to mine and said, “I do like lechuga e your homegrown tomatoes, Monsieur Mooner. Me gusta roasted goat as well.”

“Good job Squirt! That’s only three languages and all are homo sapiens,” I praised.

Which reminds me of something else. I have finally found someone who loves their homegrown tomatoes with the same lustiness as do I. Her name is Renee Studebaker and she is the garden writer for the Austin American Statesman. You can read about her at where you can see what she writes about the local gardening scene.

However, since there was not a single reference to either sea salt or Carta Blanca beer in any of Renee’s writings, it is obvious that her obsession remains second tier to the lunacy that is me. At one time I was on the group that got the newspaper to start focusing on local gardening issues rather than reprinting stuff from Atlanta’s paper. But that is very old news and a bigger story than this space allows.

OK, where did we leave off with the jury dealie? I think I was daydreaming this debate over whom I would choose to have sex with, if I was forced to choose between the Sarah Palin lookalike or the actual Sarah Palin. The Judge awakened me with his question of, “What did you just say Mister Johnson?” to which I replied, “I said don’t fight over me girls, there’s plenty Mooner to go around.”

The entire courtroom found this funny and now people started turning their phones on and snapping pictures of the festivities for Facebook and Twitter.

“Oh for the sake of Mother Justice Mooner, do you even know how to behave yourself?”

I figured this might have been one of those rhetorical dealies so I just sat there wondering if I was spending the night with my rosy red ass in his jail.

“Answer me Mooner. Are you always so inappropriate?”

“Must be, your Honor. According to US News and World Report, the most inappropriate in the entire world. They did a poll and I won. Got the certificate to prove it.” It hangs in a place of honor out to Mooners Compost Plant right next to my Environmental Excellence Award- another story I might tell you guys, just not here.

“Alright Mooner, you come up here and sit in the witness chair so I can keep an eye on you.”

I told him, “Wow Billy, this will be just like when we were back to grade school.”

“That’s right Mooner. Except that Mrs. Browningwell didn’t have the power to put you on death row and I do. Now sit still and do not open your mouth until I ask you a question.”

His Honor turned the festivities back into the hands of the lawyers and I did fine for what seemed like an hour, until I looked at my watch. “Holy shit, it’s 2:30. I must be starved.”

“Mooner, that’s it. I am remanding you into custody. Bailiff, find a cozy cell and pitch Mister Johnson’s rosy red ass right on in it.”

“But look at the time, Billy,” I admonished him, “You are starving these poor people to death.”

And this would be where I had one of those “A-ha!” moments that Oprah Winfrey talks about so much. But I have hit the bloggie word count wall one more once with this jury story.

Look and listen because I am going to impart some real wisdom to you guys. As soon as you get a chance, perform the following sequence of events:

  1. Pop the top on a frosty cold bottle of Carta Blanca beer and take a slug.
  2. Cut two 3/8ths-inch thick slabs of the best tomato you can find; season it with sea salt and black pepper, both coarsely ground; cut those into quarters and arrange them on a small, chilled plate.
  3. While still in the kitchen, eat one of the little quarter-slices slowly enjoying the many flavors that burst into your mouth at first, and then savor the flavor of the skin as you chew on those skeletal remains.
  4. Take another slug of your beer, again savored, then head to whatever room houses your music system.
  5. Decide who you miss in your life the most- living or dead, and play the music you most associate with that person.
  6. Cry, feel sorry for your loss and then grateful for what you did have when that person was still around.
  7. Cancel your next psycho therapy session and send me a check for 10% of whatever your therapist charges for a visit.

I am told that the act of paying for therapy is a large determinant of that therapy’s success. If you won’t pay me, at least make a comment to display your appreciation and enhance your therapy.

Bon appetit!

Mooner Signs Sarah Palin’s Ass; Lookalike’s Husband Angry (Part 1)

Wednesday, June 23rd, 2010

Sometimes I think my life is this fictional story whose author is this lunatic fuckball who’s got no boundaries, has multiple personalities and a deep-fried brain. I called Dr. Sam I. Am for a little phone psycho therapy last night and when I told her this theory she said to me, she says, “That is remarkable insight for a lunatic fuckball whose deep-fried brain knows no limits and is void of appropriate thought from any of his aspects. You are showing progress and I am a psychotherapy miracle worker.”


She also went on to say, “Look Mooner. You are crazy and that’s OK in my book. Just be grateful that you remain, for the most part, functional.” And then she started laughing.

When I asked her what was so funny she says, “The functional part.”

See what I mean- bitch.

If you keep up here to bloggie central you know I was scheduled to jury duty starting yesterday morning. You also know that I am the most unlikely candidate for the title “Juror” as you are likely to find. Think about it.

Ten ex-wives will keep me out of any domestic dispute; I have never been convicted of a single felony yet I have been arrested and incarcerated more than a few times. Wait, yet is a bad choice of words in my case and I don’t mean I have yet to be convicted, like they just haven’t been able to pin a murder on me that I was guilty of committing. I was using yet to mean however.

As for civil cases, I have been involved in so many of those nasty things and involving so many issues, it is nearly impossible to find a civil issue that I have not had as part of a lawsuit of my own. You can’t chose a civil issue that is outside my courtroom experience. In fact, my attorney Jeff has won the “Texas Most Diversified Lawyer Award” nineteen years straight.

Streaker Jones, my family and I are Jeff’s only clients.

Now look, I would love to serve on a jury because I think that I reason better and clearer than 99% of the total pool of prospective jurors who want to serve on a jury, plus I have seen what can happen when all the decent folks opt out. The litigants, the criminally accused and we the People all deserve the best minds you can find and the least biased as well. Jury bias can cause terrible trial outcomes.

Think OJ Simpson, and I rest my case your Honor.

Many, if not most, qualified prospects simply do not feel that jury service is important enough to endure the time and effort to serve. And anybody with an IQ of like 67 or higher can get out of jury duty if they choose. In fact, most of those brighter people seem to do just that.

To each of those people I say this. Imagine yourself on trial for murdering a man that you accidentally killed in self defense. Imagine that this dead guy was a Deacon to his Baptist Church and a State Delegate to the Republican Convention.

Now, imagine that the only people from your jury pool pull who can’t weasel out from serving are Baptist conservative Republicans with an average IQ of maybe 58 quotient points.


Then if you think about the simple fact that you have spent maybe forty years of your wasted life bitching about the Baptists and their hand puppets the Republicans, maybe you can start to formulate my argument that you should embrace jury duty and try to get others to do the same.

Like yesterday, for example. I got up at 4:30 am to get dressed and ready and I drove over to the shopping center there to US 183 and Anderson Mill. That’s the one the Capitol Metro website told me to go to if I wanted to start from my place way out to the boonies and arrive to the courthouse in time. Ignoring the “We Enforce Towing” sign because the bus stop is located on the grounds of the center, I parked and got out. My bus arrived within a minute of its scheduled time and got me to my transfer stop just in front of my express bus to downtown. I want to state here that the buses were clean, the drivers helpful and the timing good.

After a short walk from where I debarked the bus, I got to the courthouse in time to have a party at the security checkpoint. Because I have several metal objects embedded in my skin, I am the party at the x-ray booth. Many people recognized me and I even gave an autograph to this woman who looked just like Sarah Palin except maybe for the extra 200 pounds she was packing.

This is going to be a two-part story, I can tell right now. And remember that I rode the bus because they have no available parking spaces for potential jurors, only actual chosen jurors, and the City tows overdrawn parking meters.

When I signed the nice woman’s Lilly-white left butt cheek I noticed that there was no evidence of underwear and of course, I commented. Her little toothless redneck husband, who had been quite supportive of me having my hands all over her giant ass to draw a picture of the Alamo and sign my name with a Sharpie, became a surly little toothless redneck shitwad when I asked about was I just not seeing the underwear, or was there no underwear to see. Since this woman’s ass was big enough to conceal a meth lab, I thought my question appropriate.

Actually, it was her answer maybe that sparked the Mister’s surliness. In answer to my question the nice lady said to me, she says, “Here Mr. Johnson, take a peeky-poo fur yer-sef.” And she sprightly yanked her jeans to her knees.

Now me, I’m thinking to myself that it has taken some jean lowering practice for this nice lady to get the 12 yards of tightly-packed denim that skins her ass to her knees before I can blink. Her husband, and again this is just what I think, is not blaming me for this particular jeans lowering event. Instead, I think he is blaming me for her already acquired expertise at lowering said jeans.

“So yer tha one ain’t cha Mooner,” he said with tobacco stained spittle spritzing from the gaps between his remaining teeth. “Don’t know iffn I want ta shoot ya er kiss ya.”

Luckily we were scheduled on different floors or I maybe would have had a problem there. Then I get to my floor and endure the seventh grade spring dance that is getting 70 prospective jurors identified and into their appropriately numbered seats. We were all getting identified and assigned numbers by the fussy man in charge.

“Single file Indian Style,” said this guy in charge of jury rustling. “And make sure your phones are turned off.” And then, “O-f-f,” he spelled for us.

Now me, as a quarter American Indian blood owner, I turned my new phone off and took no offense to the Indian style dealie because I think political correctness is oppressive. Never understood why that phrase has such common usage anyway, but I’m not offended. However, the man with the tomahawk nose and long braids two doors down from me held a differing view.

“I’m not moving until you take that back,” he said. It was taken back, with political correctness, so we moved into the courtroom to take our places.

I was number 25, and my day started going to shit as I reached my assigned middle isle seat, expecting to find my plastic paddle marked with a number 25. “This has number 26 on it and I’m number 25. This is out of order.” I’m quick to point out problems because I think the earlier you identify a problem- the easier the solution.

“If you are number 25, sit where the plastic paddle number 25 is located, it is not that difficult.” Not quite a scold from the rustler.

“Fine,” I said as I sat on the opposite isle seat number 26 with plastic paddle number 25.

“I thought I said for you to sit at your number Mister 25. Are you going to be a problem here Mister 25?” A few seconds of agitated jury rustler foot tapping and then, “Move it Mister 25 or you’ll be in contempt of court. I asked are you going to be a problem, now answer me.”

Calmly I answered. “Not so long as you pull your head out of your ass and decide where you want me to sit.”

That’s when I get this “Harumph” noise that my first grade teacher used to get her students all in our seats for an assembly to the auditorium. He grabs me by my arm, gently but firmly, and says as he points to each seat, “22, 23, 24, and then 25, Mister 25. It doesn’t go 22, 23, 24,” now he swings his hand dramatically to point across the isle, “and then 26, now does it?”

And I said, “Not when I count sir. I usually get to eleven and need to start over.”

I am a funny guy.

So he glares and places me in my correct seat next to number 24 but my little plastic paddle still says 26. Now, after this three minute distraction Mister 26 takes his seat, the one that is his correct seat, and he raises the number 25 paddle in the air in front of his face. I decided I liked him right away because he says nothing- he just sits with this big grin on his face.

Now, the Judge starts his speech and part of his introduction to the jury process is to introduce yourselves starting with number one. “Stand up, hold up your paddle for the Court Reporter to see,” starts Judgie Poo, “And say your number and state your name.”

Of course all goes well from numbers one through 24 when I stand with my paddle held high and say, “I’m number 25 your honor, and as you know, I’m Butcher Einstein, known as Mooner, Johnson.”

“Oh for Christ sakes Mooner,” his honor almost swears. “Whose campfire did I piss in to deserve having you in my courtroom?”

OK, let’s stop here and have a cold Carta Blanca beer. This jury thingie is a long story.


I Think Mike Matusow Has ADHD Too

Friday, June 18th, 2010

Nobody is talking to me so that means that something is brewing in the form of a surprise. Since it’s Fathers Day on Sunday, I’m guessing that would be the surprise. I’ve decided to mess with everyone’s head because I am the only father in my immediate group.

Exclusivity has its benefits.

I’ve been telling everyone that I am going up to Durant, Oklahoma to the Indian Casino there to play some live poker this weekend. I have been doing lousy playing on the I-net because I can’t stay focused. Just last night I, stupidly, tried to run a three-bet bluff in a $24.00 tournament on Full Tilt. A three-bet bluff is a bet on the flop, turn and river when your cards can’t carry a tune.

I know better than that, but I pulled a Mike Matusow anyway. I firmly believe that Mikey suffers from ADHD just like me. I keep trying to convince Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson to develop a specialized focusing therapy for gifted poker players who have ADHD but she says the market is too small.

“OK, Mooner. Besides you and Mike Matusow, name me another gifted player with your affliction.” This from my ex-wife but still psycho therapist.

She’s right, I guess, but if she could just understand the frustration that Mike and I suffer at the hands of ADHD, it might penetrate her cold dark heart to our advantage. Really, think about it.

You pay $10,000 to enter a big championship tournament- one of several thousand players to join. You play perfect poker hour-after-hour for three days on end. You build a big chip stack by playing solid cards, executing crafty bluffs and without ever having your entire stack at risk. Creative and crafty play from a gifted poker player.

And then you are sitting three places from the money, your chip stack is 200% of the average and you hit trip nines on the turn to a board of Ace, Jack, and Seven. The Internet whiz kid who is your heads-up opponent in this hand bets half of the pot on that nine, you raise the pot, and after tanking for three minutes, whizzer boy re-raises you all-in.

So, you fold right?

Nope. You think about when you played with this kid on Poker Stars a few months ago and he ran a bluff with the Ace-King, just like this one. Since you will be close to the chip lead when you bust this little shitball plus get three minutes of TV time on ESPN, you spend a few minutes in the tank pretending to agonize over your already made decision.

You wipe your hand over your grimaced face one last time and say, “OK, I call.”

Whiz kid shrugs and flips over the Eight and Ten of clubs for the straight. “Please don’t tell me you played the Queen-Ten like that Mooner. You never play rags like that.”

You look but don’t see the straight and proudly display your three nines. “Nope, Kiddo,” you proudly say. “I only play premium hands.”

It is about the time the word “premium” floats out of your mouth that you count the five cards in a row that make his straight. “Fuck me,” you think to yourself.

You must have thought it out loud because you catch a ten minute penalty for inappropriate language. At the blind and ante structure this late in the tournament, the $10,000 in chips you have left after the whizzer doubles through you has become one pitiful $500 chip in those ten minutes. You sit down, put the chip in the pot to almost cover your $5,000 big blind.

Your cards come- Jack and Six, one black and one red. You stand up and start the walk of shame before the flop even hits the table.

But that was a major league digression.

Fathers Day is a tough one for me for two reasons. First, I am a father and don’t feel that I have been that great at it. I have always tried to do the right thing by my kids but I’m so crazy that what I try has often times been very wrong. I’m way smarter now than when my kids were in true need of good fathering, but they now could care less about any lessons I might impart to help them live better lives. I know that is not a unique fatherly view, but it is mine.

The other thing is that my own father and grandfathers are long gone. Men that I admired and ignored as best I could. As a typical child, I didn’t listen or learn most of the important wisdom I should have from them. I figure that my kids ignoring me is payback.

What I’m trying to say is that I think I have been a good enough father to deserve an “Honorable Mention” on Fathers Day, but I don’t deserve sappy cards and presents or a party. Those trophies that say, “World’s Best Father” that so many kids give their dads needs a companion for sale this time of year. It would be inscribed, “An OK but not so great dad, we don’t get to choose.”

My Fathers Day card should read: “Roses are red, violets are pretty; Other kids have great dads, Ours is sometimes shitty.”

Look, I am not getting all maudlin and morose on you, I’m just attempting to tell it like I see it. I could have done a great job fathering my kids but I am so crazy with the ADHD and my other maladies that I often got in my own way.

Maybe what I am attempting to say is this. Because I don’t feel that I am such a great dad, the celebration of Fathers Day does not stir me to want a party.

Now- start celebrating Ex-husband Day and I am definitely your man. I am the best ex-husband ever! Ask any of the ten women who would get that vote. I think the best day for Ex-husbands Day would be like April 15th, you know do it the same day as tax day.

On Tuesday, March 25th, I posted an article I wrote years ago that I would like you to read. In fact, let’s get a cold Carta Blanca beer and read it together. It will make you feel better about yourself.