Dr. Sam I. Am « Mooner Johnson

Posts Tagged ‘Dr. Sam I. Am’

Rush Limbaugh To Remain Closeted- Pig Cries Like A Baby But Won’t Come Out

Tuesday, June 15th, 2010

This dealie yesterday was the last coming out party I will ever throw for anybody. I had invited a full house of accepting guests and laid out quite a spread of Rush Limbaugh’s favorite foods in an effort to make his exit from the closet as memorable an experience as I could.

As for the food, when they say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, cube that sentiment and they would be talking about a pig. My particular pig favors pork link sausages smoked and grilled on a hot fire, fat slabs of ribs, and baked beans full of bacon and jalapeños.

When it was time for his big announcement, Dixie and Squirt went back to the big closet in my master suite to get Rushie. A few minutes later Squirt comes waggling back and gets all prostrate at my feet, looking up into my hazel eyes with her soft brown ones.

I acknowledged her by saying, “What’s up Squirt? I don’t see Rush Limbaugh.”

Squirt sits up like a bunny rabbit, her speaking pose as taught by Dixie, and answers, “Es muy mal nin einer news Mooner.” Then she paused and thought for a few seconds, and went on with, “Snork oink crying muchacha el Rush Limbaugh en la closet e no la come out to la fiesta.”

“What? No news is bad news? Rush Limbaugh is on the floor of the closet crying like a little girl?” I thought to my self.

“See Monsieur Mooner. Essen like el bambina paquita.” Squirt’s unexpected reply.

I must have been thinking out loud.

“What the fuck, Squirt. You get in there and tell that pig to get his ass out here and right now!”

Of course, Squirt starts crying now and Sam I. Am comes over to us and gives me that look like I’ve done something wrong, and now she’s eating my ass out at 100 decibels.

Which reminds me. I was out to the Barnes and Nobles bookstore on US 71, which is the Galleria store, and one which has not yet banned me from their premises. I was there to meet my fancy pants Editorator and go over a few things so I can finally get my book to print. This entire publishment thingie is a giant pain in my ass. At the coming out party yesterday she made the appointment.

Anyway, she’s late and I’m just looking around and listening in on all the conversations in the store. Across the room are two young guys sitting to a table for two, appropriately, and talking- a laptop open between them. They are talking computers and tattoos and such and I hear one of them say, “Dripping Springs,” and since the Johnson Family Enterprises are headquartered to Dripping Springs, I decided to have a chat with them.

I also thought this would be a good time to pick some young adult brains about I-net and webber and bloggie stuff. Turns out these were two bright, articulate and helpful guys and I like them both. John Egloff, it was his laptop opened between them, and Sam Barnes. Sam had a ball cap worn backwards and slightly askew like younger men do, and John was hatless but had horn rimmed glasses. I wore horn rimmed glasses when I was his age and he looked as dashing as I back then.

Actually, he likely looks more dashing than did I back then because wire rims were all the glasses rage in the sixties but wire rims pissed me off. I was that hippie guy with horn rimmed glasses and his bared ass hair shaved into a peace sign and dyed purple. If you went to UT in the sixties you at least know my ass.

So. I introduced myself and made sure that neither they, nor their families, work for us because I was looking for unbiased input. Once we got that out of the way, I told them what I was doing. My first question was, “What kinds of things would attract you to a new bloggie dealie?”

See me, I like to make my questions simple and to the point. Sam and John look at each other likely, I think, using their eyes to ask each other, “Is this crazy old fart for real?” Apparently the answers were “Yes’s,” because they started talking to me.

Is that the plural of one yes? If not, what the fuck is?

Now this was two men so you need to understand that their answers were likewise biased, but here is some of what I heard from them:

Funny stories.
Outrageous stories.
Stories where people do stupid things.
Stories where guys are always doing the right thing but get in trouble anyway.

Let me stop here because I said, “Let me stop you here. Have you guys been reading my life stories to my bloggie?”

They said, “No,” and then told me that they really like to read about older people talking shit about young people. “You know,” John said, “Like when they say we are lazy and have no ambitions.”

“Yea,” Sam added. “Old people seem to think that we feel entitled and that we don’t have to work hard.”

Then John continued, “We love reading about how they think we are worthless and make fun of us.”

“What did you mean when you said you like stories about guys who get into trouble when they haven’t done anything wrong?” I asked.

“Well,” he told me, “I had just moved out and into my first apartment with these guys and hadn’t been there but a few days when the cops bust the door down and want to arrest everybody because one of the guys was allegedly selling herb.”

He finished with, “I get all balled up in this cop-u-drama and I didn’t do anything except choose bad roommates. Funny now, but not then.”

God do I know that feeling. Then I told them about recently getting booted out of the Barnes and Nobles and a few of the times I’ve been arrested for just being a nice guy. I tried to explain to them that not all old people are shitbrained Baptist Republican fuckwads and maybe they bought just a little of that.

I was fritzing like crazy with my ADHD and I was starting to feel like a meth addict. That’s when Missy Editorator came up from behind me to say, “Hey Mooner, who are these two attractive men?”

John and Sam didn’t exactly melt at the sight of her but they did get that glassy-eyed hound dog look a man gets with the sight of a woman of remarkable looks. “Sam and John,” I told her. “Two helpful and interesting guys.”

They were really nice men and had interesting things to say and said them interestingly. I told them I would be happy to introduce them to some young women that work for our companies but they told me they can handle themselves in that department.

So I promised to try to get old farts to be sensible with their ideas about young adults and that seemed to be thanks enough for their help. Now, however, I feel like a total fuckball for calling them young adults because that sounds like political correctness to me. John, Sam- if you guys read this could you send me a comment or something to discuss what it is that your aged persons like to be called?

Like for me, I am an old fart, I’m proud to have lived long enough to be an old fart and an old fart it is. Me- call me an old fart.

Of course, then Jerri Brown comes over to speak with my already Editorator and she’s a former big wig Editorator herownself and maybe she can assist me with some last-minute stuff on my book as well. So, we’re talking about all of that and who should walk in but Laura “Dildo Diaries.net” Barton.

Laura is also known as the world’s first female streaker. I said to her when she introduced herself, I said, “Holy fucking shit! Laura Barton the streaker!” I felt tears start to stain my eyes but I manned up and put them down.

“Don’t cry Mr. Johnson, that was a long time ago,” Laura said.

Then we spent some time telling naked-in-public stories and she did most of the talking because she had interesting things to say. I need to ruminate about what she said and maybe I’ll tell you more of her story at a later date.

How big are her balls to have been the first female streaker? I mean really. Streaker Jones is the first male I know of who ever streaked and that was as a first grader back to the fifties. Of course, his balls hadn’t even dropped back then but they are now large and quite steely.

Oh yea. The Dildo Diaries is a feature-length documentary of the old law Texas had about how sex toys are illegal. Same kind of ridiculous right wing Baptist religious conservative Rick Perry Republican bullshit as always. Award winning film.

OK, my ADHD is seriously fritzed. What I meant to say is that when I went to give Rush Limbaugh a chunk of my mind he was actually in the fetal position on the floor to my closet and crying like a baby. There’s all of this snoinking and moinking and snotty-nosed snunkling oinking noises from the pig and this giant puddle of pig snot has pooled on the hand woven Navajo rug on the floor.

I warned everybody that talking pig makes your nose run.

“He says he’s not coming out of the closet Mooner.” This from my trusty Golden Retriever, Dixie.

“You tell him that if he doesn’t want to be the little piggie that goes to market, he’ll get his ass out of my closet and go face the music.” I amaze myself at how I can stay calm in stressful situations.

“Don’t yell Mooner, you are going to make things worse.” Admonished by the dog. Now my dog is telling me what to do and talking down to me as well. Then she adds, “He says he is not strong enough to face the truth, Mooner. He says he wishes he was as strong as you but he just isn’t.”

I am strong, aren’t I.

Now what do I say? I thought a minute and sat on the floor an rubbed the boar bristles that form a little tuft on his chinny chin chin. “Look Rush Limbaugh. There is nothing you should be ashamed of here, it’s just facing the truth about yourself. So what if you have developed an overdeveloped taste for Gram’s magic mushroom potions. You don’t really need to quit snorting them in the all together, just don’t overdose yourself and get all nutso.”

I cogitated a bit more and continued. “I’ve been taking gram’s potions from a tincture bottle my whole entire life and look at me, right?”

That didn’t get the change in mood I’d expected so I changed tactics. “OK, how about this. Lots of people can’t help themselves and stick their noses in other people’s business. You just poke your nose up their asses and furt them. It’s what a pig does for shit sakes. And your sexual preferences are of little concern to us as well. We don’t care if you want to fuck a buffalo so long as the buffalo is OK with it.”

“Of course, you need to know that Stanly is a Bison and not a buffalo, and I think you need to take the hint that he is not weirdo-sexual. He told Dixie he likes pigs just not in that way.”

Wait a minute, I’m at 1,981 words at that last at. Not the actual last at but the last at before 1,981. Almost five full bloggie postings.

Fuckballs.

Thank God for Carta Blanca beer.

Tags: Barnes and Nobles, Dixie- Dog of Wonder, Dr. Sam I. Am, Gram's potions, Republican Asswipes, Streaker Jones
Posted in A Life Lesson, ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Humor, Moon Shows, Religion, Rush Limbaugh the pig | 3 Comments »

Rush Limbaugh the Pig Remains Closeted; Wiccans and Witches Show Support

Monday, June 14th, 2010

I’m waiting for the rain to stop so I can crank up the big grill and prepare the food for our big coming out party for Rush Limbaugh the pig. We have quite a crowd, what with all the immediate and extended family, an even half dozen of my ex-wives including Roshandra and her new beau, and Harry from over to Sprouts with his fiancée, Patty Pritchitt, and the Sheriff and his wife.

Roshandra brought this local politician as her date and I am reserving judgment until the end of the night. I can say in advance that I like his politics but I remain unsure as to his motive to date my ex. Patty is the camel toe lady out to Sprouts from awhile back and I really like her. She and Harry are a strange but fun couple what with him devout Catholic and her Wiccan.

Streaker Jones brought Sunny, the TV reporter and my ex-lover, who has the honorable distinction of being a person whose distinction I can’t distinguish for you. The reason I can’t tell you about what distinguishes Sunny from the rest of the women gathered here to the ranch is because my fancy pants Editorator, the one for my soon-to-be-published book, is also here.

When I told her I was going to bloggerate until the rain stopped she said to me, she says, “Look here Mooner Einstein Johnson. If you spoil one more secret from the book by writing in your blog I’m going to have Dr. Sam I. Am commit you again. You need to extinguish your distinguishments and establish some dignities.”

Then before I could snappily retort, she snapped, “Einstein my rosy red ass. Your Gram is right about that one. And establish some priorities as well. Nobody is reading your blog anyway, otherwise you would be getting more comments.”

“Bullshit,” my first snappy retort of the day. “I know with absolute certainty that I have many daily readers to the bloggie.” Then, when she looked at me like I’m crazy I gave her a sloppy raspberry, “Pfflluughhbbttt!” An appropriate second snappy retort to follow the first.

“Mooner,” she told me with not just a little scorn in her voice, “You are fucking clueless, you giant moronic shit-for-brains asshole.”

Now she’s got that “searching for words” look that intelligent people get when they are frustrated. I saw the opening and took it. “Ooo, listen to the fancy-assed professional word smith using all of those nasty words when there are so many better words to use for proper communication. How can you tell me to clean up my act with that trash-filled maw glued on your face.” Snappy retort number three, and one of my best.

She’s always telling me that I cuss too much in my writing and that curse words are the tools of lazy writers and only belong in quality prose strictly for emphasis. When she first told me this I said to her, I said, “No shit little Missy Edito-fucking-rator. I only fucking use fucking cuss words for fucking emphasis!”

Of course, later I realized that I also use cuss words to portray an act, like shitting, and as an endearment like when I say that Squirt is a cute little shitbird. Speaking of the Squirt, she is here with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and has offered to help Dixie interpolate for Rush Limbaugh the pig.

Squirt wiggled up to me and did this adorable thing she does whenever she first sees me. She comes right to my feet and then throws herself flat to the ground with her head resting on her front paws. Then she’ll watch me with expectant eyes, whipping her little tail in a happy wag. She won’t speak a word until I address her, but she literally vibrates with excitement until I do.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite little shitbird. Besides your entire carcass, what’s shaking Squirt?”

Taking her cue, Squirt sits up like a bunny rabbit onto her back haunches and almost exclaims, “Gooten morgan Senor Mooner. Ein essen here to assist Hier Limbaugh mitten der oink snurt snuffloosh die gruber from el closet.”

She is so fucking cute when she mixes her syntax and scrambles my synapses. “Thanks for coming Squirt. I know that the Rushster will appreciate your support. Just remember that he only speaks piggie and a limited dialect at that.”

Then I thought to add, “And be sure you blow your nose before speaking too much Porcine. That’s why pigs’ noses are always snotty.”

Did you guys know that’s why a pig always has a snotty nose? Their entire language is snorted and squealed through their noses. Makes me wonder about anteaters.

Patty and Gram are sitting to a corner of the kitchen talking about magic spells and stuff. Since Patty is a Wiccan and Gram’s an old witch, they seem to be getting along. Gram seems to think she can charge more for her potions if she can give them a little boost by casting a spell on each bottle.

I heard her tell Patty, Gram says, “How do I tell tha differnce a tween a good spell anna bad un?”

“Well Gram,” Patty patiently replied, “You know what the spell is used for when you learn the spell. Good spells may be used for evil purposes and bad spells might be used for a good reason.”

Uh oh, Houston we have a problem. Now me- I knew what my Gram was going to say back to Patty without even thinking, but Patty is just newly exposed to the 90-pound vial of nitroglycerin that is my Gram.

Gram says, “Who gives a shit Patty. Spells is as spells does. Now answer my fuckin question an spill tha beans.”

I’m just glad that Patty is kind of heart and long of fuse. The last person to put a hex on my Gram cast this spell that my Gram would have sex with all the criminals down to the jail. Actually the hex word was “rape” and not sex, but you get my drift.

The Sunday after this lady put the hex on Gram I got a call from Sheriff Wozniac. “Mooner get down here right now and I mean pronto. Your Gram has managed to lock herself into the west wing of my jail and she’s abducted a full dozen inmates and got them handcuffed to their cots.”

Then he said, “I’ve never heard so many grown men crying Mooner. And these are hard men.”

Maybe that’s what Patty meant about knowing your spells. Is it a bad spell if you hex some old gasbag into doing what she most wants to do?

Wait a minute. Did I tell you about the ostrich yet? You know how city-dwelling assholes like to drive to the country and dump their unwanted pets out the car. Well, some country-dwellers do the same except they drive from their place already out in the country to a country place in another county.

Because our ranch is located near to multiple intersections of various major county arterial roads, we get more than our share of dumped animals. We get dumped people as well, but that’s another whole can of worms.

Maybe I could have saved word count by simply saying the ranch is on a busy street. Bottom line is that somebody got tired of feeding and caring for their six-foot tall, 300-pound can’t fly, but can run like a greyhound, bird. Cute shitbird except for the beady eyes and maybe a too surly attitude.

Anyway, last week Gram is out to the big garden and encounters this ostrich and she named him/she/it Rick Perry on account that it hides its head from the truth and then uses the same thick skull like a mace, you know that studded metal ball on the end of a chain that knights swing to slug things. That’s how an ostrich attacks- with his thick, numbed skull. Swings it like a mace.

We learned about the thick skull macing bit when Gram tried to sex the ostrich. Wait now, I don’t mean Gram tried to have sex with it, but rather tried to determine if it was male or female.

“I was partin tha tail feathers on that rascal to see iffn it had any danglies and next thing I know I’m flat on my back and ol Rick Perry was swingin its head like one of them bozo dealies like them Lithuanian cowboys do down ta South America.”

Have to love my Gram, but I am digressing like a sumbitch. My ADHD has been a touch fritzie today so maybe I need a beer.

Oh look, it’s stopped raining so I better get along. But don’t start bitching at me because you’re still getting 1,530 words by the time I stop. That’s almost five quality bloggie postings.

Now, go crack your own frosty cold Carta Blanca beer and toast to Rush Limbaugh for coming out of the closet.

Tags: Camel Toe, Dr. Sam I. Am, Gram's potions, Gram's sex drive
Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Humor, Religion, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Sprouts Farmers Market | 4 Comments »

Water Wise Sprinkler Hints; Dixie Writes a Book

Wednesday, May 26th, 2010

So. I’m driving to Dr. Sam I. Am’s house to pick up Squirt and take her out to the compost plant. Dixie has her classroom set up out there and I need to ferry the little rat dog back and forth. I’ve got my portable tomato kitchen with me and it is full of tomatoes picked last night. They still aren’t as wonderful as they will be, but they are really good.

Did I tell you that Dixie wants to write a children’s book? I have been assigned the job to research book formats so I’ll be spending time in bookstores doing discovery.

It was early, like 6:30 am, and the sun was just lighting everything up on the drive to get the dog. Sammy lives in a nifty neighborhood called Spicewood/Balcones Country Club over off US 183 and Anderson Mill. I think it’s a diamond in the rough kind of location with 35-year old houses and stuff. The City of Austin annexed the whole shebang a couple years ago so the neighborhood is on the City’s outside watering schedule. Today being a Tuesday means the odd numbered addresses can water their landscapes.

Which is the root cause of my consternations.

I’m entering the first residential street and of course every house has its sprinkler system going full blast. Very few houses have taken the time to install the proper sprinkler heads for the right job, and most every system is watering big patches of street.

But the worst of all is the seven busted sprinkler heads I counted as I drove to Sam’s house. Three in one stretch of six houses were sending a full-gutter’s worth of water racing an eighth of a mile downstream into the storm drain. There was enough water getting wasted to water my big 20-acre veggie garden out to the ranch for the summer.

Guys, please! Spend the time and effort needed to protect our water resources. There is only so much clean water and we are wasting most of it. Fix your fucking automatic sprinkler systems.

Please.

Broken sprinkler head number 7 was three doors down from Sam’s place, so I sent Dixie to the door to fetch the Squirt and give Dr. Sam I. Am her bag of tomatoes, and I headed down the block to explain Water Wise principles to the neighbor. I’m halfway there when I hear Squirt’s yapping and as I turn to look, here she comes.

She stops at my feet with a skid, looks up at me with this lopsided gin of hers and says, “Mox nix, Mooner. Mi mamacita no est under der neighbor gruben, capice?”

“I wasn’t gonna gruben the neighbor, Squirt, I was simply going to explain that if I came by later this week and he’s running his system with that broken head spewing water into the street that I’ll drown him in the wasted water.”

Squirt just sat there making this silly snickering noise she makes, shaking her head.

“You’re right,” I relented after a few seconds of thought. “I’ll let Sam handle it.”

Anyway, so we walk back to my car, today we’re in my old GTO Tri-Power mean-ass goat, and before I can get my canine troops boarded, Sam hollers from her door for me to come look at her swimming pool. “It’s got some green stuff growing and the sweeper dealie looks sick,” she informs me.

When I get to the back yard for a look-see, sure enough Sam’s got some algae on the sides and the sweeper is immobile. “I’ll take the sweeper to the shop and get it fixed and brush the sides of the pool free of the green. Once the sweeper is back there shouldn’t be any more trouble.”

So now I’m brushing the sides of the pool with the nifty brush on a long pole and getting into the rhythm of pushing it down the side from top to bottom, lifting the pole, stepping 18-inches to the left, and then repeating. Repeating often.

Dixie and Squirt are under foot, Squirt all full of herself and her newest learnings and Dixie full of a teacher’s pride. Squirt is conjugating verbs in all the romantic languages and counting in what I think was conifer. It sounded like conifer to me- all whispery and full of the “shushy” sounds big fur trees make in a breeze.

I’m brushing and lifting and stepping a foot-and-a-half to the left and listening to the chattering of Squirt, and Dixie’s hinting and cues, and my mind starts wandering to this dream I had last night where Sandra Bullock and Chelsea Handler were fighting over me again. It was a vivid dream now vividly remembered.

Next thing I know I’m tumbling ass-over-tea-kettle into the deep end of the pool. When I surfaced, angry at falling in, I looked at the two dogs with my best steely stare. Dixie says to me, she says, “Don’t even think of blaming us Mooner. You got one of those dreamy looks on your face and stepped square into the pool. So do not try to blame us.”

“You’re right, Dix,” I admitted. “I can be pretty dumb sometimes.”

What I’m actually thinking is that the mornings after I have celebrity sex dreams I should avoid sharp objects, computer keyboards and power tools. I’m distracted enough with the ADHD and don’t need to daydream in risky situations.

It was actually refreshing as we have hit summer and even the mornings are warm and I didn’t have on so many clothes that it was hard to swim to the side and get out. As I’m stepping out of the cool water, I think, “Oh shit- my wallet!” I grabbed my wallet from my soggy pocket and checked it. All was OK there.

Next, “Oh shit- my new phone!” It, of course, was ruined. No problem, I’ll just get Gnat, my assistant, to get a new one. “Don’t worry guys,” I told the dogs. “I’ll call Gnat from the car.”

Sam gave me a towel to dry myself as best I could and another to sit on to protect my leather seats. The GTO is a total frame-off redo by a famous car restorer/remodeler who doesn’t want me to name him here to the bloggie. Everything was restored and updated and he did a terrific job that will never be credited to him. All of the electronics are modern and I have this nifty computerized security system with the Formula One computerized starting system like Gram’s Ferrari has.

I got the dogs loaded, Dixie belted in and Squirt in a small traveling cage. I took my key from my pocket and inserted it into its slot and pushed the Start button. Of course nothing happened because, like my phone, the electronics in the key system fried in pool water.

“Fuckballs!” What else says it better? Luckily I had a spare, but those things are expensive.

Now I had a point to all of this jabbering but I don’t remember what it was. Maybe I was going to tell you to be sure and keep spares if you have electronic car keys. Maybe it was empty your pockets before cleaning a pool.

No wait. Please everybody- fix your automatic sprinkler systems and stop wasting water.

Tags: Dixie, Dr. Sam I. Am, Squirt
Posted in A Life Lesson, Chelsea Handler, Home Grown Tomatoes, Humor | 5 Comments »

Respect Thine Ownself (Part 9)

Tuesday, May 11th, 2010

So, I’m having my therapy session this morning with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and as usual, I’m catching a full load of crap because I am, as Sam put it,“…an inappropriate, childish, crazy old coot.”

And then she added, “And you stink!”

I really hate it when women say something mean to you and then feel that the initial insult left some vital aspect of the insult left unsaid, and then they add-on that specific extra layer. Like when I was a kid and I’d be doing something my Gram thought was foolish and scraped my knee in the dirt and was then actually foolish enough to seek her out for first aid and mothering.

“Sit still while I wipe tha grit outta this cut. I told you not ta be messin with that young bull.” This would be said with each word spit from those leathery old lips in perfect unison with a hard wipe of a dishrag over already abrasioned knee skin.

“Ow, Gram. Ow, ow ow.” I always took my Gram’s ministrations like a man.

“Stop cryin lik a baby, Mooner.” And then she added, “An lemme tell ya this little man. Nex time I ain’t cuttin ya loose.”

Have you ever accidentally strapped yourself to the back of a 1,500 pound bull?

Anyway, so I say back to Sammy, “Bite me you brain killer. You can’t even tell me what color my shirt is.” Now it’s my turn to fuck with her.

We’re doing all of my therapy sessions by Skype these days on a count of the fact that I smell so bad. Last time we did a live-to-the-office session, Dr. Sam had to burn the sofa and chair that I sat on in reception and her office and I had to pay for her to have a special air filter installed on her air conditioner unit.

“I know what color your shirt is supposed to be Mooner because you aren’t wearing one. If you were clean I’d report to SAC Ellen that you have been flashing me. But you’re so filthy you look like you’re wearing a grease covered mechanic’s uniform.”

I told her, “For your information little missy, I’m wearing the same hemp tee shirt and socks I had on when I started my protest.”

What I didn’t tell her was that I had dreampt that my jockey shorts attacked me and I ripped them off and set them on fire. But she could only see me from the waist up.

“Look Mooner,” she starts in on me. “No self respecting adult human would put himself through what you are doing to the rest of us. One of your neighbors has petitioned Governor Perry to designate your ranch as a disaster area. He’s worried that when somebody gets desperate and hoses you down, the runoff will contaminate his water wells.”

That could be a problem. The Governor and I don’t get along all that well. Did you hear that little shitball is so afraid of snakes that he carries a big pistol when he goes jogging? Give me a fucking break. No snake alive would bite Rick Perry, professional courtesy being what it is.

Then he says he’s out with his son’s dog for a run and feels the need to kill a poor coyote that looks them over. What a pussy.

Maybe I ought to try to mend fences with Governor Perry, you know, find some sort of common ground and make peace with him. I could have Gram formulate some special potions for him. She could do one to restart the left and right sides of his brain functions, one that makes him care for other people and maybe one that makes him stop lying and cheating the people of the fine state of Texas.

Likely it would help if I stopped calling him a brain-dead Baptist Republican shitball and latent Nazi asswipe. I really don’t think he’s a Nazi but I like to say so. I don’t think he could pass the Nazi’s intelligence exam.

But I could try to be nice.

Or I could take a bath and brush my teeth.

Wait a minute. What did Dr. Sam I. Am just say? “Sammie, what did you just say?”

“I said that if you had any dignity or self respect you’d take a bath you crazy fucking redneck. I’m going to lock you up at Shoal Creek if you don’t get your act together Mooner. And pronto!”

That’s when I stood up and showed her my ass play I called Guess What Came To Dinner?

“Oh sweet Jesus Mooner. Have you been sitting in a tar pit?”

“Take that,” I said back. “It’s not tar, it’s a new weapon for the Department of Defense.”

She bitched and called me names for another twenty minutes but I hardly heard a word. Instead, I formulated how I was getting myself out of this mess.

Think through my logic with me. So, I have been on a no bath, no tooth brushing while on a garlic and onion diet to get some respect, right? What if I show some respect to myself, would that count? And it takes a big man to stick by his guns for eleven days and never flinch, right?

Therefore, it will show self respect if I brush my teeth, take a bath and eat a buffalo. Ipso, facto smackto!

Respect administered from the one person who most respects me.

Hell, now that I think about it I deserve some kind of award or something.

So- fuck Rick Perry.

Tags: Dr. Sam I. Am, Republican Asswipes
Posted in Environmental Issues, Humor, Moon Shows, Psychotherapy | No Comments »

A Confession- Can I Get Respect Now? (Part 8)

Saturday, May 8th, 2010

OK, I’ve got a joke for you. Ready? What do you call a 240-pound skunk?

Mooner Johnson.

After ten full days of no bath no tooth brushing and eating a garlic and onions diet, skunks think I stink. I took some scrapings from my armpits and between my toes and sent them to the research lab that Streaker Jones and I have over to New Mexico. That’s where we do all of our secret testing on potential new products.

I think I might have invented a 100% organic, sustainable chemical weapon to use against terrorists.

But I need a bath, my teeth have gone all rainbow colored on me, and I just tried to eat Rush Limbaugh. Rush the 500 pound pig here to the ranch, not the brain dead radio shitball. I got the pig out to the Travis County Livestock Show and Rodeo one year when Streaker Jones and I tried to outbid the Aggies on some of the prize livestock.

He’s one of my favorite animals because he furts Gram with stunning regularity. If you remember, furting is when you sneak up on a person, gently poke your finger to their taint and say, “Furt!”

Excepting that Rushie uses his snout and says, “Snorft!”

Sends Gram halfway to the moon every time.

“I’m gonna plug yer fuckin pig with tha 12-gage iffn he furts my ass agin, Mooner.” That’s Gram’s pat response.

I never get tired of hearing that. I had Dixie teach the pig how to sneak up on folks. It’s hilarious to see this 500-pound tusked hog all up on his tippy-toes to get a good angle on Gram’s ass. Have you ever seen a pig smile?

Anyway, when we last left off, I think I was telling you about that one time when Woozie, Streaker Jones and I went down to Mexico in the late summer and how Streaker Jones was waking me up so’s we could get the hell out of Dodge. It wasn’t Dodge but rather a small town down to central Mexico with a Mexican name I don’t recall, but I meant that we were skedaddling our butts post haste.

So, Streaker Jones has the comatose Woosie draped over his shoulder like a serape and I’m digging in my pockets looking for the keys to my 1963 Impala Super Sport and thinking about marriage and wondering why I felt different this morning from yesterday at this time- and I don’t mean feeling hung over but rather a feeling I’d never had before, and all of this as we hurried to where the car was parked.

As I’m unlocking the door, Blanquita, who must have awakened, is yelling at us from across the town square, she’s yelling, “I suppose so, I suppose so, I suppose so,” like that except she’s crying and stumbling around like she’s been shot of something.

She keeps yelling, “I suppose so,” and I tell Streaker Jones I want to go say goodbye and he give me this look that means, “No. Do exactly what I say,” and then he says, “Mooner, get in, start tha Paller and git us gone.”

Streaker Jones called the car the Paller so I started the car and took off. Lucky we had left our stuff in the car so we had a cooler with some Cokes and tequila for breakfast and to tide us over until we got most of the way back to the border.

As I’m driving I keep going back over my thoughts and wondering about my dream about getting married. I told Streaker Jones, I said to him, “Streaker Jones, I had this dream where I was getting married and the Sheriff was holding a gun to my head and we were eating roasted goats and pigs and rabbits. The food was good and the Carta Blanca beer was cold but that agave juice wasn’t something I want to do again.”

“Twernt no dream, Mooner. You’s a mairt man. Now git us to tha border an quick!”

Then he added, “An she twernt sayin I suppose so, Mooner. She was sayin ‘mi esposo,’ which is Spanish for ‘my husband.’”

So.

This is the moral part to my story started a few days back about how the distinctions between dreams, hallucinations, reality and a person’s various separate realities are important. Stay with me on this, OK?

When I say that I have been divorced ten times I hope you have noticed that I have never said that I only married ten times. I won’t say how many times I have married because I am uncertain how to count my nuptials.

I can say with absolute certainty that I have been married ten times, each ending in an amicable divorce with significant divorce dowries. I know the ex-wives names, birthdays, favorite colors, favorite sex position, sex position wherein I think they best perform and I have their addresses and phone numbers and all of that shit.

These ten marriages I know happened in the real reality for sure even though most happened while I hallucinated and lived in several of the separate realities that inhabit my ADHD-addled brain. I have photos, newspaper mentions, receipts for tuxedos and all of that stuff to remind and verify the reality of the events.

That wedding (maybe) to Blanquita (I think her name was) under threat of bodily harm (according to Streaker Jones) was not a certainty. I even spent the summer after my first divorce, the one from Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, down to central Mexico looking for the town and possible wife and in-laws. Found nothing.

I did get arrested and Gram, Streaker Jones and Dixie springed me in a daring prison escape, but that is a whole nother enchilada. Maybe they sprung me. And why did I have to say enchilada?

Did I tell you that I tried to eat Rush the pig alive. I am a sick man and need help.

Will somebody please show me some respect?

Tags: ADD/ADHD, Dr. Sam I. Am, Streaker Jones
Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer, Humor, Rush Limbaugh the pig | No Comments »

A Fossil Fuel Alternitive; Psycho Therapy Sucks (Part 1)

Tuesday, April 27th, 2010

What does a man have to do to be appreciated? Sometimes I feel like all I do is give, give and give some more and all I get in return is a load of crap. I give up my valuable time to walk Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s little shitbird dog, Squirt, every day rain-or-shine, busy or not and what do I get in return? Arrested.

Arrested and scolded by the fine doctor.

I follow my therapy homework assignment to a “T”, with one little exception, and agree to donate profits from my sales here to the bloggie to Health Alliance for Austin Musicians. And because I only scored a 90 on that homework (I see my attempt to get HAAM to market my products as a mere ten-point deduction from a perfect score), I get scolded again by Sammie like I’m a ten-year-old school boy who just mooned his appreciation for America’s Veterans at the big parade down to Congress Avenue.

Born on the Fourth of July is one of my best ass shows and likely the most performed of them all. The Veterans’ Day Parade was a big deal when I was growing up and I wanted to show my elders that I could be grateful. We’d been studying about the Vets to school in fifth grade Social Studies Class, plus Grampa was yakking about “the Big War” so much, until I wanted to do my part.

I had planned the first of my July 4^th celebration moon shows for the big parade. Red, white and blue-painted butt cheeks were adorned with the American flag and banners from all of the Armed Services. I even included the Coast Guard banner because Pastor Browningwell had been in the Coast Guard and his wife, Leticia, was a teacher to my school and she made sure we got that, “The Coast Guard is a Veterans group, children.”

The moon show went great until I set a lit punk to the 1,000-pack string of Black Cat Firecrackers serving as the finale to my show. The firecrackers set my underwear ablaze at my ankles and started quite a stir. I don’t make that mistake anymore as all of my pyrotechnics occur off-site from the main attraction.

Since I’m visiting Dr. Pain-in-the-Ass ten times a week these days, I told her at this morning’s session that I am not taking this lack of appreciation any more. She’s scolding me to beat the band and Squirt, that little shitball, is sitting there grinning and dissing me under her breath. Which brings to the surface another entire situation to which I am not appreciated.

In all of the years since I first realized that Dixie could talk, she has only spoken human-speak to me. When she was a puppy I couldn’t distinguish her mewling from the battalion of other noises that rattle inside my skull. Once I understood that this one childish voice I was hearing was my sweet puppy talking to me, and not my own early childhood memories come back to taunt, I was elated. I felt special.

I felt special for having a doggie who could talk and we could share our problems and solve life’s mysteries together. That specialness lasted like maybe a month before I realized that Dixie would only speak to me and that Dixie is female. For whatever reason, I stupidly assumed that my dog would be grateful to me and that somehow she would express her gratitude in un-womanlike ways. Maybe that should be not womanlike ways.

Nope. Dixie is no different from all the other women in my life- she takes advantage of my kind heart, spends my money like it is her own, and she talks back. Now, she is teaching Squirt to talk to and back at me, and only me, and Squirt is abusing me like I’m her owner. I can’t even get respect from man’s best friends.

After like something close to the full fifty minutes alloted to this morning’s therapy session spent with Sammie six feet up my ass and her goofy dog smirking at my discomfort, I said, “I got it. I’m not gonna take a bath until I get a little respect.”

“No problem, Mooner,” responded the psycho therapy queen bitchball. “You don’t smell so great to start with.”

You don’t smell so great to start with.

Then Squirt added, under her breath of course, “Mooner got in trouble, Mooner got in trouble!”

“Nanny-nanny-boo-boo to you too you little shitball.” A clever retort from a clever man.

“We’ll see who’s zooming who in a couple of days,” I told the two of them. “I’m going on an onion and garlic diet. And I’m not gonna take a bath or brush my teeth.”

I’m now discovering that an all onion and garlic diet is something akin to an all ice cream diet except without the ice cream. I once made it four days eating nothing but ice cream before I caved in and ate an entire roasted goat. But I’m having difficulty making it through my second pungent meal without something not colored white to eat as a filler.

My hope is that cold Carta Blanca beer will help me keep the wheels on the bus during this road trip to appreciation. Actually, this might be one of those rare instances wherein my ADHD/ADD might be an attraction rather than a distraction. Maybe I’ll get all brain fritzed and forget how miserable I am on this limited diet.

Did you ever light farts as a kid? We all did and it was great fun. The first scientific research project Streaker Jones and I ever did was this one where we determined which foods produced the best gas. It was a simple testing model with simple criteria since it was our first attempt. We were looking for the largest fireball.

Basically, each of us kids- Streaker Jones, Sister, Woozie, Walley, Tony and the rest of the gang, each of us would eat only one food for an entire day. Then that evening we’d all meet up to the Baptist Church and gather in the Sunday School Classroom that brought me so much mental anguish growing up.

It was summer so we could all stay out late, and our parents were all so very proud of us for spending so much time in church.

Being boys, and Sister a lesbian in-training, we were only interested to discover which foods sparked the biggest flames when lit. Since Sister was naturally the most gassy of us all, we used her as the baseline tester. Whenever one of us boys hit on a good food, we’d have Sister eat it the next day for Beta testing. We didn’t call it Beta testing and I’m not disparaging my sister.

When I say Sister is naturally the gassy-est, I only mean that she farts when she drinks water. I was not knocking lesbians.

The church classroom was this long, skinny rectangular thing with three small windows on one wall and two parallel rows of light fixtures with exposed incandescent bulbs running end-to-end. I got my first hand job in this same room a couple years after our ass-gas experiments were interrupted. Wait, my first hand job that wasn’t administered by a Baptist Boy Scout Adult Leader as I lay petrified in my sleeping bag to Aquatics Summer Camp.

Fucking asswipe Baptist shitwad.

So, we would pull the drapes tight to the windows and turn off the lights. Part of the fun was the metal chairs with molded seats. The molded shape was like two big hands cupped and held close together, like if some giant was using his cupped hands to get water from a bucket. You guys know those chairs. They added an extra dimension of sounds as we farted and fidgeted our butts around to release and ignite our gases.

In the darkened room, I was the starter because I had a Zippo lighter, and Streaker Jones was the scientific observer because he was the smartest. Streaker Jones is still the smartest and I carry that Zippo to this day. We set the drapes on fire when we decided to see if the seven of us could produce one big fireball.

We could.

Anyway, my point to all of this is that onions and garlic were top five on the Streaker Jones Fart-Flash-O-Meter rating system. I remember that broccoli was number one, a fact I still don’t understand, and of course pinto beans was two. I forget what came after garlic and onions but who gives a shit.

Maybe for nostalgia’s sake I’ll torch a few when I get home tonight.

Tags: ADD/ADHD, Dr. Sam I. Am, Health Alliance for Austin Musicians, Streaker Jones
Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Humor, Moon Shows, Psychotherapy | 4 Comments »

Health Alliance for Austin Musicians Needs Our Help

Friday, April 23rd, 2010

Sometimes psycho therapy is just too much for me. The last thirty years of my therapy have been one of those, “Take one step forward, get back on the horse and tell me how you feel,” kinds of dealies. I know I’m getting better I just hope I don’t die before I feel better.

Actually, I sometimes want to kill myself because of the therapy.

So. I’m in session this morning and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson- that’s my psycho therapist, first ex-wife and third biggest pain in my ass. Of course Gram is first-in-line on the ass-pain list followed closely by Dixie, and then Sammie. I’m doing twice-daily sessions five days weekly right now because I keep getting arrested so often.

Usually my arrests are not my fault but sometimes they are, and this I know with absolute certainty. OK, this I certainly know until I’m in the first therapy session after an arrest. Usually these sessions occur to the jail or the Loonie Bin where I typically spend my arrested times. I’m certain that not all of my arrests are my fault until my therapist convinces me otherwise.

Like this morning.

Today’s therapy business was after Pat the plumber from Pat’s Plumbing Company came over to change the leaky kitchen faucet out to the ranch. Pat had told me I shouldn’t have gotten the Moen fixture when he installed it just a few month’s ago. Something about a vacuum valve that leaks after a short time. What Pat actually said was, “Thanks for the work Mooner. I’ll be seeing you again soon when the vacuum valve goes out on this thing and it floods your kitchen.”

I like Pat because he does good work, has fair pricing and he doesn’t say, “I told you so.” I hate when somebody does that nanny-nanny-boo-boo crap. You can get Pat at www.pattheplumber.netfor just about any plumbing need. Tell him Mooner said to call. He won’t give either of us anything if you mention me, but at least he’ll know I appreciate him.

“Mooner, would you look at me when I’m speaking to you?” starts ex-wife-therapist-ass pain Dr. Sam I. Am. ”What part of, ‘I had to race home from my European vacation early because you were arrested for sexually abusing my dog,’ sounds like this is somebody else’s fault to you?”

If you are a regular reader, you know that I was accidentally arrested the other day but is was not my fault. Check out Wednesday’s bloggie post and you can read all about my innocence.

“Oh shitcicles, Sammy. I never touched the Squirt’s goodies. I was just doing a scientific observation. It was the ‘close-in first-person observational technique’ I was using, so my guess is that old lady just has bad eyesight.”

“That ‘old lady’ you are talking about is one of my patients, Mooner, you nut-case. She and Squirt are good friends. You scared her to death.”

Dr. Sam I. Am sometimes uses Squirt like a sort of prop when she has especially frail-brained patients. For some reason having that little shitbird in the room for psycho therapy helps some people relax. As far as I’m concerned, if you need a trouble-making mutt in your therapy sessions to make improvement- you should can the psycho therapy and get drunk instead. You’d get better bang for your buck.

It doesn’t really work for me to get drunk instead of therapy because I am not frail-brained. Nope, in fact my diagnosis reads, “Subject Mooner Einstein Johnson is….. fat brained, thick skulled, inappropriate and blah, blah, blah.” However, a dozen cold Carta Blanca beers do help me to assimilate what information the brain doctoring provides.

“But I still don’t get why this is all my fault,” I whined. “Why is everything always my fault?”

I feared I said that like a petulant child.

“Oh stop acting like a 4-year old you crazy old fart. Act your age and take responsibility for your actions. I have a homework assignment for you and if you screw it up- I’m locking you up at Shoal Creek.”

Then Sammy added, “Mooner, are you paying attention to me?”

“Who me?” I asked. “I was just wondering if Dixie taught Squirt how to dribble one little pee drop like she does. That would be just like Dixie.”

My damned talking dog is a pain in the ass.

“Look, here’s what you are going to do. I want you to choose another charity to sponsor on your website and blog. Just decide which one it will be and do it. Do something for someone else and you will feel better about yourself, which might help you stay out of trouble.”

And then she added, “And don’t you dare call the charity to see if they will help you do any marketing of your silly books and products. You need to make a true and charitable deed for others if you want this to work. Don’t try to link with their website or ask them to have a book signing for you.”

Why do women always have to “add something” when they lecture?

“Bite me and bill me. I’m tired of you and I am outta here.” Sometimes I am truly clever.

“And keep your nose out of my dog’s ass, Mooner. I mean it.”

So when I got out to the compost plant I got to thinking about what charity I like enough to put on an even keel with the Food Bank. I was cogitating around and remembered telling you guys about my friend Sally. You know Sally, right? I think I told you about her back on like March 16^th, or so.

Sally is the musician who was attacked by her ungrateful heart and almost put down for the count. Sally has a big heart and it nearly got the best of her. And I think I was talking about Sally because I was talking about the health care debate and how lucky Sally is to be covered by the Health Alliance for Austin Musicians, or HAAM.

These are really great people doing good things to help support our city’s artists in a very meaningful way.

So, I called over to HAAM and spoke with Carolyn- she’s the main poobah over to the Alliance, to see what kind of arrangements we might make for some joint marketing. You know, the cross-pollinating that occurs when two groups promote each other. I already knew that HAAM would be more than reluctant to do this but I had to ask.

Of course Carolyn explained that HAAM protects its “Brand” like a mother lion protects her cubs, and that linking to my webbie or to hold a book signing for me would be problematic, of course. But I had to ask. I’m a businessman for shitsakes, so I had to ask.

So I tell Carolyn- just as I told the nice folks over to the Capital Area Food Bank, that I’m going to contribute 5% of the gross sales from anything sold here to my webber and bloggie to HAAM even if they won’t tie themselves to my stuff. That’s just the kind of guy I am.

I understand why people don’t want to be too closely tied to me. This one time, when she and I were still married, Ingrid and I were role playing in the conjugal bed. Actually we were role playing in the conjugal kitchen, where I was doing an ass show I titled, “Julia Childs cooked my Christmas goose.” Ingrid had dyed and shaved my butt hairs to look like a Christmas goose’s cooked carcass, and we had adorned my pecker to be its neck, and head. Had a pretty bow draped around the goose’s neck, and the eyes and beak were made from plastic containers we melted down and molded to fit.

I made a handsome Christmas goose, all plucked and browned and dressed, and Ingrid looked mighty fine in her apron.

Part of the scenario was to have Ingrid, in the role of Julia Childs, truss my goose for the cooking. Ingrid was trussing herself to me with handcuffs and those plastic retainer jobbies the police use instead of handcuffs. We were trying the plastic restraints for the first time because we kept misplacing the keys to the cuffs and getting into embarrassing situations.

Anyway, just about the time we’re fully invested into our role-playing scenario- you know, the spot where Ingrid says, “Bon Apatit,” Sheriff Wozniac breaks down the door and barges in to arrest me, again. Seems it was reported that a man matching my description had mooned the Governor’s motorcade down to Congress Avenue earlier that day and the little shitbrain politico had sworn out a warrant.

Fucking Republicans do not have any sense as to what humor truly is.

Wait. Ingrid is another of my ex-wives and owner of Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium. She plucks, and waxes, polishes and dyes my butt and pubic hair for my moon shows.

But look here because my ADD is digressing me to distractions. Click here to www.healthallianceforaustinmusicians.org and give Carolyn or Jennifer a shout.

And a check.

Maybe if you guys donate enough money I can get a mention over to HAAM.

Tags: ADD/ADHD, Dr. Sam I. Am, Health Alliance for Austin Musicians
Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer, Humor | 6 Comments »

City of Austin Employee Does Kind Act

Wednesday, April 21st, 2010

I saw something this morning that gave me a renewed appreciation for people. I want to give a special “Thank You” acknowledgment to the man driving City of Austin solid waste truck number 10G758. This was at about 8:45 am this morning and it was in the area in the Northwest off Anderson Mill near to US 183.

Now I know you are dying to know what I was doing over to Anderson Mill at that time of day so I’ll tell you. Dr. Sam I. Am is on vacation and I drew the short straw to walk her little rat dog every day. So Dixie and Streaker Jones and I are doing the almost hour-long up-and-down-the-fucking hills walk with this little shitbird.

Sam doesn’t allow me to use the actual names of her “children” in any of my writings, so let’s just call the little runt “Squirt”. Squirt is this half wiener dog and half Mexican Chihuahua ball of smarts and energy. A long and muscled body with short legs support a head that is more Latin than Teutonic. She’s way smarter than Dixie, has more spunk than a nine-year-old gymnast and has somehow learned to pee one drop at a time.

Squirt and Sammie live in this nifty neighborhood that’s all hills, so this morning’s walk is real exercise. I’m in pretty good shape for an old fart, but this little shitbird drags me breathless the entire route. She wants to run the whole way at full clip, all the time making these immediate, jolting stops to drip one drop of puppy pee in spots which seem to be predetermined by Squirt.

We make maybe 137 of these stops on each walk. OK, we make exactly 137 of these stops on each walk. I have counted them. I’ve counted them each of the six days I have been walked.

Yesterday I got pissed at getting jerked around by the ten pound brute, and at stop number 126, I lost my temper and yelled at her.

“Nobody needs to pee this much you little shitbird. Your dry-peeing is worse than your dry-humping.”

Squirt loves to dry hump folks.

Anyway, Dixie is teaching Squirt how to talk, so Squirt says back to me, she says, “Flockinsieg your glickenstiner und tu cerveza Carta Blanca.”

Dixie is using an ultra-intensive language teaching method where you teach multiple languages at the same time, so I usually need a translator at this early stage of Squirt’s lessons. I say, “Dixie, what the hell did she just try to say?”

“Well, asshole,” my loving dog started, “Squirt just told you she wants to piss in your beer.”

“Crapsicles Dixie. Could you at least get her to where I can understand her insults before you teach her how to talk back.”

Why does every woman in my life talk back at me?

So today, at pee stop 88, when Squirt pulled us over to the curb to pee, I squatted quickly to the ground with my face to Squirt’s butt so I could see if she was actually doing anything. She squats her little tushie to the grass and looks over her shoulder at me with a grin on her face. We stare for maybe three minutes. Squirt stares at me with that grin, and I’m glaring at her little wedge of girl dog plumbing.

Then Squirt says to me, she says, “Waaaaait…. waaait… wait… Now!”

And on “Now!” the muscles around her rear-end do a little dance and this one, pathetic drop drips out.

Holy shit guys, I am ADD digressing this compliment of a City worker to death.

The point to all of this is that as I was squatted down at pee stop number 88 watching Sam’s ungrateful poochie drip a drop, the driver of truck number 10G758 was performing a remarkable act of kindness.

The driver was emptying trash containers on his route, which I assume is his job. Should be a safe assumption since Wednesday is Sammie’s trash day and this is a City truck picking up the trash. According to the brochure Sam left for me to read so I would be certain to get her trash properly picked up- the driver’s job is to: …”drive, stop at the can, and push the button that starts the mechanical process of container dumping, finish said process and drive away.”

The driver does nothing else. Cans must be placed, just so, at the curb in just the right spot and by the right time. I believe all of that because I have seen homeowners in other parts of town racing down the street behind sanitation trucks, pulling their big containers.

But the driver of number 10G758 must dance to a different drummer. He was at this one house with a very steep drive where an older lady lives. Maybe she has a man living with her, but I have only seen the lady. The big truck stopped, the driver got out, and he walked maybe thirty paces up the steep drive and brought the lady’s container to the curb. I notice that he did properly place the container at the curb so I know he read that part of the memo.

He dumped and drove to the next house. And as he passed our group, me on hands-and-knees with my nose stuck up a dog’s ass, he gave us a huge toothy smile and a wave.

Of course, after we left Squirt with her “sitter” I got pulled over by a Sheriff Deputy. To quote the officer, “Step out of the car, sir- hands where I can see them.”

“What now?” my stock and standard reply to these situations.

“I said show me your hands sir. You don’t want me to Taser you, do you sir?”

I replied, again my stock and standard, “Not today, officer. My girlfriend works the late shift on Wednesdays so I don’t need the Taser jolt or the resulting stiffy. But please, pray tell, what did I do now?”

“Sir, a nice lady over on the next street was dumping her trash and saw a man molesting a little dog. You fit the description of the man. Now tell me what you did with the dog.”

Anyway, I’ve got a court appearance next week to clear all of this up. But I need a favor from you guys.

ZJ4SUEVVJCBA

Please tell the City what a good guy drives truck number 10G758- click on www.cityofaustin.org/connect/email 311.htm. You have to click to get to the City site and then click “Contact Us” to wiggle through their web trickery.

Tags: ADD/ADHD, Dr. Sam I. Am, Streaker Jones
Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer, Humor | No Comments »

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

Thursday, March 25th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vote Kinky. He’ll save our Republic!

Sorry, I digressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m such an idiot.

Tags: ADD/ADHD, Dr. Sam I. Am
Posted in A Life Lesson, Humor, Psychotherapy, Uncategorized | No Comments »

The AMA, Iraq and Afganistan War, and Sandra Bullock

Monday, March 22nd, 2010

Who was the first person to say, “No good deed goes unpunished?” I want to send them a card or nominate them for some kind of smart person award. I am now neck-deep in crap and for no reason other than I try too hard to help.

First, let’s talk about this bloggy job. It’s a blog, people. It’s not a radio show, or a phone call or an e-mail, and it’s for sure not an open invitation for you to come out to Mooners Compost Plant and try to punch me in the nose.

No, it is a BLOG! Respond to my rantings and ravings here. Nowhere else.

So. If you want to respond in any way about any thing I say here, do it here. Post your thoughts or ideas to the bottom at the “COMMENTS” dealie to the end of any posted entry. Hell, make yourself to home and write something as a comment to all of them if you feel the need.

But stop calling me to work and the ranch and my cell phone to bitch at me. Bitch at me here. Don’t e-mail me because I won’t read it or respond. And for shitsakes stop coming after me to do bodily harm. I’m tough enough to whip most of you all by my lonesome. But if you were to manage to penetrate my personal defenses, you’d be dealing with Streaker Jones.

Please don’t make me clean your body fluids and tattered parts off the floor if Streaker Jones comes to my aid.

But this one Russian psycho therapist buddy of Dr. Sam I. Am calls me, and he says, “Well, Mooner, I would like to say something both in support and in opposition to your positions. But I must maintain my anonymity. Any breach or disclosure of my personal thoughts and opinions would be detrimental to my professional rapport with my patients.”

So I told him I wish Dr. Sam I. Am would keep her personal thoughts to herself in my therapy and you know what he said? He says, “Well Mooner, Sam shares the problems confronting her in her work with you in our peer supervision sessions. You are so crazy she needs our help. We fly in from all over the world to meet and discuss your problems.”

Well of course they do.

He went on, “I simply can’t have my name or e-mail address appear on your website.”

OK, fine. It won’t. I must have missed the part where he said something supportive.

Look here- when you comment below one of my posts, you are asked to supply your email address. That is not for publication but it is rather the only method I use to censure comments. If I have your e-mail address I can be sure that you are not a “Spam-bot” or some evil hacker.

If you are not some evil doer of computer crimes, I promise I will post your comment. I will only cut anything you say that I deem to be illegal. I am inappropriate to the extreme, but at least marginally law-abiding.

So comment away. Just do it here. Thank, you.

But in the face of making myself a liar, I do want to respond to a few of those previously-mentioned inappropriate comments.

First of all, I like Dexter Pittman and I was only trying to help him. Mark my words- in the weeks before the NBA Draft, all of those talking heads over to ESPN will parrot my comments.

Second, all of you chemical companies can kiss my ruby-red, spit-shined and cut to look like the Eiffel Tower redneck butt! Weed-and-feed products are nasty poisons and pollutants and need to be removed from the market. Send that shit over to Afghanistan and Iraq and bring our boys and girls back to home.

That crap will cause more ruin in five years than than the decade of George W. Bush-directed military actions have. So go ahead and sue me you caustic chemical making Republican right-wing Baptist fuckballs. Comment below and I’ll give you my lawyer’s info to send the papers.

I don’t know if this is third or should be labeled fourth, but third, I’ll quote Gram. She said to me, she says,” Mooner, you done caused me a shitstorm over to tha church. How could you talk about that Spriggie store and not mention the HEB or the Central Market? Pastor Browningwell sent Leticia over to sit with me and your Aunt Hilda to discuss it with us. Mighty embari-assin, Mooner. Mighty.”

I’d like to bare my ass at my Gram, but she hit me with a 410-gage shotgun loaded with rock salt the last time. I am required to listen to that old gasbag’s nonsense without negative reaction. I flash her just the one time while she was on a date and she blows half the hair off my butt with a shotgun.

Pastor Browningwell is Gram’s Baptist preacher and Leticia is his wife. And “yes”, the self-same Mrs. Browningwell who was my teacher, and more. HEB and its spawn, Central Market, are owned by the HE Butt family from down to San Antonio. The Butts are huge Baptists and Baptist as it gets. I am non-discriminatory so I shop with them, but I refuse to promote them. Besides, grapefruit was only 2 for a buck at my HEB, so I went to Sprouts. Sprouts has a limited selection when compared to most places, but they have great specials and the limited selection has great variety.

My butt is shaved in a replica of the Eiffel Tower for the moon show I have planned for when I take Dixie over to Paris for her big award night. I’ve got sparklers and fireworks and some other stuff and I plan to do it up right for her. I tell you this because I just know someone will ask, “Why’s your butt look like the Eiffel Tower?”

Fifth, I will respond to the American Medical Association in like-kind to their mailed complaint:

Dear AMA:

Fuck you. Nowhere in the six pounds of wasted-paper research, enclosed with your pissy letter, do you provide any hard research that disproves my theory of the attacking heart. All you do is blame the poor person for smoking or over eating or not getting enough exercise.

I get that a person’s habits can be bad for their heart, and I will say right here that nobody should smoke cigarettes.

However, my Gram buggerates me way beyond what any man has ever done to his heart, and I have yet to squeeze the life out of her. I want to, I have dreamed of it, often, and planned it a few times, but never acted.

But these hearts don’t have a heart. They just plunder and kill and maim with abandon, and often with no warning at all. Zero, zip nor zilch. Hearts attack people and we need to start keeping a close eye on them starting like when we, and the heart, get to be about maybe forty, I’d say.

Now, leave me alone and go find a cure for the common cold.

Sincerely,

Mooner Johnson

OK. Sixth and last. Google called to tell me that their search engine is ignoring my website because I don’t have good keywords. The sweet lady went on to explain that because I talk, “Like a backwoods hick,” it is likely that the search engines will continue to ignore me. When I asked Ben, my personal computer guru, about all of that he said, “That’s OK, Mooner. Just get other sites to link with you.”

Now I just need to figure out how to link. Dixie told me I need to be careful with whom I link. She was out with the Snoop Dog the other night after his concert here to Austin and he was telling her that the X-Rated porn sites have almost ruined his bloggy job and the website too.

I’ll figure it out but will use all of the help you can give me.

Also, I want to shout out to Delores. I passed all of your thoughts on to Gram and she said to tell you, “Tell tha D-girl that the f-cacentrics of her potions will improve ifn she’ll add just a touch a the magic shroomers. She can call me an I’ll give her a professional discount on some spoors.”

I tried to explain to her that Delores is less concerned with the efficacy of her formulas than she is with the historical correctness. Gram doesn’t understand following either a recipe or instructions.

And Gram went on to say, “An Mooner. Tell her that I got a potion for potion makers called, “Potion Smart Maker”. I’ll special price that un too.”

Delores is a regular responder and commenter to these pages.

Oh yea. I just thought I’d put Sandie’s name to the top to show my support.

I’m hungry, so goodbye. Mooner

Tags: Dr. Sam I. Am, Sprouts
Posted in Humor, Psychotherapy, Religion, Sprouts Farmers Market, Uncategorized | 72 Comments »