Posts Tagged ‘Gram’s potions’

Reflections On Judge Scalia; Lou Diamond Phillips Plays God

Monday, February 15th, 2016

So. Please allow me to say, in advance, that I was a little stoned. OK, and in the desire to properly elucidate realities to you, dear readers, allow me to say that I was considerably more than a little stoned. I was shitfaced.

Six-Carta-Blanca-beers-two-joints-and-a-full-dropper-of-Gram’s-mushroom-juice stoned. That kind of stoned. Still functioning, meaning I was awake, could walk and carry on a conversation, yet so mellowed-out that I could converse with Ted Cruz without turning him into fodder for the compost pile. This high was quite mellow.

The pot was a medicinal variety called “Rainbow Kush” or “Orange Sherbet Kush”, or maybe it was “Bush is a Kush”; the mushroom juice was from a tincture bottle just arrived from Austin that my tincturating grandmother had named, “Santi Fe ain’t got no air, Mooner, this here’s gonna Oxycontinate yer ass all over tha place.” As La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe sits at 7,292 feet above sea level, Gram’s desire to increase my oxygenations was admirable.

The beer was from Susan’s Liquor Store, the only dependable local source for my beloved CB.

We had just learned of Judge Scalia’s death and adjourned to the back yard for celebrations and reflections. Awash with the peace and joy that can only come from good news and a multi-dimensional high, the dogs and I were sitting out back in the early eve, wondering the outcome/replacement from Scalia’s death, and enjoying the end of a 63-degree day.

Sixty-three fucking degrees. Last week the highs were in the mid-twenties with winds that made the air so sharp it would cut your face, and three days later we’re thirty-degrees over normal.

OK, as that sounds like a bitch, allow me to say I love this weather and we three were basking like old dogs in a sunny patch on a parlor rug. That sixth beer was on the table between the two wrought iron chairs, the Squirt was in my lap, Yoda in the second chair, and all three of us were pointed at the back drive-through gate that looks out onto the alley behind the house.

There’s a three-inch gap between the bottom of the gate and the top of the concrete drive, and several evenings this week—about this time—the Squirt thinks she saw something stick its nose under the gate.

“Too dark to tell for sure, but I think it’s that wolf dog from over on Quapaw Street,” Squirt told me. “Dangerous looking sort.”

The goat dog did his slit-throat, “Phwouf-phwouf-pwhouf,” bit, and the Squirt turned to me to say, she tells me, “Dumbass over there says it a coyote, and he wants to rip its face off.”

As Yoda is the least fearsome animal on the entire planet, Squirt and I laughed about his fearlessness in the face of a fearsome force, and it dawned on me that Yoda has never actually growled.

“Tell him to growl, sweetie. Let’s see if he even knows how.”

She did, and Yoda screwed this cartoonish snarl onto his face and went, “Mmmrrrll.”

We asked that he repeat his snarling growl, which he did, and I realized he had growled before. “That’s the sound he makes when I move him out of my arm pit to turn over in bed. I always thought it was a lovie noise. That little shit is growling at me because my fucking arm is asleep and I need to recirculate it.” She and I laughed once more. Yoda growled at us, again.

Anyway, I drank and the puppies lapped—me from the bottle, they from the mayonnaise lid that makes a great portable beer trough for ten-pound doggies—and we settled in for the approaching dark. I kind of started snoozing when the Squirt nudged my chin with her cool nose. She whispered, “Wake up shithead. There’s something at the gate.”

I tried to wake, then focus. Sure enough, there was something at the back gate. “Everybody quiet. Let’s creep up on it.”

We crept. Stealthily; slowly; quietly.

There was a jangling of keys, the sound of the lock slipping out of chain and the chain slipping through its metal eyelets. A hand slipped between the gate halves and Lou Diamond Phillips stepped into the backyard.

“The three of you couldn’t sneak up on a dead man, Mooner. Fetch another beer and some of those sweet bean tamales from your fridge while I lock this gate. You’ve coyotes prowling your neighborhood.”

I fetched, and upon my return from the kitchen found my God sitting in Yoda’s chair with the goat dog settled in his lap, and the Squirt still sniffing at the gap beneath the gate. I set fresh beers and tamales on the table and sat.

“Nice to see you, Sir. Been awhile.” I paused for a response, got none, and asked Him, I asked God, “Uh, not that I’m ungrateful or anything, but I was hoping you’d visit as that actress Mary-Louise Parker. We watched the final episode of Season Four of Weeds, and that scene in her bathtub… I mean, I like Lou Diamond Phillips and all, but, well, you know…”

I never realized LDP was almost as big as I am. They film around here for the TV series Longmire and I’ve seen him about. He plays a Native American bar owner with certain instincts. He’s handsome and all that, but he’s no Mary-Louise Parker.

“Forget your pecker for once and focus on your reflections of Justice Scalia. Do you realize that your first thought was, ‘Thank God?’ Don’t you be thanking me for another man’s demise, shithead. You might not have liked him, but he wasn’t a bad man. He was misdirected and biased. But he was steadfast in his beliefs and practiced as he preached. And he was one of Justice Ginsberg’s best buddies. You can’t admire her without admiring her friends.”

“Is it OK if I say I’m glad he’s no longer on the bench?”

God pierced my eyes with Lou Diamond Phillips’ steeliest stare. “Don’t mince words, Mooner. You’ll get the SCOTUS you want. Don’t revel in another man’s death. Period.”

Before I could respond, He was gone, along with all the tamales and both fresh beers. I figured His next visit lacked both food and drink and I already had a serious case of sweet bean tamale farts. And I figured He was right. Mayhaps I should not feel elation at what I got at the cost of another’s loss. That demeans me, makes me akin to the kind of person I despise.

I already have enough despicable traits.

So, fuck Walmart!

The Joys Of Winter; Pink Panther Hidden In The Tea Leaves

Friday, November 6th, 2015

So. The first measurable snowfall hit Santa Fe’s streets last night and there is already a skiable base on some of our state’s resorts. All signs are pointing towards heavy, possibly record amounts of snow. This snow was fat and heavy flakes loaded with needed moisture.

However, as the Squirt refuses to even walk in snow, early this morning we had our now third annual argument thereabout. Tiny, brown puppy and I have repeated this fight since our first Santa Fe winter.

Me:      “Jesus Christ, Squirt, do you have to shit on my welcome mat? It won’t wash out of those bristles.”

The Squirt:      “Fuck you.”

Me:      “Don’t you fuck-you me, young lady, you answer me and right now!”

The Squirt:      “Fuck you some more.”

Me:      “You are not going to melt from squatting in a little snow, for shitsakes. It isn’t even knee-deep. Look at Yoda…the goat dog loves the snow. Ever since I taught him how to pee write his name, he loves the snow.”

The Squirt:      “It’s deep enough to drown my tooter, dickhead. You stick your pecker in six inches of snow long enough to empty your bladder and I’ll consider following suit.”

Ever submerged your pecker in a snowdrift long enough to drain a full bladder either on, or with, purpose? I’d accidently peed in the snow while nekid this one time back to junior high school, but that was, after all, an accident. I’d caught the measles and my Gram had dosed me with a mushroom potion she had labeled “German humps an’ German bumps be gone”.

For my part I’d semi-awakened from a drug-induced slumber and sleep-walked outside into Austin’s annual snow storm. Can’t remember if Gram’s hallucinogenic home remedy cured the German measles, but I’d fully-awakened with frozen extremities and a turtle-pecker hidden behind my sparse, pre-teen pubic hairs thickly-hung with yellow icicles.

Am I the only one, or is icicles spelled wrong? Whoeverinthefuck decided that one did a fine job of contracterating things, but it just looks wrong—not nearly enough letters for all the sounds. Like when some southerners say Mississippi. They say, “Mizsipi.” Or when Georgians say, “Marietta.”  “Mayreta,” they’ll say with sugar juice dripping off their lips.  If I was to say, “Mis-si-sip-pee,” like it’s properly said, and it was spelled, “Mizsipi,” it would be the same thing.

OK, stop. Maybe it’s the same thing, only backwards. Like my ADD-addled brains.

Main problem with peeing with your genitals packed inside a snow bank is that the freeze-chill from the initial submersion causes a freezing-up of both pecker and the bladder attached. Takes considerable aptitudes, and time as well, to get relaxed enough to pee, unless you’re sleep walking and don’t feel the cold. I found myself proud to have been able to do it this morning without self-inflicting frostbite.

As a compromise, I took the dogs shopping for personal doormats upon which they can do their bidness whilst we’ve got the heavy frost on our Lilies. Yoda chose a brown broom bristle mat that says, “Yes, Inspector, My Dog Bites.”

After I repeatedly refused to have my photo embossed on a slab of ridged, black rubber, the Squirt decided upon one with the sweet countenance of a yellow tabby kitty. “Second choice,” she said to my look.

Does make me wonder about Honor the cat. She’s been gone for almost two years now and there’s no word of her on the street. I’m also wondering about the state of my country. What in Hell is wrong with us? I don’t know and haven’t a clue as to how to figure it out.

So Fuck Walmart!

A Timely Posting Of Past Occurrances; Mooner Johnson- Better Late Than Whatever

Thursday, February 28th, 2013


So. I awakened this crisp Santa Fe morning with a slight tequila hangover—dry mouth, niggling headache, and breath noxious enough to gag the dogs.

“Wake up, shithead, and go gargle with mouthwash.”

It was the Squirt, it was 4:17 am, and she had tears in her eyes. As for me, I’d been asleep on my side with my right arm wrapped around my head to where I was breathing my hot, aged tequila breath in-and-out between my smelly armpit and a bunched-up down-comforter tunnel.

The adorable little bundle of piss and vinegar was dragging the covers off my body and touching her snotty nose to my exposed skin. “I said wake up, Mooner! What did you eat for dinner last night, marinated donkey ass?”

“Maybe I should get up and brush my teeth and take a bath as well, sweetie. The tequila breath in my mouth and the odor of flop sweat in my nostrils is somewhat disconcerting,” I told her. “Matter of fact, the two of you could use a bath as well. Wake the goat dog and meet me in the bathroom.”

Since we moved to Enchanted Land, I’ve not made the dogs bathe quite as often as when we lived in Sweatboxville. Austin’s heat and humidity would get their coats smelling like the vinyl seats in a McDonald’s booth about once each week. The cool, dry mountain air here to our new hometown has a different effect. It actually seems to help keep their coats smelling clean—same way as when you hang stuff outside on a clothesline, which reminds me that I want to put up a clothesline out back.

I’m thinking something artsy-fartsy in combination with my planned landscaping and perimeter wall paintings. My best-to-date idea is to paint a mural on the adobe wall that depicts the epic grandeur of the Sangre de Christo mountains, and then build the clothesline to look like telegraph poles and wires that serve to frame the mural. I’ve already got these great rocks that some previous owner brought to the house that would help provide depth to the installation.

I also bought a canvas bag full of those old timey wooden peg clothes pins—you know, the ones that look sort of like a glass milk bottle with legs? When I was a kid we painted faces and clothes on the little wooden pegs gave them as gifts to our womenfolk.

I wonder about using the word womenfolk. Is that another commonplace, useful and heartened word from our past that is now seen to be off-putting?

The bag was made to hold the brightly painted clothes pins—thirty-six of them before Yoda ate three. It has a thick wire hanger sewn into its top and the wire has a hook bent in the end to hang it on the line. There’s a way faded picture of a woman hanging laundry in the sun on one side, and a barely visible Coca-Cola logo on the other. When I saw it at the flea market, the guy said to me, he said, “That Coke logo makes it pretty collectible, sir.”

“Fuck Coca-Cola,” was my instant reply. “You can cut the patch of canvas off the back and keep your Coke logo. Then I’ll give you $7.50 for what’s left.”

Ended with the bag of wooden pins and the Coke logo for $16.00, and now I’m searching for an Acme clothesline reel—you know, those red metal drums that your grandmother had on her clothesline. Maybe your great-grandmother. Gram still has hers, still uses it, and those facts are likely why I always want my sheets, towels and underwear dried outside in the clean air.

When the three of us were in the shower enjoying the “Rain Forest Spring shower spray” of my fancy new shower head, I brought the subject into discussion. “What do you think about my clothesline idea, guys?”

The dogs looked at each other like I’d just asked them to go on a diet. Yoda raised his back leg and peed on the side of the shower stall in a spot where no water hit. “I guess that means you don’t especially like my idea.”

To reinforce my understanding that they were lukewarm on the installation, the Squirt squatted and yellowed the water at my feet. Which started me laughing. So, I peed on the wall where Yoda had and that started the dogs giggling. The Squirt made a joke about my Junior High School humor and I rinsed the pee off the wall with the shower head.

I really like that shower head. It mimics an afternoon shower in a rain forest with the sounds to go with the cascading water. It does have a downside as it encourages me to spend too much time in the shower and, therefore, makes me waste water.

OK, it doesn’t make me waste water, I simply waste water when I tarry too long in my new shower’s therapeutic sprays, and maybe my ADHD took too many showers in those last few paragraphs.

“Tell us about last night’s dinner while you scrub my back, Mooner. From the looks and smell of you when you got home, you had a ball. Spend some extra time on my sweet spot.”

For those of you wondering, Squirt’s sweet spot isn’t quite what you might think. It’s the top of her back where it meets the base of her tail. She says it’s too much effort to bend around to chew at the root of her tail when I’m more than willing to do the work for her.

I lathered the dogs’ washrag with ivory soap and then slathered the Squirt. Using their bath brush, I scratched and washed her coat. “It was quite an interesting night, guys. Linda is everything you thought and Mitch is a good mate for her. Turns out they are each, and both, deeper thinkers than we knew.”

I met Linda while purchasing building products for the remodel of La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe, and we hit it off in a friendly way. She’s frank and open in business and one of those people whose word you take with her first words spoken. That “look-you-in-the-eyes honesty” is an important character trait in business contacts and personal relationships both, and Linda has it. She and Mitch invited me to have dinner to meet Mitch and view the 1930’s casita they had remodeled.

“Dinner had been well thought-out and the conversation was great. The margaritas were good and strong, and my glass seemed to magically refill. I think I got a tad bit drunk.”

I applied the washrag to the goat dog and he whimpered with pleasure. “OK,” I admitted, “maybe I was a tad bit more than a tad bit drunk.”

I continued with the merits of the homemade salsa that I slathered on the perfectly-cooked beef flank tacos and the incredible dessert Linda and Mitch served as I rinsed the dogs. When finished, I placed my hands on the wall of the shower with my feet at shoulder’s width apart, and I stood with my the shower beating on my head and back. “Man, I need to stick to Carta Blanca beer, guys. I was having some wild tequila dreams before you woke me up.”

“Yes, we noticed. Tell us about the Ayahuasca, Mooner?” Squirt had a serious look on her face.

Huh? I didn’t remember anything about any Ayahuasca. “I didn’t say anything about that when I got home. I drank a gallon of water, peed and passed out.”

“You were talking in your sleep, asshole. ‘What was that guy’s name with the Ayahuasca?’ was what you kept saying,” she told me. “Sounded like this guy had an exotic disease that you had caught on one of your honeymoons.”

I often dream about the many hallucinogenic compounds in Nature’s bounty that I have ingested over my lifetime. I’ve tried to ingest them all in my personal research, and some more than others. “Oh, that. Ayahuasca is a South American mystic’s brew and native to the Amazon’s indigenous peoples. The only time I tried it was so long ago I can’t remember the name of the guy who had it. OK, or said he had it. I never did trust any potions from unknown sources back in the day. Didn’t stop me from ingesting them, but I was always leery of the promises made as to their efficacies. The guy who had it claimed it would ‘enlighten’ me and ‘change my life’.”

I can only remember that it looked like month-old V-8 Juice that had turned brown, and that my dosing didn’t produce any memorable enlightenments, and the only noticeable change I felt was in my queasy stomach. Then again, when you’ve been dosed with Gram’s potions all your life—starting at birth—enlightenments are no virgin territory when you hit your twenties.

If you’d like to read more about my first dosing of Gram’s magic mushroom potions, buy my silly fucking book by clicking over there ===}}}} on the blogie roller. Amazon has likely got them on sale for less than the cost of the paper pages inside the cover. OK, fuck it. Send me a proof of purchase and I’ll refund you a dollar. I only make about thirty-five cents on each sale, so take my offer seriously.

Which reminds me. How do you feel about tattoos on your skull? Would you date a woman with a tattoo of a snake eating an apple that covers the lady’s head beneath her hair? Would you have sex with her if the snake’s tail was inked down the crack of her ass?

Would you heartily debate these issues before dating and sexing her?

Manana, y’all.


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.

Mooner To Hire Rethinker; Problems Solved

Friday, February 4th, 2011


So. Every time I start feeling sorry for myself, something happens that brightens my day. I don’t mean to say that the day brightening something happens right away. Rather I’m telling you that no matter how terrible things seem to be, they can always get worse.

Hold em up kids, I’m mixing both my sentiments and my metaphors. My ADHD has gone into DEFCON 5, what with all the cold weather-based calamities in Mooner World. I’ve got a ranch house full of people, most of whom think of me as a mixed bag of savior/perpetrator, and all of whom I have both saved from a miserable cold existence without electricity, and managed to drive nuts.

Maybe what I’m trying to say is this. You want to come stay to my house, come when I’m away on vacation if you’ve got the delicate sensibilities. If frank talk, adult subjects and inappropriate anythings bother you, check your snippy ass into a room down to the La Quinta Inn. I’ve got enough ungrateful women living in my life on a full-time basis. I don’t need to import additional crotchety bitches.

Look, I get it that some folks have a problem when my buddy Squirt and I take a leak in your sink. When it’s my Gram’s sink (in my house), and I know in advance that said man-and-puppy sink-peeing incident will be frowned upon, the clocking of my head by the cuffed, bony hand to my ear is warranted.

Warranted, expected… fully deserved.

I seem to either lack filters for my thoughts altogether, or the ADHD has plugged them so completely as to render them unconscious. I’ve been working hard in my regular psycho therapy sessions to unlink my tongue’s direct connection with my ADHD-addled brain. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson tells me in session, she says, “Look, Mooner, you have got to break the direct-connect between your tongue and your crazy assed brain.”

And by the way. For any of you fuckballs who think I’m lying about my ex-wife/therapist’s name, go to the “Cast of Characters” section of my homepage and look her up. After reading Sammie’s given name, if you have any problem as to why she’s known as Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, you can kiss my buffed and polished ass and go fuck yourself. Log-on to the Glen Beck Show and fill your head with that shit. Leave me alone.

So, I’m sitting around this morning after another breakfast table filled with non-residential aliens, and I was feeling sorry for myself. Sorry I have no privacy, sorry it’s so very fucking cold, and sorry that I keep thinking out loud and making trouble for myself. It’s the thinking-out-loud part that bothers me the most.

My lacking those thought filters is problematic. I am convinced it’s the ADHD that causes this effect. When you have as many thoughts in your head as I have, it’s often difficult to distinguish which ones are in residence in which parts of my brain. When you are busy trying to push thoughts of your sexual fascination with a fake video into the deeper recesses of your mind (that’s the video over to Squatlo’s bloggie), you can easily misplace the thought about, “Maybe I should have told the Squirt to mox nix any conversation about how much fun we just had when we peed in Gram’s sink.”

What happens is that the sink peeing thought makes its way to the “thinks out loud” brain control center, and the fake video squirms its way back into the “sexual” brain control center, and I end up with a boner and Gram’s slap up side my head. I guess you might say that I often loose control of my control centers.

Squirt and I were discussing this problem while we read the paper in my room after breakfast. I had an ice pack held to my swollen ear and Squirt was curious as to why I keep doing stupid shit. “It’s because I can’t always control which thoughts go to which brain control center, little lady.”

“?Que?” she asked.

“Huh, indeed,” I answered.

Our discussion started to lag when Squirt asked me, “Wie viele cerebro el centre de controle in your ymennydd, Bwana Mooner?”

“Well, my curious little mini-dachshund and chihuahua mixed breed marvel, if I understand your question– I haven’t ever thought about how many brain control centers my brain has. And by the way, was that last little bit in Welsh, or did you have a brain fart?”

Squirt giggled and said, “It’s mien Welsh,” she said and giggled some more.

“Welsh, German, Spanish, French and English– all in a twelve-word sentence, and then three of those in a three-word sentence.” I took the ice pack off my head and squeezed her tight. “I love you, you little shitbird!”

Squirt giggled some more then gave me her quizzical look. “OK, let’s try to answer your question.”

We started writing a Postie Notes list and came up with the following partial number of brain control centers in my brain: Active-Thought Speech; Passive-Thought Speech; Speech Queuing (active and passive); Post-Speech Evaluations; Post-Speech Duck Reflex Actions; Apologies (both pre-speech and post-speech); Active Sexual (real, imaginary and cartoon sections); Passive Sexual; Food (active and passive); Carta Blanca beer (active, passive and in-the-act-tive); Non-sexual pleasure (active and passive); General Fight/Flight; Specific Fight/Fright; Obsessive/Compulsive Centers (a second set of control centers running on parallel circuits); ADHD Command Center……

When we got to the ADHD Command Center center, as I was writing the words on my Postie Notes, the something happened that brightened my day. I had another original thought.

“Squirt, think about this one. How about I hire a special assistant and their job will be to rethink for me.”

“?Que?” Squirt asked me.

“I don’t know who, silly. Someone with Squatlo’s smarts, and the Reckmonster’s sass, and T-cat’s brass. And Chunky Knubby Navels’ focus.”

The Squirt gave me that sideways cocked-head dog look that either says, “Huh?” or, “This bonehead is an idiot.”

“Don’t look at me like that. Let’s have a Carta Blanca and think it over,” I told her.

That got me a tail waggle. Manana, y’all.

Why I’m Nuts; Another Day Shot To Shit

Saturday, January 29th, 2011


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why bother telling her it’s “sacrilegious”?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Won’t Believe This One

Monday, January 17th, 2011


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

I think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instant calm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Holy shit, God, are you you?”

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

“OK,” I told him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why Won’t Rick Perry And Rush Limbaugh Admit/Embrace Gay Lifestyle? Pig and Ostrich Remain In Closet

Friday, November 19th, 2010


So. I got all of my basil harvested and the sugar-water soaked stems have recovered nicely. Saturday morning, I’ll hang half of them for dried leaves and the other sixty plants will have other uses. Sister and Anna the Amazon are making a big batch of pesto and the remaining are going into Gram’s canned tomatoes. Canning starts Monday, and she puts big stems of fat basil leaves into each jar of tomatoes before she vacuums the lids shut.

As for Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, they’re banished to the guest room closet over to Gnat’s place. I managed to clean the mess they made in Gram’s potion pantry yesterday, but she’ll catch it when she does inventory at the end of the month. She going to be a few bottles short of her Christmas aphrodisiac potion she calls Put down that bag Santa an show Momma yer chimney. That potion has a strong pour of honeysuckle nectar to balance the smoky bite of psychedelic mushroom juice.

Rush Limbaugh the pig has a thing for honeysuckle nectar, and the ostrich Rick Perry has a thing for Rush Limbaugh. Gnat called over here after dinner last night so Rush could talk to the Squirt. Seems the boys don’t have much hankering for the country music Gnat plays, and they asked Squirt to have me bring their boom box and some of their favorite CDs.

I agreed, and after the first couple requests I realized I didn’t need pen and paper for their choices. I said to Squirt, “Oh for shitsakes. Tell them I’ll bring all of their Streisand, Bette Midler and Cher, any of the Celine Deon not in Aunt Hilda’s room and any of the Broadway show stuff I can round up without Gram catching me.”

If Gram sees me looking for the two Man From La Mancha CDs, she’ll know what I’m up to. We have the old tried-and-true Robert Goulet version, which is Rush’s favorite and then the little known Raul Julia version. I think that Robert Goulet was a touch too prissy and prefer the Julia cuts. The ostrich and I agree that Raul’s Hispanic blood gives him an edge in historical perspective.

And let me say one more time that I am not being judgmental, nor am I saying that if it were to be true would it make any difference to me. But boys. You hide in the closet together, sleep like lovers in positions that embarrass even me, act like an old married couple, and have musical tastes that even my friend Lloyd thinks are a little sissy. And Lloyd loves him some Barbara Streisand.

But let’s face it. You boys are gay. We’re already a gay family– what with Sister and Anna you’ll have a built-in family clique. Embrace it and move on. Besides, the two of you are the only ones who think you aren’t gay. Come out of the closet and liberate your spirits. Celebrate life!

Anyway, the two of them have skulls as thick as their namesakes, reminding everyone of just how well-named they are. The other day Gram says, “Ya know what, Mooner? I think tha Governor must be gittin his advice from that fuckin bird a yers. That man ain’t got tha sense God give a toadie stool.”

Then she gave me a solid dose of the stinky eye and said to me, she says, “Iffn I catch you usin tha Squirt to do any tranportatin fer that fuckin Governor Rick Perry, I’ll take my twelve banger to tha bunch a ya.”

For you new readers, Gram said that if Squirt translates any ostrich talk from my bird for Texas Governor Perry, she’ll shoot us with her shotgun. Not a problem though. The Rickster and I have been at odds for several years and if he ever contacts me it will be because he reversed his lobotomy and had a heart implant.

My ADHD is knocking on my frontal lobe and saying, “Beer time, Mooner. Let’s crack a cold Carta Blanca and think about where to take the girls for dinner.”

Manana, y’all.

Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry Screw Pooch; Basil Wilted

Thursday, November 18th, 2010


So. I wasn’t paying any attention to the weather and a 40-degree overnight chill wilted most of my basil plants. Roughly ninety of the hundred-plus plants are droopier than a king-size sheet on a baby’s bed. Every year at harvest time, we cut basil to hang and dry in the root cellar and for canning tomatoes.

Gram and Aunt Hilda headed to town early this morning to get their holiday pedicures at Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium. Ingrid is one of my ex-wives, number seven to be precise, and she owns the best personal grooming facility in town. Ingrid plucks and dyes my butt and pubic regions for my ass shows, and all of the family use her shop’s services.

The Johnson family matrons get their toenails decorated for most every holiday, and Thanksgiving is one of Gram’s favorites. She has each toe decorated with a different of her favorite foods served at the festivities. Last night at dinner, as she and Aunt Hilda planned their trip, Gram says, “Cain’t decide iffn tha turkey goes onna big toe er iffn I’m gonna paint a picture a Rush Limbaugh on the one, an Ricky Perry onna other.”

Then she casts a steely stare in my direction to continue, “If I figger where n hell you got em hid, Mooner, it’s cattails fer em both.”

I’m certain she was talking about Rush Limbaugh the pig and the ostrich Rick Perry. I think she meant that it will be curtains for the two of them if she finds their closeted carcasses. My giant hog and now 350-pound bird are hidden from my grandmother in my bedroom closet, have been for months.

“Oh stop your pissing and moaning, Gram. They haven’t made any trouble for you for at least a week,” I informed her.

Now Gram’s steely-eyed look turns into what we call the “stink-eye” stare. “Who gives a shit iffn it’s a week er a day. I git my hands on em, we’re havin us a bacon wrapped arst-rich stuffed wi ground pork brains.”

She took a bite of her cannelloni with wild mushrooms and bison, chewing slowly while maintaining stinky-eye contact with me. Her stinky eyes never left mine as she chewed, swallowed twice, and guzzled half a bottle of Carta Blanca beer.

“Mooner, yer a inappropriated little shit, and them animals a yers is a maniacal. I’m gonna be packin my 12-gage round tha house an it’s loaded with hog shot.” She held the stinky-eyed stare for another minute and went back to her meal.

To tell you how crazy I am, I actually thought about correcting her to say that she meant the boys are a “menace”, and there’s no such thing as “hog shot” for a shotgun.

Anyway, the two old Johnson broads went to town early and were expected to be out for a few hours. That gave me plenty of time to get Rush and Rick out of my closet and get some air for all three. My clothes are starting to stink of ostrich sweat, an altogether unpleasant odor.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson had dropped the Squirt off when she went to work, so the four of us went for a walk to check the garden. That’s when I found the damage to my basil.

“Fuckballs, guys. We need to harvest all of these basil plants and get them in a tub of sugar water.” If you can catch this kind of damage soon enough, place the cut stems of the full plant in a mild sugar water. You can expect at least partial recovery.

I sent Squirt to supervise the boys and gather the tools and wagon we use for harvesting. I got busy checking for rabbit damage on the cool weather garden that is now going bonkers. I was starting to wonder why the guys weren’t back when I heard Squirt barking, and yelling at me from the distance towards the barn.

Squirt runs faster, inch-for-inch, than any animal I have ever seen. Her little legs are only three inches long, but she’s a streak. I see her headed down the road towards me leaving a cloud of dust in her wake. She’s barking and yelling unintelligibly every step. She reaches me and skids to a stop in a spray of gravel, and sits up like a bunny to speak.

“A-huh, a-huh, a-huh,” at first all she can get out are dog pants.

“Take you time, Squirt. What’s the problem?”

“Sacre escrementi, Bwana Mooner. A-huh, a-huh, a-huh. Tu pig and big es en la pantry de los potions con Gram.”

“Oh for shitsakes, Squirt.” And with that the two of us are running to the barn.

I managed to get there before they did too much damage, but the damage was done. I’ll have hell to pay when Gram gets back. I moved Rick and Rush over to Gnat’s place where they’re hiding in the guest room closet.

Me, I’m headed to get a Carta Blanca beer. I need fortification before tackling all that basil.

Manana, y’all.

Send Sandra A New Name; F*** Rick Perry!

Thursday, November 4th, 2010


So. Our Rename Sandra Contest is losing steam. Likely that means either one of two things- you are not a very creative bunch, or I haven’t given you a good enough reason to participate.

My initial instinct was to offer two of my books as the prize instead of just the one. That felt good for maybe a minute, when I realized that giving a second book might be like offering a second helping of turkey and Brussels sprout casserole.

One of my ex-wives was a terrible cook. I won’t name her here, but she cooks like I think. Everything she cooked was a casserole, and each casserole was prepared by: placing all of the raw ingredients in the baking dish; covering with cheese, or not; baking in a 350-degree oven covered for two hours; raising oven temp to 400 degrees and baking uncovered for ten minutes.

No spices, no sauces, no oil or butter, no cream of mushroom soup- nothing but the raw food. The results were exactly what you are thinking, except worse.

At first I figured this was her elaborate method to get me to cook or take her out to eat. But hers were honest efforts of creativity, and her feelings were always hurt when you didn’t eat seconds. The worst thing I have ever put in my mouth was her turkey and Brussels sprout casserole.

And trust me, I have had some nasty shit in my mouth. Hell, just from getting dosed by my Gram’s hallucinogenic potions, I’ve ingested by mouth: skunk venom, billy goat piss, opossum blood, bumpy toad sweat, a bat’s ear wax and more.

Then there would be all of the things I’ve eaten on a dare. I would do almost anything on a dare. There was this one time when little Suzy Ashburn, she’s Dr. Ashburn’s only daughter, dared me to eat a box of Crayolas. I shit rainbows for a week.

Anyway, please send more names for Sandra because I think her feelings are hurt.

I feel better today about the elections. I figure the bright side is that neither side controls both sides of Congress on the federal stage, so maybe they won’t screw things up too badly. And on the local scene, I still get to say, “Fuck Rick Perry,” and have anyone give a shit.



Now lets all drink a cold Carta Blanca beer and feel better. Manana, y’all.

Book Rewrite Restarted; Microsoft Vista Sucks.

Monday, October 25th, 2010


So. I finally got back to my rewriting chores today and the first 25% is in the books. That’s the good news. The bad news is that my wonderful Windows Vista operating system has decided that it will not allow me to copy from the old document and paste to my rewritten file.

Vista sucks!

I spent the better part of two hours attempting a fix. Open and close docs, start and restart the computer, contact Microsoft central to be abused by those rat fuckers.

Would somebody please tell the people working computer help lines that if I knew what was going on with my computer, I could fix my own fucking problems problems.

It’s like with my business and customer service. You call out to Mooners Compost Plant with questions, we assume from a starting point that you know nothing about compost, and work from there.

If you don’t know what compost is or what it does, we’ll give you as much education as you need.

That isn’t what typically happens with computer service though. Especially on the phone or I-net service. Its like they hire sadist personalities to work the phones and then lock them in a room, deprive them of light and food. Put shock collars on them and provide a jolt whenever they are helpful or nice.

I say it’s just another conspiracy designed to get us to buy new hardware. Frustrate the ever-loving shit out of you to where you’ll buy a new one just to stop the pain.

Actually, that’s not a bad business model.

If you’re a fucking right-wing religious Republican fuckball!

Gram made me a special potion to help me cope. “I call this un Mooner needs to pull his head outta his ass. I fortify tha magic mushroom tea with a pinch a persimmon juice, elder wood bark an nanny goat piss.”

“Nanny goat piss?” I exclaimed. “Why nanny goat piss?”

“Couldn’t catch tha billy goat.”

The potion didn’t get my computer fixed, but I don’t really give a shit. I grabbed my beer wagon and dragged Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry out of my closet and took them for a walk. We walked all the way to the lake and sat for awhile drinking beer. Squirt’s been keeping me company and interpreting for me, so she went along.

“Ich denke, dass Rick Perry est dans l”amour mitt Rush Limbaugh, Mooner.”

I answered, “Yea, I agree with you Squirt. It seems that my pet ostrich is quite smitten with my pig.”

“And something else, bwana Mooner. Su ostrich es muy fucking amusant.”

She and I watched a tipsy Rick Perry attempting to nuzzle Rush Limbaugh as Rushie chased a bottle of cold Carta Blanca beer across the grass. “He gets a couple snorts in him and he can’t hold his head up. He’s a funny bird alright.”

I need to decide what I’m having for dinner tonight because I’m on liquids Tuesday in preparation for my next visit to the surgery center Wednesday morning.


Manana, y’all.

Commonality of Interests- Uncommon Ground

Friday, October 22nd, 2010


So. I stopped by Shoal Creek Loonie Bin this morning to visit sweet Mrs. Plunkett and Marvin Travis-Kensington. They are the two lunatics that got wacky in Dr. Sam I. Am’s office yesterday. Actually, I think Marvin is a raving right-wing religious lunatic and Mrs Plunkett is more misguided than anything else.

Turns out she was married to Professor Plunkett from down to Texas State University in San Marcos. He taught in their paranormal sciences department, and she tells me that he used her as a guinea pig for many of his experiments.

“Well, Mr. Johnson,” she sweetly told me in answer to my question. “If you must know, I’ve had sex with alien creatures from across the universe.”

Now, don’t be pissed at me because I didn’t ask her if she’d had sex with aliens, I simply asked in what kinds of experiments did she guinea pig participate.

When I then asked her to elaborate, she said, “Professor Plunkett,” and she always calls him Professor Plunkett, “dear man, would medicate me with special potions he obtained from from a medicine woman, and then tie me naked to trees, or rocks, during each Fall’s harvest moon.”

She got this dreamy look on her face and continued. “The medicine made me so happy and relaxed. And lustful,” she whispered. “Oh my heavens, I couldn’t wait for those savage aliens to come and take me.”

Me, I’m now starting to wonder just how small the world truly is. “When the good professor gave you these medications, what were they like?”

“Well, each one came in a small tincture bottle made of brown glass. The brown cap held the clear glass dropper, which was topped with a black rubber bulb.”

She scrunched her face up in thought, the went on, “I remember that each little bottle had a paper label with an illiterate handwritten name.”

Now the dreamy look again, and, “Names like This ain’t yer momma’s elixir, and Party potion number nine, and my favorite, Who gives a shit when ya got this potion?”

Like I said, small world.

I wanted to ask more about the alien sex because I think it’s happened to me, but it was time for her electro shock therapy.

I did tell her that a dose of direct current was all the elixir I need to promote healthy sex. She asked me if I wanted to go with her, but I passed.

Anyway, when I stopped by to see Marvin, he tried to arrack and head butt me. That’s difficult when you’re tightly bound in a straight jacket and pumped full of psychotropic drugs. The times I’ve tried it, I ended with nothing but frustration for my efforts.

I tried to sit with him and tried to find some common ground, but it was fruitless conversation. In my endeavors to find commonality of interest with everyone I have conflict with, and thorough that congeniality reach some common ground, I have discovered that some people are just too fucking crazy to have commonality of interest.

Except with other really crazy fuckers. And that’s another way I can justify my claim that I’m not really all that crazy.

Which is a good reason to celebrate, so I’m gonna crack a cold Carta Blanca beer.

Salud! Manana, y’all.

On The Eve Before Ass Surgery

Thursday, September 23rd, 2010


So. I’m thinking I might not be handling the entire ass surgery thingie very well. I didn’t sleep well last night or the night before, and I always sleep well. I have slept well ever since the time I got caught in this big lie as a kid.

Streaker Jones and I snuck into Gram’s potion closet out to the barn, and helped ourselves to a taste from a few of the small, dark-brown medicinal tincture bottles Gram uses to package her products. You know those bottles- like Whole Foods uses to bottle liquid herbs. With the squeezie dropper tops. I think we were drinking one of Gram’s Church Lady potions. You know, like she sells to religious types.

I remember that one of Gram’s best sellers was Spare the bacon and bring home the rod. The time we’re talking here was the middle of last century, before the invention of Viagra. I guess men have been having pecker problems for at least a few generations. I know it wasn’t long after this event that I experienced my first adolescent woody, so I’m thinking that Spare the bacon was one of the potions we snuck into.

And I know Streaker Jones and I should have sneaked, but we’re country boys, so we snuck.

Anyway, we overdid our sampling and got a touch wasted with magic mushroom juice. I guess our pupils dilated so completely as to disappear. I lied when caught and questioned, but Streaker Jones told the truth.

Gram thanked Streaker Jones for his honesty, and sent him home with some fresh baked cookies. Streaker Jones’ momma abandoned him and his daddy just after his birth, so Gram always tried to send him home with something home baked.

Me, I endured the application of redneck punishment- the razor strap, applied first by Gram, and then by Daddy when he came in from the fields.

I haven’t told an important lie since. And I also attempt to do what I think is right, because I believe to not do the right thing is the same as a lie. When you always do what you think is right, you have one of those clean consciences so vital to good sleep.

Not sleeping well dirties my conscience, and I have a mean conscience. Think about it. Normal folks have one or maybe two thoughts in their head at any given moment. What with my ADHD and associated obsessivenesses, once my conscience starts bothering me, it’s a major league bother.

Imagine feeling bad about fifteen thoughts all at once. And isn’t obsessivenesses a great word? Almost better than Mississippi. Might be better.

Not sleeping well disturbs me. It causes me to look for what it is that I have done that was unprincipled. I’d been racking my brain to figure the cause for my insomnia, and I could only conclude that it is not my recent actions. I have rethought everything I have done the last few days, and that took all night last night. I couldn’t think of a single do-over moment from the recent past.

Sleepy and disgruntled when I dragged my butt out of bed this morning, I have managed to grouch at every living thing I have encountered. It started when I opened my closet door to get some shorts and a shirt to wear, and Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry were still dozing away on the floor.

I toed Rushie in the ear with my bare foot and said, “Get your lazy ass out of the closet and go outside in the sunlight. You and that feather duster both.”

Now I towed the the pig in his ear again, and lightly thumped the ostrich on his butt with my foot. Then I finished by berating them for being lazy chicken shits for hiding in the closet in the first place. “Go outside and take your medicine like men!”

I must have yelled the last part, because Rush the pig starts crying and snivel-snotting, and the ostrich Rick Perry started eyeballing me with daggers. Scary sight when a 300-pound bird with eyes the size of billiard balls is staring daggers at you.

“Oh, for shitsakes don’t cry, Rushie. I’m sorry. I’m just a little out of sorts.”

Rush just kept sobbing, but my ostrich said something I need to get translated. I’ll ask the Squirt when I pick her up later, but I think he said he wanted to stake me to an ant hill.

By the time I finished my breakfast, I had insulted Gram, Mother, Aunt Hilda and Dubbie J all four. Then I got pissed at that tea bagger woman politician who was on the TV saying something stupid, and I tossed my English muffin. It stuck jelly side to the screen, so now I’m cursing marmalade as I clean the mess.

Guess I grouched at living things and inanimate objects as well.

So, I’m bitching and griping at everything in sight, and I guess my Gram had heard enough.

“Oh, fer shitsakes, Mooner. What’s done crawled up yer ass this morning? Yer act-tating like a cry baby.”

I apologized and explained about not sleeping and worrying about having done something wrong, and all of that shit. In unison, the three Johnson family elders looked at me like I was a moron. Gram says, “You wanna tell im Hilda?”

My sweet, demented Aunt Hilda, whose face always carries an angelic smile says to me, she says, “It’s the surgery, shithead. Dubbie J saw it right off.”

Dubbie J is a Nineteenth Century African shrunken head my crazy old aunt keeps in a velvet-lined mahogany box. He’s been Hilda’s constant companion ever since she and Gram were girls on a Baptist Mission to the Congo early in the last century.

“You mean I’m worried about my ass surgery?” I asked.

All I got was three old women giving me that look that says, “Well fucking duh!”

“Oh, God, you’re right. I’m frightened to have Dr. Ashworth cutting on my ass.”

Actually, I realized I’m petrified. I have been delusional about it, thinking that I’m only concerned because the cutting will take place on my beautiful bottom. But I’m just plain scared to have invasive surgery done on my body. Sissy boy scared- scared in the way I promised myself not to be.

I need to call my buddy Lloyd Lebow, or maybe contact George Takei and get some advice on how to take this like a man. Or maybe Colleen Lindsay. Maybe one of them can help me deal with this.

I have this terrible sense of dread that has crept into me.


Now I find out that Jenny Legun with CreateSpace Publishing is from, and still located in, the Charleston, S.C. area. Not New York City. So I got a terrible read on that, which also might explain why I did so badly at the poker game the other night. I guess worrying about my surgery is screwing up my people skills as well. Can I say, “Ugh,” again?


I need a Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all. Or maybe it will be manana de la manana before I can get back to you if I’m slow to recover.

CreateSpace Still On Target; Ass Surgery Deadline Looms

Wednesday, September 22nd, 2010


So. As we were discussing yesterday, I’m giving CreateSpace Publishing the chance to earn my publishing business. Ashley Regan promptly responded to my original request for assistance and sent me a naire with eight questions to answer yesterday.

I’m not talking about the hair removal product that stinks so bad. I’m talking about the word that means, “A form, formatting device or platform used to list questions or opinions. As in questionnaire.” I’m growing to like the word naire. It’s one of those words that doesn’t sound settled or comfortable when you use it. It rattles around in your mouth before you say it and tries to stick on your tongue. I like using words and phrases that make you uncomfortable. Like right-wing religious Republican fuckballs.

I thought carefully about my answers to the naire’s questions because I like getting good scores. I answered all eight questions satisfactorily I assume, since she then asked me to set a time for a personal phone call. I said, “Any time before Friday is fine with me.” Friday is out because of the ass surgery I have scheduled with Dr. Ashworth.

Ashley suggests to me, “How about Wednesday at 3:30 pm Eastern Time?”

I say, “That’s 2:30 in Austin, and fine with me.”

It’s now Wednesday and 3:00 pm Austin time, 4:00 Eastern, and I just got off the phone with Jenny Legun. Jenny is my Publishing Consultant, and a Senior PC at that. Ashley assigned me to Jenny, and Jenny made the promised call at precisely 2:30 pm Austin time. You pronounce Jenny’s last name to sound like Regan except with “L” as the first letter, and I felt special because Jenny is a Senior PC.

Jenny has that sexy telephone voice that a confident woman develops when she moves to New York City. I don’t mean to say that Jenny is overtly sexy acting, but rather that she has a depth of character and no-nonsense cadence in her voice that makes a person listen to her every word.

I don’t think she’s a native Manhattanite. I don’t think she got her confidence growing up there. She didn’t have the natural impatience with my ramblings exhibited by most native New Yorkers I’ve encountered. Come to think of it, she sounds a little like SAC Ellen, so maybe she’s from the near mid-west. Ohio, maybe.

Would you say, “Manhattener,” instead?

Anyway, Jenny walked me through all of the many services offered to struggling newbie writers, like me. She carefully explained what she can do and answered all of my questions as we went. And she didn’t step into any of my traps.

See, I am basically distrustful of sales types, and Jenny is just that until I sign on her dotted line. It’s Jenny’s job to counsel me into publishing with her company. Once signed, others will do the production stuff, and she’ll counsel by holding my hand.

As an un-trusting kind of guy, I like to set traps for sales types when I first meet them. What I do is say unkind things about their competitors, and then see how they react. How a person handles these traps determines if I will move forward with them.

Like when I told her of my unpleasant experience with her direct competitor, she didn’t respond at all, which was the best response. She could have said that she was sorry I had the bad experience, but that she knew the competitor had helped others successfully, which would be a solid response. But to have said anything negative would be strike one.

To rant about her competitor and tell me horror stories would have been strikes two, and three.

When I told her my conventional agent story, she didn’t berate conventional publishing practices at all. Instead, she said very supportive things about them. She explained why the market has developed for her company’s self publishing services by telling me how difficult it is to be an agent or a big publishing house in today’s economic environment. She actually had me feeling sorry for the burdensome job professional book people have.

And she used real, factual evidence. Like how many new manuscripts there are and how expensive conventional publishing is, and how 70% of those books published lose money.

She hit it out of the park.

I told her I would like to see what kind of package of services she could design for me, and she asked me some questions about my needs. When we hung up the phone just before 3 pm my time, Jenny promised me an Email, “In about 30-minutes time.”

Then we set a date for next Wednesday to discuss her proposals by phone. I can’t do it before then, what with my surgery and recovery time, and Jenny can’t do it next Thursday or Friday because she’s a bridesmaid in a wedding. I wonder what color the bridesmaid dresses will be. Since Fall just hit, I bet they’ll be one of those strange purple-brown colors.

Guess what. At 3:26 pm Austin time, as I was writing, “70% of those books lose money,” I got an Email ping announcing that my proposals arrived from Jenny. Hoo-yah!

Now, I’m starting to wonder if Jenny is located in NYC. I assumed so, since she’s in publishing, and on Eastern Standard Time. Isn’t Amazon up to Washington State? But I’m here to tell you that Jenny did not refine that voice in Seattle, Washington.

Look, I can’t worry over the origins of Jenny’s voice. Like Gram always says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit.”

I’m going to celebrate possibly finding myself a publisher, and crack a cold Carta Blanca beer. It’s time for my second dose of Gram’s surgical potion that tastes like ostrich shit, and Carta Blanca is a great chaser.

Manana, y’all.

Enter at Your Own Risk- An Ass Surgery Primer

Monday, September 20th, 2010


So. I’m organizing the week around my big ass operation scheduled for this Friday. I’ve got to be to the surgical center by 6 am sharp, wearing loose-fitting clothes and having had nothing to eat or drink since midnight Thursday. Gram and Dixie have agreed to take me.

That means that I need to eat everything I plan to eat before Thursday night and do some laundry. I figure loose-fitting means sweats and all my sweats are dirty. It also means that the three of us will be crammed into Gram’s Ferrari for the trip both ways.

I wonder if my post operative care includes packing my ass in ice.

I’m nervous about this surgery. I mean nervous in a way that’s different from what everyone goes through when they face an invasive procedure. See, this is my ass we’re talking about here, not my brain or my face or my heart.

My ass is where I make my money. If it wasn’t for my beautiful ass, and my ability to display it in stirring fashion, you would not even know who I am. There would be no book, no blog and no stories to tell.

Simply put, without my ass, there would be no “Mooner” in Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson.

My butt is my identity. My entire life revolves around my ass. I would be lost without it. I’d have no place to hide my head when I get stupid. I’d have nothing out of which to pull miracles, when I get cornered. I’d be lost.

I guess this would be like if Pamela Anderson had lumps in her boobies, or if Angelina Jolie had a lip problem.

For new readers, the surgery is to investigate my anal cavity area to seek answers as to why I continue to have “seepage” from a previous surgical site, said site resulting from efforts to provide relief to infected anal glands.

Dr. Ashworth’s explanation of the procedure went like this, “We’ll need to find a spot to enter the area, Mooner. A place that provides access and causes as little harm to the surrounding flesh as possible. Then, we’ll cut a pathway as we go, working our way around any significant structures. We have to go deep into the cavity, explore all or that territory to root-out problem spots. We’ll mitigate the problems and then we’ll work our way out.”

Sounded like he was going spelunking.

I was reminded of Junior High School History Class when we were studying about explorers. Admiral Byrd was one guy I admired as a kid. But he explored the flat, icy extremes of our planet. Stark, naked and frozen extremities were his specialty. I think Admiral Byrd was a stark-raving lunatic.

Actually, I think most of the old timey explorers were lunatics. You’d have to be crazy to do some of the shit they did.

The explorer I began to focus upon was Francisco de Orellana, the Spaniard who discovered the Amazon River in 1541. The symbolism between navigating the Amazon River the first time, and my anal cavity surgery, is scary. Think about it. He was a crazy fucking Catholic Spaniard and went about converting all of the natives he found.

“It’s Christ, or die, you heathen.”

Some took the Christ option and many died.

Anyway, I’m worried that I’ll get some nasty scars on my ass that will limit my ass shows. There’s only so many ways to use Frankenstein and Scarface in a moon show.

And speaking of Catholics, my buddy, Bobby, called me all pissed off. He caught a bunch of flak from when I mentioned his name in that bloggie posting about St. Louis of France Cathedral and the screw job they put on Temple Beth Shalom for Yom Kippur.

“My family knows we’re buddies, Mooner. Why’d you have to use my name?”

Turns out his sisters, Sarah Elizabeth and Mary Catherine, both attend over to St. Louis.

“SE and MC came to Sunday dinner,” Bobby instructed, “and you need to be prepared, Mooner. They think you went too far with all that stuff you said about the Pope, and all.”

Then he asked me, “Did you really say the Pope was homosexual?”

Ooopsie. “Well, I didn’t exactly say that he’s gay, Bobby. I just said that I think it likely that the Pope would prefer bedding Prince Charles over the Queen.”

“Oh sweet Jesus and his virgin mother,” Bobby almost cried. “Please don’t use my name in your propaganda again.”

“Well look at how he dresses, Bobby. He dresses gayer than the Follies Bergere.”

“Don’t make it worse, Mooner.”

“Sorry,” I told him. “I won’t do it again.”

But propaganda?

Is this one of those times when I have managed to fuck up commonality of interest, again? I don’t know if I’ll ever get that one right. Just because you have something in common with a person doesn’t insure they’ll be interested in what you say. Or that they’ll like it.

Then, Gram came to see me just before I started writing this posting. “Mooner, honey, I’m gonna formie-late ya a potion fer yer proceedins.” She handed me an empty Carta Blanca bottle and a cork stopper.

“Now go an piss inta that bottle an cork er up.”

I went to the bathroom and did as asked. When I handed the now warm bottle back, I asked, “What’s that for. Gram?”

“I’m expeir-mo-latin with one a them key-lime-o-late dealies, Mooner. Callin this one It’s about time Mooner pissed on his ownself.

“It’s chelation, Gram, and it only works for pregnant ladies.”

“Who gives a shit, Mooner. I been wantin ta try this fer a time.”

I wonder if the chemical structure of my urine will effect the medicinal properties of the magic mushroom juice that is the foundation of all my Gram’s potions? I wonder if I get really stoned on Gram’s potion if I can do the surgery without any added anesthesia. It might be fun to watch Dr. Ashworth tunnel through my anal cavity.

I could drink Carta Blanca beer and cheer him on while he works on me. Maybe bring some nachos.

Fact is, my ass hurts now, so I’m going to crack the first Carta Blanca of the day. Manana, y’all.

Elizabeth, Queen of England; Pope Benedict, Queen

Thursday, September 16th, 2010


So. Coincidence being what it is, after several days of me venting my spleen at the Holy Roman Catholic Church, up pops the Pope. I’m sitting at my breakfast table out to the ranch, eating my multi-grain muffin, reading the paper and half-assed watching Good Morning America from the corner of my eye.

What with all of my butt problems, I’m eating a super fiber-rich diet. I still use real butter on my muffins though. I’ll never give up real butter. Or half-and-half. Super strong coffee with half-and-half.

The images on the TV captured my attention because they looked familiar. I went to a drag queen show a few weeks back, and I had a blast. Some of those ladies crack me up. My favorites are the impersonators, like Madonna, Cher, Katie Couric and Queen Elizabeth.

It was my memory of the hilarious Queenie E skit, performed by Ms. Louie/Louise Laramie, that dragged my eyes off the Op Ed pages to the TV. At first, I thought they were playing film from the DQ show I saw. Here was the impersonator dressed all frumpy, carrying that huge Queen Elizabeth purse and wearing the Queen’s public expression. And Louie/Louise’s Pope character- that of a frumpy old queen in a frilly gown with multiple layered skirts, stooped with the weight of all the religious jewelry around his neck.

And wearing the same Queen’s facial pose. I’m thinking to myself, I thought, “Old Louie/Louise has got himself a longterm gig with this act.

You guys know the Queen’s expression, right? That’s the one where she practices her look by tying a half lemon to a string, and puts the lemon into her mouth. She then swallows the string and has a servant slowly pull the lemon out of her ass by the string.

I love that look of dignified indignity. That look says, “I’m the Queen, I’m bored, and you are a fucking commoner. When will you go away?”

Anyway, the Queen impersonator was on the TV, dressed as the Queen and greeting himself dressed as the Pope. I figured it was one of those Photo-shopped dealies that TV technicians can do. You know, like back with Bewitched when the good witch, Samantha, would be talking to herself, the bad witch, Agatha. Darrin, the husband, would be in a suspended animation jungle scene about to be eaten by a lion. His fate would be determined by whichever witch had better powers.

Except things are so much more sophisticated in TV Land now that you can’t see any screwed-up pixels, or any fuzzy lines between the characters. At first view, I thought somebody had done a masterful job transplanting the two images together. It was so lifelike the way the two half-dead acting characters interacted.

Fake grimaces, rubber-fish handshakes, molded plaster faces. Me, I’m patting the L/L on the back and wondering who does his makeup.

Then, I hear George Stepanopoulis say, “ … blah, blah, blah.., the Pope’s visit with the Queen marks the first time, blah, blah and blah.”

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed as I jumped from my seat to point at the TV screen. “That’s the actual Queen and Pope!”

Gram spit her grapefruit juice in a spray across the table, and Mother almost fainted at my outburst. “What inna shit is wrong with you, Mooner. I done spittered my juicie all to hell an back.”

“That’s not Louie/Louise doing the Pope and the Queen, Gram, that’s the fucking Pope and the fucking Queen!” I told them. “Holy fucking shit! They’re twins!”

“Who gives a shit, Mooner. We all know tha Pope issa queen. Now sit down an finish yer mufflers afore yer mother has a corny rarie.”

The Pope is the twin of the Queen of England. If not, there’s two strings of non-maternal, identical DNA floating around out there, and that is a statistical impossibility. OK, it’s possible, but excessively not probable.

Then I got to thinking about how the Pope dresses. I commented the other day about the Catholic clergy’s elegant robed attire, and how they should disrobe and come out of the Dark Ages. Looking at the Popester on TV, it dawned on me that the higher a guy’s rank, the more elaborate his costume. Like the difference between how Friar Tuck is dressed compared to La Pope.

Look, I know Friar Tuck was likely a Church of England guy and not Catholic. But you get my driftings. But looking at the Queen and the Pope on TV reminded me of when I saw Cher and Lady Gaga together at the video awards the other night.

Which of those two fashion icons wore your favored ensemble? Very similar style, identical sexual teasing, same facial features and robust bodies, and both dressed in high kitschy glamor. Me, I’m with Cher. I had sex dreams about Cher back to when she was still the “and” part of Sonny.

Plus, Lady Gaga’s meat outfit disturbed my pig and ostrich. I tried to get them to see that she was just expressing her artist license, and not drying meat in a dark, a satirical way. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry remained unamused.

Now, compare the Queen and the Pope. Twins, I tell you.

Look, don’t take my word for it, go to , and look at the photos Damian has posted. He’s got several shots of the twins you can use to compare. Then look at the pithy comments left to Mr. Thompson’s newsy story.

The British crack me up.

Anyway, now my ADHD is fritzing and I have a million things to say. But I need to focus and get to my point.

Here’s what I’m wondering. I think I know how to fix many of the world’s problems. At least fix some of England’s and the Catholic’s problems. Let’s put the Queen and the Pope in a bedroom with rubber sheets on the bed. We’ll dose them with Gram’s sex potion she calls Drop Them Knickers Darlin- Ain’t You Never Been On A Date Before?, and give them a few cases of Carta Blanca on ice. I’ll have SAC Ellen pop the Pope a good jolt from her stun gun.

Then we’ll just lock the door and come back manana.

Except maybe we’d need to put the Pope in with jolly Prince Charles, and stun old Charlie. I remain unconvinced that the Popie-Poo even likes girls. The way he treats women makes a man wonder.

In that case, we’d need to find a man for the Queen. I’d volunteer myself, except for me having a committed relationship. But I’ve never had sex with a queen. I bet she’d be all bossy and shit. Might be fun to role play with her though.

I did have sex with a real Princess, though. Married her, in fact. But that’s in my book, so enough said.

But here’s my point. The Pope said something while he was over to England that might have been almost smart. If I understand correctly, he said something like, “The focus of the church will be on helping the victims of abuse.”

That is almost smart because heretofore, the Church hasn’t had any focus except to focus on hiding the truth and avoiding dealing with the issue. I say it is almost smart because, just like any epidemic, you must treat the infected and the carriers alike. It does no good to treat only the sufferers if you keep infecting more to suffer.

But I chose to be encouraged by the Popester’s message, and await the follow-up statement. Call me Pollyanna, but I really would like to think the Catholics are getting it.

Anyway, enough of that shit. It’s Carta Blanca time!

Manana, y’all. Got It Right; F Fox News

Wednesday, September 8th, 2010


So. I want to thank you all for your thoughtful and creative submissions on ways to castrate Rick Perry. Your imaginations have gone into overdrive in your efforts to help me. I was especially intrigued with having three different people offer methods using a Veg-A-Matic. I still have a Veg-A-Matic and use it often.

I bought it back to when Ron Popeil still had hair.

If I ever decide to separate the current Texas Governor from his balls, your thoughtful suggestions will come in handy. Of course, you’d first have to help me find Governor Perry’s balls. It seems that the fine folks at The Southern Baptist Convention up to Dallas have them secreted away in a locked box somewhere.

They probably hold Ricky’s gonads in the same dank dungeon where they keep their own compassion.

What I needed from you was a how-to for removing testicles from an adult, male ostrich named Rick Perry. It must be rutting season for giant black-and-white feathered African birds, because the Rickster is getting all randy and shit.

He keeps snuggling up to Rush Limbaugh in the closet where they hide from my Gram, and their spooning is starting to make me uncomfortable. Just last night I was having another of my celebrity camel toe dreams. In this one I wasn’t a judge for the contest, I was the “plumper”.

Best way I can describe what a plumper’s job entails would be to compare it to what a fluffer does in porno movies.

Anyway, I was getting all the ladies plumped up for the swimsuit competition when I was distracted by a commotion from the the audience. I was working on Oprah, who looked absolutely ravishing in a zebra skin one-piece. When the noise ratcheted up a few notches, Oprah said to me, she says, “Mooner, Sweetie, will you please see what that is. You know I can’t do my best with all of that distraction.”

That is how I know Oprah doesn’t have ADHD. If she had my variety of ADHD, she’d understand that all of her work, best-to-worst, would be completed under distractions.

I looked out to see what was up, and there were Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry in this big lovers’ spat. Rick was snuggling Rush from behind and Rush was attempting to ward off all of the attention. Rush was grunting and snorting like a pig, and Rick was making this noise that I can only describe as unsettling.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, Mooner. What the hell is that?” Oprah had quickly drawn a bead on the noisy couple. “Here’s my credit card. Take it out there and tell those two boys to get a room.”

Then she says to me, she said, “I thought I’d seen it all, Mooner. But Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry making out at Radio City Music Hall?” She looked into my eyes, and then back-and-forth between the boys and me several times. “Take me now, Jesus. I think I’m ready to go.”

I have long wondered if Oprah would be a good wife. She has her positive and negative attributes both, but she is a strong woman. Oprah has her own identity, like it or not. Those are my type of women. Strong, opinionated and happy.

I had started daydreaming in my dream about what marriage to Ms. Winfrey would feel like, when the ruckus from the audience became too loud to ignore without action. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry had started fighting. They were rolling around on the floor with Rick trying to hard spoon Rush, and Rush trying to escape. Then there was a crash as they rolled into a big set light, and it crashed to the floor.

That’s when I awoke from my dream, startled by the racket, and reaching for the Glock pistol kept in my nightstand. I don’t like handguns- I wish they were illegal. I keep this one to combat the many rattlesnakes that find their way to our ranch house. I keep it loaded with Gram’s homemade cartridges, a special load she calls Ya Don’t Rattle Me Snakie Boy.

It’s a rat shot load and Gram soaks the little pellets in an hallucinogenic potion of the same name before loading the cartridges.

I came to my senses as Rush Limbaugh the pig comes slamming out of my closet, the ostrich Rick Perry clamped to his back like a monkey on an elephant’s back at the circus. It would have been funny except for the look of stark terror on my pet piggie’s face.

They came to a screeching halt when I pointed the gun in their faces. Rush stopped so abruptly that his hooves shredded the small oriental carpet in front of my dresser. The ostrich was pitched over his shoulders and landed on his back with an, “Ooof!”

“What the shit are you two doing?” That’s when I realized I was pointing a 9mm pistol at my pig. “I might have shot the two of you. What the hell are you thinking?”

Now, I realize all of my questions are rhetorical because I didn’t have a translator. Dixie was over to New Mexico with Streaker Jones and the Squirt was spending the night with Dr. Sam I. Am. That’s Squirt’s regular home.

Regardless, I was ready to read the ostrich the Riot Act when he started crying. At least it seemed like he was crying. He was making this “Boo-hoo” sort of sound, and his entire body was shaking. I sat down beside him and scooped his head off the floor and laid it in my lap. Giant, hot tears leaked from his eyes and soaked into leg of the boxer shorts I wear to bed when I sleep alone.

Actually, the undies were what are called ‘boxer-briefs” on the package. These were made at our hemp clothing factory over to New Mexico. The same one to where Streaker Jones and Dixie are visiting. We make the legs a few inches longer than the major manufacturers, like Hanes, and Fruit of the Loom.

“Don’t cry, Ricky. Shush now, you’ll be OK.” I’m stroking the fine, soft feathers on his chin and neck while I try to calm him. “It’s OK big guy. You’ll find yourself someone to love. Maybe I can find you a girl ostrich in the newspaper.” Then I got to thinking about how I would tell a girl from a boy ostrich, so I asked Rick Perry.

He showed me.

But that isn’t what I wanted to tell you guys about. My buddy Lloyd sent me a request from www. that asks you to boycott Fox News. That’s not a problem for me because it’s been blocked since I had a blocker on my TV.

Even my reasonable-thinking Republican friends won’t watch Fox News because they are such fuckwads. All of that anger and poison.

Please join me and my buddies over to and shout:

!!!!!!!!!!!!! FUCK FOX NEWS !!!!!!!!!!!”

Now, let’s go relax and have a cold Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all

Dental Hygiene; How to Castrate Rick Perry

Tuesday, September 7th, 2010


So. I’m a crybaby. A Certified and bone fide, ADHD-addled, lunatic, printed on recycled and tear-stained paper crybaby.

Remember me telling you about Gram’s potion for gum disease called Ginger I’m Invitin Ya Ta Go Away? That’s the one she brewed to promote pink gums. We started doing some clinical testing on it out to our laboratory in Dripping Springs. That’s the testing that got Gram sued by the American Dental Hygiene Association. I did a postie here to the bloggie on May 22nd if you want to refresh your memory.

Getting served with the papers caused Gram to load a couple moose slugs into her big shotgun for a trip to our dentist’s office, and a face-to-face with Melissa. She’s our dental hygienist for twenty years from over to Dr. Kelly Keith’s place. Melissa is the sweetest person I know, and has never mashed my lips between my teeth and her instruments of torture. She never causes any more pain than is needed to clean your teeth.

That’s right, never once in twenty years has she brutalized my mouth.

The underlying reason for bringing up this dental stuff, is that I need to tell you about the other health issue I’ve been dealing with these last two weeks. I’m screwed up at both ends, folks. I’ve got the fistula dealies on my ass, and I need a root canal in my mouth. The tooth started throbbing two weeks ago, the night before I headed to Dallas to start what I can’t tell you about yet.

Dr. Kieth, of course, was down to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, basking his Lilly-white butt on the beach while I suffered. When he returned my call to his emergency number, he said, “I’ll give you a prescription for an antibiotic and some Vicadin for the pain, Mooner. Come see me when you get back.”

I could hear the surf and surf girls in the background of the call. But I couldn’t hear an appropriate level of empathy in his voice.

I tried to explain to him the problem I was having with the tooth pain and the ass pain and the entire sitting on not-church wooden benches dealie. But he was too busy enjoying himself to have any sympathy for me.

“Oh, stop acting like a baby, Mooner. Take your pills and see me when you get back.”

I called Alma for an appointment for this morning, and I just got back to work from making it. Alma is the industrial strength Super Glue that holds the dental office together. When I called her, she said to me, she says, “Now look, Mooner. I’ll move things around any way that I can to accommodate you. But call me to tell me if you need to move your time.”

I have to admit that I was just a little worried that Melissa would be laying for me when I showed up for this appointment. I had to warn her that Gram was on the war path, and about the whole lawsuit thingie back to when Gram was headed Melissa’s way with a shotgun back in May. I felt compelled to tell her that Gram was locked and loaded and headed her way when I stopped the attack. But I had no need to worry.

“No problem, Mooner. Your Gram is a sweetheart.” See, I told you she’s a gem.

I didn’t have the heart to tell Melissa that I hadn’t stopped Gram from shooting her until I tackled the old gas bag as she was opening the door to her Ferrari. If I hadn’t caught my grandmother before she got under way- well Melissa would have a different opinion as to the flavor of Gram’s heart.

Anyway, I sat for an hour-and-a-half while Dr. Kieth attempted to do a root canal on my tooth. I’m resistant to Novocaine, so he has to shoot three full vials into my gums to deaden me. Basically, he numbs me from my chin through my mouth, into my nose and sinuses, up into my eye and eventually into my scalp.

After a ten-minute wait, I look and feel like a man having had a recent stroke. One side all dead and out of control. Makes me hope I never have a stroke. Maybe we should shoot smokers full of dental anesthesia all up and down one side of their bodies- keep them numb for a week, or so. Make it a requirement to get health insurance.

So, he’s drilling and looking, and drilling and water blasting, and drilling some more. He’s a little frustrated. This I know because he always chatters with his assistant, Kelly, as he works. He’s describing everything he does, and why he does it, as he goes. I think he does this as much to update the patient as he does to speak with his helper. It’s reassuring.

Anyway, he gets the first of the three canals drilled and cleaned of dying root with minimal trouble. But his frustration mounts as he attempts to find the other two dead root tombs. He suddenly stops the work, puts his tools on the tray and pulls his face mask down.

“Well Mooner, we have some good and bad news both.”

I fucking hate the entire good/bad news dealie.

Dr. Keith went on, “Good news is I finally found the first root chamber, and that one is done.” Then he added, “But the other two canals have calcified down to over 14 millimeters, and that’s bad news. I can’t drill any more without risking breaking or damaging your tooth.”

“Wha thah thit, Dother? Ah nee mah theeth.”

I know, Mooner. That’s why I’m stopping here.” he said. “I’ll send you to the specialist and see if he can save it for you.”

Now, my week will be ass doctor on Wednesday morning to plan a general ass surgery, and then Thursday afternoon to the tooth root doctor for that shit.

I think I’m going to lock myself in my room with a few cases of Carta Blanca and a bunch of my favorite movies. I need to spend some quality time with my pig and what has started to feel like my ostrich. The pig was mine from the start. The abandoned ostrich has felt like an outsider until recently. Gram didn’t find them hiding in my closet while I was gone, but Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry were getting a little stir crazy. Maybe I’ll take them boating.

Speaking of the ostrich Rick Perry, does anyone know how to castrate an ostrich?

Oh well, I need to get back to work. Manana, y’all.

Leonard Pitts, Ruben Navarrette Confirm Mooner’s Positions

Friday, August 6th, 2010


So. I want to first invite you to go to the Opinion Page of the August 5th Austin American Statesman and read the article by Leonard Pitts, Jr., page A11. If I was a professional writer with years of experience, I might have made such eloquent arguments as Leonard.

After reading that one, go immediately below and read Ruben Navarrette, Jr., and he will provide you with a full-scale example of the lunacies that Leonard expressed.

If you like what you read, tell them. Leonard is at: and Ruben can be contacted at : .

I was reading these articles while in my first sitz bath of the day, as I soaked my healing bottom in tepid water. I was running the water for this bath, maybe the hundredth such bath I have run for a sitz, when something hit me. What I do is this- I start filling the tub, then grab reading materials, check my e-mail, get something to drink, grab my cell phone, and then I undress.

For the first sitz of the day, I had the paper to read, checked the computer and had three e-mails, topped-off my coffee cup for beverage, and slipped out of my tee shirt, undies and shorts. My preparations took maybe four minutes as the water ran at full-blast for my bath.

When I stepped into the tub and sat down, there was still not enough water to rise to the level needed to soak, so I sat as water continued to fill. When I finally turned off the tap and set my timer for twenty minutes, I surveyed how much water I was using for a single, twenty-minute ass soaking.

“Holy shit!” I barked at myself. “I could irrigate a football field with this tub of water.”

I started calculating how much water I had used for all of my sitz baths, and blushed in my embarrassment.

“Holy shit!” I said again, and this time loud enough to draw a crowd.

“What tha hell issa matter in here?” were Gram’s first words as she raced into the bathroom from wherever it was she had lurked. “You need a rescue-tation Mooner? I jist got my Red Crossie card rejuvenated over to the Church last week.”

She surveyed me as I lay contorted in the tub to keep water on my hurt part without putting pressure on my ass.

Then she yelled, “Git in here Mother an help me git Mooner outta tha tub. I need ta give him tha kiss a death.”

Don’t you just hate it when people jump to conclusions?

Mother has arrived by now and said, “It’s the Kiss of Life, Gram, not the Kiss of Death.”

Gram looked me dead in the eye and said to me, she says, “Who gives a shit Mother. I got it right, cause iffn he scares the shit outta me one more time- it’s curfews fer Mooner!”

I started laughing about then, so she punched me in the shoulder.

“Yer a disrupto-latin little shit Mooner. Always was an I reckin that’s the way of it.”

Then she started sniffing the air and said, “Do I smell ostrich sweat?”


“No, Gram, that’s just the lingering aroma coming off my butt problem.”

She sniffed some more. “An I’m a catchin a wiffer a pig snot too. It’s makin my eyes twitch.”

Sensing the pending doom from Gram’s thoughts, Mother stepped in. “Mooner’s still not right yet, Gram. Dr. Ashworth said that it could be a few more weeks before everything heals over.”

Thank you Mother.

Gram gave me the dirty eyeball one more time, then said, “Awright. You finish yer shits bath an come find me. I got a potion I brewed up back ta when yer Grandpa got popped by them skunks. Maybe iffn we both dose up I won’t smell ya.”

Dear God. Thank you for the blessing me with the mess I call Gram. Amen.

Anyway, so what I have decided to do is take the remainder of my sitz baths in a mop bucket. I’ll just squat my irritated cut bottom in that. I can’t stand to waste water. Even though we recycle every drop of wastewater from our daily lives here to the ranch, we still pump too much from the ground to be wasting it on my sore ass like that.

After my bath, I beelined it to my closet for a talk with Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry.

I threw the door open and started on them. “All right you two. Did I tell you to clean yourselves before bedding down at night, or didn’t I? How can I protect you from Gram when you smell like a barnyard?”

All I got in response from the ball of pig fat and black feathers cowering in the corner of the closet was whimpers. The two of them looked like Jack and Mrs. Spratt having sweaty, athletic sex.

“Oh for shitsakes you two. Stop crying like babies and get out of my closet. I’m sick of this.”

This threat only made the whimpering more urgent.

“Just stop, you two, stop it now. Go take a shower and get some exercise. As soon as you hear Gram’s Ferrari leaving, you get out of this closet and get some fresh air.”

Anyway, I’m taking SAC Ellen back to Vivo’s over to RR 620 for dinner. She really likes the place. I keep pushing them to get Carta Blanca beer, but I have not managed to sell them on the concept. So, I’ll just have an Eastside Margarita while there, and catch my frosty cold CB’s to the ranch.

Manana, y’all.

Rush Limbaugh, Rick Perry and John Kelso

Tuesday, August 3rd, 2010


So. I’m sitting on the porch out to the ranch this morning with Gram and Aunt Hilda, reading the paper. I like to finish the paper with John Kelso’s column, the one there to the Metro Section of the Austin American Statesman. John was dishing on Texas Governor Rick Perry, and since dishing the Rickster is one of my favorite pastimes, I mightily enjoyed today’s writing.

I even sent John an E-mail thanking him for his good words. Why don’t you check him out and thank him as well? Click to and tell him what you think. All good writers like feedback, and John is a good writer.

Anyway, the three of us were drinking coffee and reading the paper. As I finished John’s column and put the paper down, I noticed that Aunt Hilda was in a whisper quiet, but mightily animated conversation with Woodrow, her shrunken-head-in-a-mahogany-box. Woodie is also Aunt Hilda’s closest confidant and constant companion.

I can’t tell you the whole story, more book fodder, but she and Gram were Baptist Missionary volunteers, and assigned to Africa as young girls. While there, there were under threat of kidnapping, but survived through the kind efforts of some tribesmen. Woodie was an adornment woven into the rug that Aunt Hilda was wrapped into for the five-day canoe trip down the Congo River, and escape.

Aunt Hilda and Gram were rolled into tribal rugs like Baptist Missionary girl burritos, and stowed in the bottom of a dugout canoe.

I can’t tell you more, but let me say that first, Aunt Hilda has never been the same, and second, she and Woodrow have been inseparable since.

What I overheard from the two of them going at it this morning, was something about cannibals. That started my mind to thinking about stuff, and my synapses landed on the thought of the old saying, “You are what you eat.”

Logic? If you eat people as a routine, you are a cannibal.

Then I thought about the old saying, “The clothes make the man.” While I couldn’t derive the same precision here as in the eat dealie, I get the premise. Maybe dressing up as a pretend hooker for Halloween won’t necessarily make you a hooker, but you will feel like a hooker.

Which thinkings then moved me to a thought all my own. That thought is, “You become what you write.”

Since I have been writing a witty and fact-filled bloggie for a few months now, I am starting to feel like an accomplished author. See what I mean? I’m not saying that I am accomplished, but I feel I am.

And since the New Age guys say, “You are what you think you are,” then I guess that I really am an accomplished author.

I think, therefore, I am.

But like my Gram always says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner?”

Which reminds me. Rush Limbaugh the pig sneaked out of the closet just long enough to raid Gram’s potion pantry again. He and the ostrich Rick Perry got all snockered-up on a new batch of Gram’s Got Eyes Fer College Boys. While this latest hallucinogenic tonic was designed to put sexy thoughts into the minds of any UT student my Gram manages to snag when she trolls The Drag in her Ferrari, it has proven to be an effective aphrodisiac for the great American domesticated pig.

And the African ostrich as well.

After Gram chased them out of her potion pantry, they holed up back in the closet. I will admit that I have not seen Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry having any actual sex, but those two boys have a definite affinity for each other.

I asked Dixie to translate some of what they were saying for me, but after listening for maybe a minute she said, “Mooner, you don’t want to know.”

Then she said, “Would you fix me a drink, please?”

Dixie doesn’t drink often so I know it was bad. I fixed her a triple-shot Hornitos Margarita and drank a few Carta Blanca beers with her.

And to show you how my mind works, here’s my latest thought. If a bunch of us think that Rush Limbaugh the pig and the ostrich Rick Perry are gay for each other, does that make them gay?

I don’t really think so. But like Gram said when I asked her. She said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Iffn I git my hands on em, I’m gonna gut the both of em.”

Maybe Rush and Ricky are safer in the closet.

Manana, y’all.