Posts Tagged ‘Gram’s sex drive’

Guest Blogger Bully; Yoda’s Still Homely

Monday, February 13th, 2012

 

So. I’m working my brain overtime to discover new ways to stimulate book sales. I’ve come up with another possibility—actually I came up with it two weeks ago—but as is typical with anything involving technology of any variety, I’m more lost than that time when Gram and Aunt Hilda were running from the bad guys over to Africa. That’s when they were Baptist missionaries as young women and had to be smuggled to safety by large African men in a dugout canoe.

That canoe trip is when Aunt Hilda went batty and, I think, when my Gram first exhibited her randinesses. Aunt Hilda came home talking to a shrunken head in a mahogany box, and Gram came home talking lusty thoughts about large mahogany-skinned African men. The complete story is in Full Rising Mooner, the book about which I am bitching about it’s marketing.

You know, the more I authorate the more I have doubts as to the likelihood that there really is a benevolent God. A loving God would make it easy to communicate between His peoples. That last sentence up in the previous paragraph is a perfect example in explanation of my doubts. I edited that fucking string of words five times and that was the best I could do. Since a book is not a person, I can’t say, “… Full Rising Mooner, the book whose marketing is perplexing me…” I’ve spent so much time with that book that it has assumed a life in my life, but it’s still just words.

In the last three years I have written the afore-over-mentioned book of 120,000 words, an endeavor that required me to keystroke more than 550,000 words before completion. That word count ignores all of my multiple self-edits, and includes only the rewritings required by my fancy-pants Editorators. I had already written 54,000 words of a second book before deciding to start this silly fucking webber and bloggie.

Since I postered the first bloggie story in March of 2010, I have pasted 1,636,8992 words herein to the pages hereof. Since Amin only counts words that show up when you guys read this mess, I’m guessing that I actually typed over 2,000,000 self-edited words. When I add onto this word count, I have emails, US Postal Service letters, my scribbles on my beloved Postie Notes and the reminders I scribble on the palms of my hands.

I took the time to calculate the sum total for all of this word smithing and I obtained a number that approximated 3,250,000 words. That, dear friends, is over a million words per year and about 2,900 words every day—a number that feels a touch light. And after writing more than 3 million words of self expression, I still lack any quality to my expressions. I work my ass off to say exactly, specifically and with great precision, what I mean to say. To no avails. Like what I was trying to say up there about the book.

Which reminds me that I had an idea that I will sell books directly from here and I can do personal autographs and dedications to the buyer—that’s the idea from two weeks ago. I’ll set up a Pay Pal dealie to insure safety for both buyer and seller alike, and I’ll be in business. My thought is that I’ll be so busy signing and mailing sold books that I’ll have little time to give books away. All I need to do to implement this plan is set up a Pay Pal account and get it plastered here. Easy-peasy!

Riiiiight. Did you notice when I said “I’ll” set up a Pay Pal dealie? As I said above, I had this idea fourteen days ago and I’ve been frustrating myself with it ever since. I’m almost frustrated enough to ask for help. Almost.

Which brings up another technologies point. After reaching a point just north of suicidal tendencies, I got help from BJ and Squatlo to get a photo of Yoda eating yard weeds postered. Since nobody commented, I’m going to paste it herein once more. Please notice how cute a truly ugly dog can be when photographed at the right angle, and in the soft light of late afternoon. Squirt says of her younger buddy, she told me, “You know, Bwana Mooner, he’s so ugly the flies won’t land on his ass.” This single photo is the only one from the hundreds I took of him and the Squirt grazing that was worth a shit. I literally wore the batteries down in the camera taking pictures, and that’s the only one that worked. This is the pic of Yoda eating a dandelion leaf from my hand, proof positive that he eats weeds like a goat.

 

 Oopsie, let me try again.

Yoda eats a dandelion

Now that prior reminder reminds me of another thing I need to remind us about. I want to have some guest bloggers here. I want some of my friends and enemies both to write stuff for me to put up. So far the only responses I’ve gotten to this request have been polite, “I’m not suited for your site.”

Who, in the fuck, is suited for this site? You think I’m suited for this site? Really? Do you truly think that my ramblings are suitable for print? And they say I’m crazy.

OK, I actually am crazy, which brings up my psycho therapy session from last Friday morning. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson was asking me how I feel about getting older and I of course asked what the fuck she was speaking to—did she mean does my body aches, or my thoughts of an early death or the abject fear I have that my pecker could stop working? If my pecker ever stops working I’ll have no reason to live.

“No, Mooner, you bat-shit loony bird, I’m speaking to your inappropriate behaviors. You’re at an age where you can’t maintain the pace required to be as crazy as you are. As the zoo keeper for your mental health, I feel obligated to recommend that you scale-back your proclivity to cause a ruckus.”

What the fuck? (That was me thinking to myself so I italicized it. I think was was the correct way to do it)

“What the fuck?” this time aloud. “Are you accusing me of getting into trouble on purpose?”

Her answer was a sweet smile, and a nod of her perfectly coiffed head. She has her hair cut into this pixie cut that has always been my favorite hair style. I’m not a long hair man, I like short hair on women.

“Bitch,” the best I could manage under the circumstances.

“Look, Mooner. How many more times can you be arrested and released unharmed? The Sheriff’s catch-and-release license is going to expire if Woozie ever loses an election, and you’ll be in some serious trouble.”

“Woozie will die with that star pinned to his chest, Sammie. Besides, you talk as though I do shit on purpose.”

My psycho therapist chewed on hep lip—an action that still springs my loins—and then gnawed on the fingernail of her left middle finger. My first ex-wife and mother of my children is a sexy little thing. Always was and likely always will be.

“Don’t look at me with those dewy eyes of yours, buster. If you think I’m falling for that Johnson charm again, you are crazy enough for Shoal Creek Mental Hospital.” Here she pointed to the buttons on her desk phone and said to me, she tells me, “I’ve got their emergency intake number on speed dial. I push button number 3 on this, and you’ll be the prize behind door number 7 in the close watch unit at the hospital.”

And now, dear friends, I have hit 1,286 words. I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Posted in ADHD, FullRisingMooner | 9 Comments »

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.

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Posted in Carta Blanca Beer | 9 Comments »

Mooner Finds Solution At Whole Foods; Trolls With Dried Figs

Monday, December 19th, 2011

 

So. When I signed off yesterday, Mother and Gram had left for church leaving me in charge of things. Being left in charge of things is normally routine, but our routine is usually sans a randy old fucker with a Japanese eggplant pecker, Grade-A Extra Large, and the excessively high progesterone levels the ladies of the abode have been exhibiting this holiday season.

In honor of old Dave, the giant-peckered old fucker above-mentioned, I’m making this eggplant and turkey cutlet lasagna I invented for tonight’s dinner. I use thin layers of crusty-fried turkey and eggplant rather than pasta and if I must say so myself, it is a downright yummy use of ingredients.

I went to Whole Foods yesterday to shop for last night’s and tonight’s meals, and decided to take Gram’s little red Ferrari. It had stopped raining and I felt like winding through the gears of my grandmother’s little 550-horsepower hot rod.

The Baptist girls were home from church and they gathered with the rest of us in the kitchen before I left. I always take requests before shopping because I hate to hear, “Don’t we have any_____,” and then fill in the blank.

The list was complete and as I had my hand on the door knob to leave, Gram sidled up to me and pulled my head down to whisper to me. “Here,” she said, as she placed a paper in my shirt pocket. “You go stand in tha dried fruit an jerky section there to tha Whole Foodies and show that to any nice men ya see just a hangin’ out.”

I started to reply but she whisked me out with a, “Now git,” and a swat to my bottom. When I managed to get myself seated in the little sports car and start the engine, I pulled my shopping list and whatever it was that Gram gave me from my pocket. I always like to let the car warm up before taking off so that I can take off fast.

The papers in my hand were the list, and a glossy photo of my Gram standing beside this self-same Ferrari in a leather outfit of black with red piping. She was doing that “come here” dealie you do with your forefinger, a wolfish smile on her face. It seems the randy old gasbag who mothered my father was asking me to shop for men who hang out with dehydrated food stuffs at the Whole Foods market over to the Arboretum.

I guess randy old men shop for women at the grocery store same as younger randy men. Me, I’ll hang around the melon section or over with the avocados. I like my ladies not too skinny and round on top. After an encounter with a plump-crotched lady in the avocado section at the Sprouts store this one time, I also find the hunting good in the guacamole pit. We men look for reflections of the women we seek in our chosen sections of the store.

I’ve seen my grandmother nekid, regrettably, and the dried foods section is where I’d shop if I was looking for Gram. I saw her unclothed last summer when she and her best buddy P-cubed picked up some Texas A&M engineering students. The animals and I were all fishing on the dock when the girls brought their captives outside for some sunlight and fresh air. I was treated to the sight of both Gram and P-cubed’s nekidnesses when they decided to take the boys skinny dipping.

I know I should have diverted my eyes, but could you look away if you saw an airplane crashing from the sky?

Anyway, it’s raining again this Monday morning and I still feel pretty good about things. SAC Ellen flies in at noon, so she’ll be having dinner—after a little afternoon sexting delights—and then we’ll be headed to a Christmas party at eight. The stuff being done for the four-of-five stars Clarion reviewed book are still going well, and so is Yoda’s trainings.

He and I were in the shower with the Squirt today after breakfast discussing how I can assist him to learn to not pee anywhere but in the sink or outside, and how to only shit outside. I let the dogs shower with me whenever they want and also whenever I want them too. But no new theories came up in the discussion.

After the shower, I turned the Animal Channel on the TV in the living room and went to get SAC Ellen from her place. She’d left her car at the airport since her schedule is so flighty, and wanted to freshen up before I got there.

OK, wait a big fucking minute because I am fixing to go waaayyy off the reservation. The point of this entire writing today is to tell you that a vote was taken at dinner last night, and Mr. Dave has been invited, and here I’ll specifically quote the language of the proposed vote, “That Mr. Dave be invited to stay awhile to keep the ladies of the house company.”

The vote was fourteen “yeas” and one “abstained” and the abstained was Mother. But her abstention was done with a coquettish smile and flutter of eyelashes in Mr. Dave’s direction. “A proper Baptist lady would never ‘vote” for such a thing,” was my mom’s explanation for witholding her approvals.

“Oh, fer shitsakes, woman, git tha fuck over yerself. I’ll share ‘im.” My grandmother actually won’t share. She’ll get tired of old Dave and move on. She’ll likely come back to him during a dry spell, but she’ll pass him along for sure.

And me, I’m glad to have another man around to soak up the hormones. When things get bitchy at the Chez Johnson ranch, I’ll have a man to share the burdens, tote the bales.

So please, everyone, hoist your Carta Blancas on high with me, and toast to Mr. Dave. Manana, y’all.

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Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Religion | 3 Comments »

Pooch Screwed Again; Mooner Screwed, But Not Screwed

Monday, January 31st, 2011

 

So. Another day, another waffle-tread boot sole caked with dog shit. I’ve much to discuss so I organized an outline on Postie Notes. I somehow managed to use an entire pad– purple ones this time, because purple is the color that best fits my mood.

I love Postie Notes. Since the first day the 3-M Company rolled them out, I’ve been stuck on the little rubber cement-edged marvels. And don’t start on me about the rubber cement dealie. I know it’s not rubber cement anymore and I also know that whatever glue they use is likely more toxic than than Glen Beck’s spittle.

I simply don’t give a shit. Posties are the only thing that can keep me organized. Without them, my writings would be nothing more than randomly-sequenced ramblings.

Take this weekend, for example. I started the weekend on a high note. My comment dealie here to my bloggie was repaired, I was making progress in psycho therapy in my regular sessions, and I had managed to pretty much lick my Wonderella bad habits.

Then at Saturday breakfast, I got tangled up with my Gram and her muddled logic. Of course there was also the young Swiss boy that she hadn’t kidnapped from the student union down to Texas A&M. We never did find the young foreign exchange student’s clothes, of course.

He was too small for any of my stuff, so Mother went out to the barn and rummaged through the closet full of Daddy’s old clothes she still hordes. My father has been dead for thirteen years and Mother still keeps his stuff. Now most of you are thinking, “Oh, how sentimental, how sweet.”

You couldn’t be more wrong. Nope, my sweet, martyred mother is saving them in the hope that I might find some additional wear from Daddy’s old moth-eaten stuff. Somehow my 46-XX sizing will shrink down to Daddy’s 38-Short.

When she came back from the barn with an armload of things for the boy, Gram took him back to her room to get him dressed. When they finally came out night for dinner, he was wearing a red and gray flannel shirt, Daddy’s Sunday best cowboy boots and a pair of purple paint-splattered coveralls that I remember from 1971. Gram wanted her cast iron bedposts painted purple and Grandaddy refused to do it. My father did the painting to shut her up, and maybe that’s why my mood is purple.

When asked to show his new duds to the table full of Johnsons gathered for supper, the little guy blushed thermometer red. But he did a little pirouette and a bow before sitting down.

“See,” Mother said to all of us. “I told you those things still had some use in them.”

Me, being a businessman and all, I attempted to calculate how lucky I am to live on property that has almost unlimited storage space. If you start in 1998, when you could rent a garage-sized dry-storage unit for about $45/month, adjust for the present value of a dollar and add capitalizations costs, the Swiss kid’s new suit of used clothing costs about $8,000.

Another Johnson Family lesson in higher finance.

But like my Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner?” And she’d be right. If it makes Mother happy to think she saves money by storing a dead man’s worn-out work clothes for a possible future need…

Anyway, don’t you think my ADHD is better? I’ve barely been digressing or disturbing lately. Which is a miracle in its own rights after what Squatlo has done to me. Go to http://www.squatlo-rant.blogspot.com and check out the video he has of Michele Bachmann’s tea bagger response to President Obama’s State of the Union speech.

I was scheduled for a dinner date with SAC Ellen last night, the first in awhile. She was finally convinced that I was cured of my unnatural fascinations with Wonderella and was letting me back in her graces. We were sitting at our table at Fonda San Miguel and waiting for appetizers, and I had been bragging about being cured of Wonderella.

I guess I’d been doing that “me thinks mayhaps me-lady doth protest too much-eth” dealie when the SACster said, “Let’s check out your blog, big boy, and see if that’s true.”

She opened her I-phone and logged onto my site. She giggled at my latest posting a few times, and when she got to the end, she said, “Wow, eight comments already!” and she punches the button to read the comments.

“Oh look, Mooner, your comment poster must be messed up again. The only one shown is from that nice man Squatlo. He’s smart, isn’t he?” and she reads Squat’s comment.

Now me, I’d been too fucking busy prepping for my date and a hearty round of taser gun sex to check up on my bloggie. But what should I have to worry about when the only additional content not written by me, was written by my buddy Squat?

“What fake Michele Bachmann video?” SAC Ellen asked.

The words brought an instant chill to my spine. My freshly plucked and polished neder-regions deflated and wrinkled like a dried goat’s bladder. I had gone to see Ingrid to wax and pluck me for my planned night of sexing.

I thought quickly, my mind a jumbled mess of ADHD-addled misfiring synapses.

“Oh, well, that’s just a little joke between me and the Squatster. It’s nothing.”

Now I can tell that she’s linking to Squat’s bloggie site. She’s reading and scrolling and giggling and saying, “Yep, the boy’s a sharpie.”

“Ah, here it is,” she says, and she starts the video on Squatlo’s site. She laughs out loud at the hilarious skit, and when it stops she says, “Oh lookie here, Mooner, he’s had 15 comments,” and she starts reading them.

Oh shit! Do something Mooner, and do it quick. “Come on baby, let’s put the I-net away and focus on us.” God I hoped I wasn’t whining.

SAC Ellen turned her phone screen to me and said, “What, “us”, Mooner?”

Someone asked me one time how I can have ten ex-wives without ever cheating on a one of them. At the time, I was at a loss for words.

Carta Blanca beer and Squirt have been my companion’s since I got back home to the ranch after my aborted date. I’d be truly miserable if I drank any other beer.

Manana, y’all.

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Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Squatlo, Squirt | 5 Comments »

Why I’m Nuts; Another Day Shot To Shit

Saturday, January 29th, 2011

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why bother telling her it’s “sacrilegious”?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Squirt, Wonderella | 11 Comments »

Unintended Serialization; Dilemma’s Double Indemnity- Part Two

Wednesday, November 17th, 2010

 

So. Don’t you hate when someone tells you all of the joke except for the punchline? I know it pisses me off to the max. Same thing when someone serializes a simple story, dragging-out the payoff by separating it into several unsatisfying chunks.

Like what I did to you yesterday.

I didn’t fuck with you on purpose. I swear to god it was an accident, and caused by my ever vigilant ADHD. If I could focus with the same intensity as my ADHD, I’d be king.

I had every intention to provide closure to my dichotomous dilemma story, but I let my randy grandmother’s sex needs get in the way. Hell, if I could focus with the same intensity as Gram gives sex, I’d at least be the Prince. Or Baron or maybe Viceroy.

Speaking of the Prince, can you believe that Princess Diana’s little boy is getting married? When I look at his father, I am truly surprised that either of those boys could learn to tie their own shoes. Must be they got their mother’s brains and her good looks too. Imagine if they had both looks and the brain of their dad. Oooo-gaa!

Anyway, my point yesterday about the postings here to the bloggie having multiple typographical mistakes and just plain sloppy prose was to be this– I am incapable of posting my best work topically and voluminously, simultaneously.

Add to that my need to write down as many thoughts as I can, and you can see the compounding effects I suffer. I receive benefit from spilling my thoughts from my brain into the computer. Ridding my mind of this trash takes the pressure off my frontal lobe, allowing me better reasoned thoughts and decisions. But I simply can’t sacrifice quality for quantity and get rid of enough from my scrambled brain.

I’m not that good. I admit it. I am not a highly-skilled, trained writer. What I am is a crazy, opinionated, left-leaning sufferer of the ADHD, who has enough thoughts in his head at any given time to plot a dozen novels.

That said, I understand that some are turned off by my errors and won’t follow me. If I could fix it, I would. But, to perspecterate this dealie and give you a differing view to study, think about this. On the tenth rewrite of my book, I found a mistake on the first line of the first page of text. The error was that the word “I” should have been “I’m”.

And understand that I proofread each sitting’s writings maybe a dozen times before hitting the “SAVE” button. That means that I missed that mistake at least twenty-five times.

That’s how bad I am at details and focusing. In order to shear most of the mistakes from my postings, I’d be printing today’s written words in maybe July 2012. When it would finally be best-done, or wellest done, it would still likely have a boo-boo, or two. Maybe that should be most weller-done.

But, before I brain fritz and forget the punchline again, here’s the deal. I will reward your grammar-fication of my postings by giving a free book to the person who first calls attention to my mistakes. I’m not talking about any words that you might think I made up, I mean grammatical errors, bad punctuating or sentences not making sense because I left a word out. Silly shit like that.

When you catch me, be the first to post a comment to the bloggie, and email me so I’ll have your contact info. Soon as the book is out, I’ll get one to you.

I told Dr. Sam I. Am about my plan in this morning’s psycho therapy session. She said to me, she says, “Mooner, you dumbass. You’ll spend all of your book’s profits on free books and shipping charges.”

She thought that would discourage me, but that was the first time she had admitted that I might make any profits from my book, so I see that as progress. “Fuck you, Sammie,”I told her. “You’re just jealous that my book will be in print before yours.”

“Did I tell you that I’m raising your session rates to $200.00 per hour?” she asked with a little heat and ire-rosed cheeks.

“Oh, who gives a shit, Sammy?” I responded. “My book’s gonna make me rich.”

Squirt was waiting for me in the reception room, and we’re going out to El Azeteca, there to East 7th Street. We’re meeting Streaker Jones and Dixie are meeting us for some cabrito, menudo and cold Carta Blanca beers.

Manana, y’all. 

So. Don’t you hate when someone tells you all of the joke except for the punchline? I know it pisses me off to the max. Same thing when someone serializes a simple story, dragging-out the payoff by separating it into several unsatisfying chunks.

Like what I did to you yesterday.

I didn’t fuck with you on purpose. I swear to god it was an accident, and caused by my ever vigilant ADHD. If I could focus with the same intensity as my ADHD, I’d be king.

I had every intention to provide closure to my dichotomous dilemma story, but I let my randy grandmother’s sex needs get in the way. Hell, if I could focus with the same intensity as Gram gives sex, I’d at least be the Prince. Or Baron or maybe Viceroy.

Speaking of the Prince, can you believe that Princess Diana’s little boy is getting married? When I look at his father, I am truly surprised that either of those boys could learn to tie their own shoes. Must be they got their mother’s brains and her good looks too. Imagine if they had both looks and the brain of their dad. Oooo-gaa!

Anyway, my point yesterday about the postings here to the bloggie having multiple typographical mistakes and just plain sloppy prose was to be this– I am incapable of posting my best work topically and voluminously, simultaneously.

Add to that my need to write down as many thoughts as I can, and you can see the compounding effects I suffer. I receive benefit from spilling my thoughts from my brain into the computer. Ridding my mind of this trash takes the pressure off my frontal lobe, allowing me better reasoned thoughts and decisions. But I simply can’t sacrifice quality for quantity and get rid of enough from my scrambled brain.

I’m not that good. I admit it. I am not a highly-skilled, trained writer. What I am is a crazy, opinionated, left-leaning sufferer of the ADHD, who has enough thoughts in his head at any given time to plot a dozen novels.

That said, I understand that some are turned off by my errors and won’t follow me. If I could fix it, I would. But, to perspecterate this dealie and give you a differing view to study, think about this. On the tenth rewrite of my book, I found a mistake on the first line of the first page of text. The error was that the word “I” should have been “I’m”.

And understand that I proofread each sitting’s writings maybe a dozen times before hitting the “SAVE” button. That means that I missed that mistake at least twenty-five times.

That’s how bad I am at details and focusing. In order to shear most of the mistakes from my postings, I’d be printing today’s written words in maybe July 2012. When it would finally be best-done, or wellest done, it would still likely have a boo-boo, or two. Maybe that should be most weller-done.

But, before I brain fritz and forget the punchline again, here’s the deal. I will reward your grammar-fication of my postings by giving a free book to the person who first calls attention to my mistakes. I’m not talking about any words that you might think I made up, I mean grammatical errors, bad punctuating or sentences not making sense because I left a word out. Silly shit like that.

When you catch me, be the first to post a comment to the bloggie, and email me so I’ll have your contact info. Soon as the book is out, I’ll get one to you.

I told Dr. Sam I. Am about my plan in this morning’s psycho therapy session. She said to me, she says, “Mooner, you dumbass. You’ll spend all of your book’s profits on free books and shipping charges.”

She thought that would discourage me, but that was the first time she had admitted that I might make any profits from my book, so I see that as progress. “Fuck you, Sammie,”I told her. “You’re just jealous that my book will be in print before yours.”

“Did I tell you that I’m raising your session rates to $200.00 per hour?” she asked with a little heat and ire-rosed cheeks.

“Oh, who gives a shit, Sammy?” I responded. “My book’s gonna make me rich.”

Squirt was waiting for me in the reception room, and we’re going out to El Azeteca, there to East 7th Street. We’re meeting Streaker Jones and Dixie are meeting us for some cabrito, menudo and cold Carta Blanca beers.

Manana, y’all.

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ADHd & Typographicle Errs; Writer’s Dichotomous Dilemma Creates Conundrum

Tuesday, November 16th, 2010

 

So. As a now lightly-seasoned writer, I have gained an understanding of the importance in good editing. Having worked with one good editor and one not so, I have experienced the value of quality editing.

I say that I am lightly-seasoned rather than seasoned because I have never thought that simple experience or repetition provide insight. My having written more than 650,000 words in the last twelve months does not season me any more as a writer than spending eight years in the White House made George W. Bush a seasoned diplomat.

My mild seasoning has come from my use of said editors, having been printed in several news and trade publications, and my research and observation of writer’s things. In my experience, I have learned one important edict: don’t publish an unedited work.

Don’t print anything not proofed by another’s eyes, don’t trust the translation from one computer operating system to another. Don’t publish an article with typographical errors.

I know how important it is to obey this edict and I understand why. Readers want your best, finished work. Sloppy proofing turns people off. In fact, typos can cause some anal-retentive grammar snobs to stop reading, regardless of content. Poor editing can ruin a good writer.

Knowing this creates a dilemma for me here to my bloggie. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, the evil ADHD, provides the devil’s own dichotomous influence on good proof reading. More influential than the moon on Mother Earth’s tides, ADHD can flood the writings of its sufferer with devastating typographical errors.

My dilemma is that my goal is to make meaningful postings to my bloggie six days each week. In order to do so, I don’t have time to get each posting reviewed by an editor, and that leaves the proof reading up to me. A person with significant ADHD.

I can read a one sentence paragraph a dozen times and nto catch the misspelling of the word “not”. Then, after the sentence is published, I can catch the error without reading the sentence. I’ll look at the page and spot the mistake like it was a giant nose pimple.

“Where is the dichotomy, Mooner, I see the dilemma but where is the dichotomy?” you might be asking.

OK, here it is. It is my ADHD that makes my writing both prolific, and interesting. As my Gram puts it, “Mooner honey, iffn you weren’t so fucking crazy you wouldn’t have no friends.”

I get that. My ADHD-addled brain spews content at amazing rates while simultaneously getting me into interesting predicaments. The mess that I am is the only reason people even talk to me. I get that too.

But this dichotomous dilemma has put me smack dab in the middle of a conundrum. If my bloggie exists for the main purpose of gathering market for the purchase of my upcoming book, and I must have voluminous content to get any attention from readers and the publishing industry alike, but the only way for me to have voluminous bloggie content published is to do so with a few typographical errors, and the ADHD controls both the value of the content and the content’s typos- then…..”

Fuckballs.

I tried to discuss this important issue with my circle of friends and family. When I asked my dog her thoughts, Dixie said, “Couldn’t care less, Mooner. Until you let me out of my ridiculous personal services contract- I’m not giving you any help.”

Streaker Jones told me, he says, “You’ll figger it, Mooner.” Brilliant answer as always, but way beyond my distracted abilities comprehend.

As a last resort, I tried to talk to Gram. “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner,” my grandmother scolded. “Quit yer crybaby act an cook dinner. P-Cubed an me is takin tha Ferrarie down to tha Drag an we need ta git there afore dark.”

Fine. My writing career is in shambles and all she can think about is trolling for college boys in her Italian hot rod.

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

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VOTE!!! Gram Banned From Hooters

Tuesday, November 2nd, 2010

 

So. I hope everyone votes. If you are a qualified voter and you do not vote- fuck you. You are the worse kind of American, an uncaring American.

I can’t keep up with what’s happening everywhere, but Texas politics can’t be that far off from what’s going on elsewhere. I assume that things in many states are as silly as they are here.

OK, that was a truly stupid remark. In Texas, we appear to be reelecting Governor Rick Perry again, which makes us the stupidest voter pool in America. We are too fucking dumb to come in out of the rain. It’s like we’re insane, right? Isn’t the definition of insanity doing the same action repetitively while expecting a different outcome?

That’s what you get when religion influences politics. You get a pretty face that makes mindless promises, and then screws things up.

Holy shit am I out of sorts. I’m sick of Rick Perry, sick of right wing religious fuckballs influencing politics and I’m sick of negative political advertising. If I were king, I’d banish all three.

Which reminds me, Gram has been banished from Hooters. Again. This makes the third time I’ve had to pick her up from the manager’s office at one of those silly restaurants. At least they didn’t have her arrested this time.

The story is that Bambi, the Hooters hostess most recently returned to work after breast augmentation surgery, was talking to my Gram about her new boobs. Discussions with Gram about anything relating to sex or body parts are dangerous times.

Seems Bambi was both proud and concerned with her new titties. Proud of their full double-D fullness, but worried at having one nipple pointing east, while the other directs more to the north-northwest. Gram has got a whole bucket-load of bosom issues, so you might think she could provide sage counseling for Bambi.

Allegedly, Gram sits patiently as Bambi Valley-Girl-speaks the sad story of her $7,500 procedure, focusing on her worry that her breasts will get saggy as she gets older. When she finished, Gram said, “Oh fer shit sakes girly, lemme have a look,” at which time Gram pulled the top of Bambi’s top down.

After thoroughly inspecting the new bosoms, Gram said, “What tha fuck is buggerating you? Them’s great tits.”

Then, and again this is all alleged, Gram stands to her full 4-feet-11-inches and whips her top off and says, “See that? Them’s saggy titties. Now quit yer whinin.”

And having said that, Gram pulls her right tit from the waistband of her shorts and holds it in her armpit by the nipple. Then, she removes the left one and drapes it over her shoulder.

When I went to get her, the manager told me, “Emptied the place faster than a fire drill, Mr. Johnson. Except for cleaning up the vomit and spilled food, there won’t be any charges for damages. Lost business and tips will be your biggest expense. I’ll send you the bills.”

I gave him our insurance agent’s business card, and told him I’d have Jeff call him in the morning. Jeff is a crackerjack lawyer and the only lawyer I’ve ever met who’s worth a shit. He thanked me for getting there so quickly and told me to keep Gram away from all Hooters locations.

“There will be a mug shot at the hostess stand,” he informed me. “And it’ll be marked to, ‘Isolate and call police.’”

When I walked her to her car, I tried to tell her she needs to not create so many public disturbances. “You’re banned from Hooters, nearly every strip joint in town, the AT&T phone store and several other places. We can’t get pizza delivered to the ranch, and I have to give the AC repair guys hazardous duty pay.”

“Oh who gives a shit, Mooner. Really, who gives a shit?”

She’s right, you know. I wouldn’t change a thing about her- she’s a package deal. I’d like to drop her in the lake with an arm load of bricks, but not change her.

“Meet me at tha barn, Mooner,” she said before rolling the window up on her little Ferrari. “We’ll have us a Carti Blanca and clean the storage room.”

As she drove away, she burned rubber and pulled into traffic causing horns to honk and brakes to squeal. I could hear her revving the big engine to the red line and grinding gears for several minutes.

“Than God traffic’s light,” I said to the universe.

Manana, y’all.

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Contest to Re-name Sandra; Operation a Success

Thursday, October 28th, 2010

 

So. Yesterday is over and, therefore, my ass-region’s medical maladies should be over as well. I’m sore back there and still have a slight “weeping”, as Gram would put it. But fuck it, I’m ready to celebrate.

But first I need to say, “Thanks,” to North Austin Surgical Center, and everyone there. This time I want to single out Ashley- new from Dallas and in love with her job, Tanya- Ashley’s training overseer, Renee, Sandra and Dr. Poreddy.

Ashley was what I’d guess you’d call my in-take/prep nurse. Under Tanya’s watchful eye, Ashley asked me all the questions and got me to initial and sign all of the forms needed in modern medicine to perform “procedures”.

Because lawyers have ruined the entire fucking world, it took fifteen minutes to do the forms. If I was God, I would have heaven, hell and Lawyerville. Lawyerville would hold all of the lawyers that I decide care more for themselves than they do the law. Everybody in hell could take out their frustrations on the inhabitants of L’ville in whatever methods they choose.

Ashley is a person I think would make a caring girl buddy. I don’t girlfriend, because I already have SAC Ellen. But she has those caring, doe eyes that set me off, and a very caring way.

Tanya is a very sharp cookie with a keen sense of humor, and the kind of woman that I would get in trouble over. I’m a sucker for a quick wit and a withering stare. But she’s engaged and I might as well be.

In the actual operating room, Renee was my nurse, again. She was my OR nurse for my last butt operation, and she remembered me. I was laying on my side with my ass exposed to the chilled air, trying to decide if this dealie was going to hurt.

“Well if it isn’t my lucky day,” I heard. “I’d recognize that butchered posterior with my eyes closed.”

Before I could maneuver myself to see who it was, she said, “Good morning, Mr. Johnson. How’s your butt doing?”

“Maybe better after today, Renee,” I told her. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Drew short straw, Mooner.” And she chuckled like she thought she was funny.

But the highlight of my entire experience was chatting with Sandra, the Doctor’s assistant, as we got ready for my thingie.

“Sandra,” I said when she introduced herself. “That’s a pretty name.”

“Hate it,” was Sandra’s sharp reply.

“How come,” I asked. “You look like a Sandra to me. Or maybe a Veronica.”

Sandra is Hispanic, pretty face and piercing eyes.

“My daddy named me after his last girlfriend,” she said, and rather clinically.

I tried to think of something to say.

“Well, thank God he wasn’t dating Bertha. Or Hildagard.”

I got the full heat of those piercing eyes, and she said, “That the best you’ve got?”

Sadly it was.

But I got to thinking, how can I help this situation? What might I do to ease her pain?

“How about we have a contest to get you a new name?”

“You’d do that for me?”

I didn’t even need to think about it. “Of course I would. Will.”

So. Here’s the deal. We’re having a contest to find Sandra a new name. No rules except that I’ll give the winner a copy of my book when it comes out, and I’ll publish their name.

This will be fun, right?

Don’t suggest Lupe, Mary, Hortensia or Blancita because those are my suggestion- already refused while I was under the knife.

Make your suggestions by comment, and let’s help Sandra!

Drink Carta Blanca and come back manana, y’all.

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#colleenlindsay #americacalling; Mooner’s Blog Contest

Friday, August 13th, 2010

 

So. Unexpectedly, I will be incommunicado for all of next week and maybe some of the following week. What that means is that I will not be posting bloggie dealies, nor will I be answering viewer mail.

It also means that the Johnson Family household out to the ranch will be having some issues.

See, as you all know by now, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are in the closet, the one in my master bedroom. Dixie, Squirt and I have been hiding and protecting them from public scrutiny for many weeks. Public scrutiny and my Gram’s ire.

The dogs are going with me, so that leaves Mother as Rush and Rick’s sole protector. But Mother is afraid of the big ostrich, and Rush Limbaugh the pig is afraid of everything. I bought Gram and her best buddy P-cubed some tickets to Las Vegas. That way the two of them can go out to Sin City and enjoy the man buffet that is men away from home. It also keeps Gram’s twelve-gage double-barrel shotgun in the gun case.

I just wish Gram would let what happens in Vegas stay there. Have you ever sat through a dinner of fresh grilled goat, guacamole tostados and ranchero beans while listening to your grandmother relive her recent Vegas trip?

Tales of innocent young high school football coaches from Michigan, tied to the bedposts with their own shirts and socks, does not go with grilled goat.

I let Anna the Amazon tie me up this one time and it didn’t turn out so well. She had me bound and gagged, ready to play “Who’s Your Daddy,” when Sister called. Anna took the call despite my readiness to say, “You’re my daddy.”

Sister needed help with some thing or another, and Anna went to help. “Don’t go anywhere, Mooner. I’ll be right back,” were Anna’s words as she left the bedroom.

Gram cut me loose the next morning when she came to get me from breakfast. “Let me look at them knotties, Mooner,” she said. “These here look lik they might hold better n tha ones I been usin.”

Holy shit but my ADHD is fritzing me to death.

Look. I had this idea that I want to run by you. I have been accused by some readers of only presenting my view of the world on some serious issues. At first I wanted to say, “Well fucking duh!” But then I got to thinking that Mooner’s Webber and Bloggie Rule Number 7 requires me to, “Listen to and contemplate other points of view.”

So let’s have a bloggie contest and I’ll post the ones that I think best portray both opposing and supporting views to mine. I’ll award a copy of my new book to each posted writer as soon as I can get it through publishing.

Maybe this can be like a monthly dealie and we can pick a topic of discussion for each month. What do you think?

OK, here’s the rules. You know how I love rules.

  1. Entries must be on the named subject.
  2. Limit yourself to 1,000 words max. Unfair since I don’t limit myself, but I have ADHD and other mental maladies, and it’s my fucking website.
  3. I am the only official judge, but I promise to be fair.
  4. You can’t hurt my feelings, so say anything you want. My feelings have been stomped on by the best, and I’m still kicking.
  5. Don’t make threats. I’m dating a Special Agent in Charge for shitsakes, and she’ll feel responsible to investigate threats.
  6. I’ll give you credit for credibility of argument, new twists and analysis, and for both humor and compassion. As an example, I can guarantee you that my buddy Lloyd would be a winner on any subject he chose. Go see what I mean at: http://lifeslessonslearnedlate.blogspot.com/2010/08/prologue-to-part-iii-i-got-some-feed.html .
  7. I can choose as many winners as I want. If you don’t like my rules, you are obviously a brain dead Republican religious right-wing fuckball.
  8. Send all submissions to me at mooner@moonerjohnson.com which is my e-mail address.

Now, do we start big, or choose a small subject and work our way up? I think we should start with a bang, so here goes. The first subject is:

“Mooner Johnson thinks that the Holy Roman Catholic Church totally screwed-up in its latest rulings re: child rape/molestation and women as priests, the latest in a long history of screw-ups. I think…………”

Is that a good premise? I’ll not be able to read anything until I get back, but this gives you time to do some smart writing. I look forward to see what you can do. I would love to hear from #colleenlindsay or #americacalling, two twitter folks I follow. There are a bunch of others, but those two are fresh on my mind.

I follow Colleen because she and I share some commonalities. I follow Calling America because he/she/they seem solidly entrenched in ideology the opposite of mine.

See you when I get back. And drink Carta Blanca beer. Are you listening Carta Blanca?

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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 jkelso@statesman.com 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.

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Squirt Kicks Environmental Butt, Polluter Might Live

Friday, July 16th, 2010

 

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

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

Republicans are a pain in the ass, by definition.

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

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

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

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

“Same uno, Mooner,” she tells me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like lawn equipment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And kill.

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

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

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

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

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

Manana, ya’ll.

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Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Home Grown Tomatoes, Humor, Psychotherapy, Squirt | 1 Comment »

Rick Perry Joins Rush Limbaugh In Closet; Republican Party In Turmoil

Thursday, June 17th, 2010

I want to move. Oregon or New Mexico or maybe Finland, you know someplace with summer temperatures the other side of hellish. I’ve already got sweat on my face, sweat running down my back and sweaty balls and I’m taking a shower for shit sakes. June 15th and its already 95 degrees and 95% humidity.

Just so you know, I have a Summons to Jury Duty next week and for a period from June 21through July 2. Are you fucking kidding me? What attorney or prosecutor will want to be looking at my ass sitting in a jury box? But, you never know.

And get this- the letter with the Summons says, “Since there is no parking for the Courthouse, we suggest you make arrangements with Capitol Metro to get to the Courthouse by the 8 am starting time. Again, are you fucking kidding me?

From my place way out here to the far northwest part of the County I would need to leave yesterday at 8 am to get downtown by 8 am today if I use Capitol Metro. Then, once I got there I would need to turn right around and head back so I could get showered and shaved to be back to the courthouse by 8 am tomorrow morning. Assuming they want me to stay for a visit once I’m there, I’ll be needing to make other arrangements for transportation.

The point I digressed about this jury duty business is that I might not be posting anything much next week. But I’ll make it up to you in some fashion or another.

As for Rush Limbaugh the pig, the carpenters just finished installing a private entrance from the side of the house into my closet. It’s like a weather-safe doggie door except bigger. Rush is just too frightened to come out of the closet all the way. He’ll come out and play and stuff but he’s back in the closet every night. And any time he hears the nerve-grating screech that is my Gram’s voice he burns the ground racing to his new door.

He’s like Liberace or Rock Hudson or maybe that lady from the view who got her stomach stapled and lied about it. Everybody knew about their secrets, nobody really cared about them, and each one brought a world of shit down on their own heads while they hid from their truths.

Rush Limbaugh is the most ridiculous of them all if you ask me. Except for Gram, he has a loving and supportive family who both know of, and enjoy, his differences. He is funny and smart and provides me with endless hours of entertainment when he rams his snout up Gram’s ass and furts her.

Gram is the best furt victim I have ever seen in my decades of furting. Jumps out of her socks every time. And since she’s always in everybody else’s business, there’s ample opportunity to catch her bent at the waist with her butt exposed.

But now I have a new problem with Rush Limbaugh’s refusal to come clean and leave the closet. Rick Perry the ostrich has done that thing that baby birds do when they bond with the first living thing they see. Except Ricky has bonded with my Gram, in whom the term living thing has perverse meaning, and that big ass bird is no baby.

Lucky that Dixie speaks Strothio Camelus, that’s the African black ostrich language. There’s a small problem in that Rick Perry was separated from all other birds as a newborn and was raised in a pen with a bunch of pigs. That information should lead you to the conclusion as to the particulars of my current, new problem.

Living with pigs will cause a person to develop pig-like habits. I know that sounds trite as all get out, but it is truer than fictionalized. Pigs jam their snouts up everyone’s ass and squeal and oink and shit all over the place, and so does Rick Perry. Two hundred pound flightless bird thinks he’s a piggie.

Brings new perspective to that whole, “If pigs could fly,” dealie.

Dixie is having a terrible time translating for me because Rick Perry speaks ostrich through his nose, again like a pig. Apparently that messes with the syntax of the vowel sounds in ostrich talk making it difficult to decipher.

When I told Dixie to tell the bird to stop furting Gram or I’d be grilling his skinned carcass on the spit to my big smoker out back, Dixie translated his response. “Well Mooner, he either said that he will be most gracious to accommodate your every wish, or he asked me to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

Sounds like he’s gonna fit in with this family either way.

Star Jones. The lady from The View, her name is Star Jones. Had her stomach stapled and wouldn’t come clean and married this guy that many called gay. I don’t see why any of that should make a difference. Lots of gay people are happily married to the opposite sex. They just can’t marry within their desired sexual parameters, happily or not.

Fucking right-wing Christian Republican shitballs pushing their belief systems up our ass again.

I did a little investigation to learn more about ostriches and discovered several interesting things. First, he’s got 46 feet of intestines and that explains the fact that his farts can melt the glass out of a window frame.

Second is that they run in circles when they try to run away from danger and third, and most interesting is this. An adult ostrich will have two eyeballs, each the size of a billiard ball, crammed into a dense, thick skull. Each eyeball is far larger than his brain.

This set of facts are why my Gram gets so much credit for her senses. Mother thought it was a political statement when Gram sensed the bird’s name was Rick Perry. But once again, science bears Gram’s vision as dead on target.

The running in circles with a very small brain seems visionary fodder for my Gram.

Anyway, Rick Perry has bonded with Gram and keeps furting her by poking his snotty beak up her ass and making this noise that less resembles the sound of a, “Furt!” and is closer to the sound a flat tire makes just as it blows and shreds against the fender at 70 miles per hour.

So now Gram has Rick Perry on the same list as Rush Limbaugh, that’s the “Execute on Sight” list, and that means I’ve got the both of them hiding in my closet. Twenty-four hours a day except for excursions to potty and make mayhem. It’s a good thing the bird is flexible and can get out of Rushie’s door.

And speaking of mayhem, I’m sitting to the dinner table with the family last night and Gram says to me, she says, “Mooner, call yer young a-dult buddies Johnny and Sammy an ask em iffn they lik fancy red Fer-Raries.”

I almost choked on my Carta Blanca and sprayed a mouthful over my plate of enchiladas. “No way Gram. These guys are my buddies and I will not have you ruining their lives.” This I said with resolute firmness.

“Oh stop yer whining Mooner. I’m gittin a touch randy an need some fresh boys ta meet.”

Sweet mother of God, I pray for the young men’s souls.

“No way. And don’t ask me again.”

Then she takes a slug of her own beer and says, “Aw who gives a shit Mooner. I was jist fuckin with ya.” And she added, “Tha P-cubed an me is headin down ta tha Drag ta see what we can shake outa tha cracks.”

That means that Gram and her best buddy, Penelope Paxton-Parades, are taking Gram’s 550-horsepower Ferrari down to UT to troll for young adult males. More frightening imagery.

Sam Barnes and John Egloff, the aforementioned adult young men, have agreed to be my age appropriate consultants for their age group and advise me for all this webber and bloggie nonsense.

If things don’t get any better you can blame them.

But my ADHD is fritzing like crazy and I need to head over to Sprouts.

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Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Home Grown Tomatoes, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Sprouts Farmers Market | 1 Comment »

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

Monday, June 14th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Humor, Religion, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Sprouts Farmers Market | 4 Comments »

Dental Hygienists Sue Gram; Sprouts Has The Answer

Saturday, May 22nd, 2010

Gram is on the war path. I told you she has this new potion for curing gum disease she calls Ginger I’m Invitin Ya Ta Go Away, right? Well, it seems that the American Dental Hygiene Association got wind of the trials she was doing over to the research lab that Streaker Jones and I own, and they filed a lawsuit and got restraining orders to stop her clinical testing.

Lawsuit says that my Gram is, “Conducting illegal research and creating a Public Nuisance.”

Well fucking duh!

You ever meet Gram? That old leather saddle bag is a Public Nuisance. Half of Central Texas heads for the hills when they see her coming and the other half simply isn’t smart enough to know to run. Or maybe they’re new to town and just don’t know any better.

I mean really. Remember Granny from The Beverly Hillbillies back to the earlier days of TV? If you guys were to see a wrinkled old woman, that looked like Granny except extra well-worn, driving a bright red Ferrari downtown at 100 miles per hour- banging and pinging off everything in sight, wouldn’t you run?

But you would be astounded at how the men and boys, a few women too, are attracted by that damned car. Streaker Jones got it for her when she didn’t kill me this one time. She had to go an entire year without inflicting any serious damage to my person, which almost killed her.

Anyway, Dr. Kelly Keith is our dentist and Melissa is our hygienist and we love them both. They office in a nifty old house over to Red River near the University. We had to talk Gram down from going over to Red River with her shotgun.

When I asked her why she was planning to shoot my favorite hygienist, and hers, she said, “Hynie-geeners is as hynie-geeners does, Mooner. I cain’t be a playin fav-rits.”

That was the point when Mother fainted.

“Look Gram,” I tried to intervene, “Let’s make sure that Melissa favors this lawsuit before you start shooting.” Then I thought to add, “Jeff is pretty good at getting us Johnsons acquitted of murder charges but he keeps reminding me that we need to have justification.”

“Don’t you double talk me Mooner Einstein Johnson, I’m a lookin fer justice. I ain’t gonna shoot her, Mooner, just scare sum sense into her.” And then she added, “Einstein my rosy-red ass. I shoudda shot you when I had tha chance.”

Have I told you that Mother feints often? Well she does. Gram says she’s, “Got tha deli-cat sensor billies.”

That just cracks me up.

When I asked Gram how Mother can be so sensitive with Gram for a mother she says to me, she said, “Lookit, Mooner. Yer Granpa an me furgot yur mother up to Amarillo this one time when we came back from vacating. We stopped at the Pala Dura Cannon ta have a look-see and just left her. She always was a quiet one but she was a’feart a rattlesnakes and they was ever’where up there in them rocks.

“Back then it wuzza two day drive each way. Yur Muther was all alone fer five days inna cannon with them snakes.”

“I taught her ta play dead when she was ta see a snake and I guess her faintin is just her a playin dead. She got enuf practatin that one time to git good at it.”

Is it any wonder I’m so fucking crazy?

Explains Mother’s feinting as well.

Anyway, I was making my Saturday visit to Sprouts to get some fresh wild salmon, Carta Blanca and other fixings because the salmon was on special and you can never have too much Carta Blanca. OK, you can drink too much at one sitting but you know what I mean.

When I checked out I got Juli as my cashier, and she is one of my favorites. She’s got an ear ache from her allergies, poor thing, but she had some good advice when I asked how I could keep Gram out of jail.

Juli told me, she said, “Why don’t you get her distracted- you know, get her attention focused on something else.”

See why I like to go to Sprouts?

When I asked her how I might distract Gram, she said, “Tell her about the big fraternity party at UT. All of the frat houses are having their end of school party on the same night. Tonight. Everyone at UT knows your grandmother likes to hang with frat boys.”

I wanted to kiss her.

“I guess it would be inappropriate to kiss you, Juli.”

“Mr. Johnson, Harry has told all of us to keep our distance. You can thank me by not writing about me in your blog.”

And then she added, “I have my reputation to protect.”

Wait a minute. You guys all know that Gram didn’t mean Pala Dura Cannon, right? Gram was talking about Palo Duro Canyon, the half sized replica of the Grand Canyon up near Amarillo.

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Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Humor, Sprouts Farmers Market | 10 Comments »

Luigi Fulk To Review Mooner Johnson’s Blog

Sunday, May 16th, 2010

Holy shit guys, Luigi Fulk wants to review my bloggie! The world famous, renowned and eloquent Internet commentator wants to review our dealie here. As Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson would say, “Mooner, Luigi has good brain filters.”

That would mean that Luigi knows and can distinguish what is important from what is not, can say why the differences are so, and then Luigi can tell the rest of us what he thinks. Another way she would say it, she would say, “Luigi has a firm grasp on reality and can behave appropriately.”

Of course she would go on to say, “Unlike you Mooner, you inappropriate crazy redneck fuckball.”

Actually she doesn’t call me a fuckball to my face.

Last night, after I got the news from Luigi, I Googleated “Luigi Fulk” and spent maybe eleven hours reading some of his comments. Do you guys think maybe that Luigi Fulk is the name used by an entire company of commentators? Think about it. When does Luigi have time to sleep? He must spend every hour of the day reading and commenting.

Wait a second, it can’t be commentators can it? Maybe commentorers or in mod-speak it might be commentorz.

Anyway, he somehow managed to trip over one of my keynotes and I snagged him in my tangled website.

Shit, what if I am now offending Luigi because he isn’t a he? He could be a she and just a pretend he for safety sake or maybe he/she is even hiding from the law and not even named Luigi. Could be that Luigi is short for Luigianna or Louigisa or even Louigilamortacella. You know how Italians are with their long names.

Like Michaelangelo.

Shit again. What if Luigi isn’t even Italian and I’m now guilty of profiling because I’m a prejudiced prick?

Fuckballs.

Look, I don’t care if Luigi is he, she, it, was one and is now another- or Italian, Catholic, Baptist or even Scientologist. That’s a lie because I can’t tolerate anything about Scientology. But you get my drift.

I do care that Luigi is interested in my stuff enough to comment and contact me.

Of course when I told Gram about it she said, “Maybe he’s one a them poison pencil shitballs an he wants ta stab ya inna back.”

Then she added, she says, “I had me a night a good sexin with a Luigi this one time out to Marble Falls, Mooner. Or maybe his name was Joseppi or Ivan or Ricardo or it might was Gunter.”

When I pointed out to my grandmother that her confusion over the man’s name was confusing she said, “Aw, who gives a shit, Mooner, tha man was Eye-tal-yun.”

How do you argue with that?

Which brings up another problem because the e-mail address on Luigi’s comment is not active so I can’t get back to him that I would enjoy his interview and review. Maybe I’ve got a scammer spamming my bloggie with false hope of a Luigi Fulk review.

Or maybe Luigi is suffering from sleep deprivation from all of his commenting and he’s typographically errortizing his e-mail address and I’ll never hear from him again. I need a drink.

Thank God for Carta Blanca beer.

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Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Humor, Religion | 2 Comments »

Now Hiring; Cleaning House

Friday, April 16th, 2010

All righty now, let’s do a little housekeeping. It is Friday and half way through the month so I want to clear-up a few things with corrections and additional information to insure your reading pleasure.

First off, I am not a writer for the Chelsea Handler E! Entertainment conglomerate, nor do I write anything for anybody else. As my Gram likes to tell me, she says, “Mooner, if I’d a wanted ya ta put words in my mouth I’d a gargled with pig shit.”

Then she’ll add, “That wud leave a better taste in my mouth.”

Knowing where my Gram’s mouth has been- I think mayhap she doth protest way too fucking much. Like I would want to pen dialog for my grandmother. Imagine what words would have escaped old Billy Shakespeare’s plume had he encountered my Gram. He’d title it, “Lady Mac Goat Bladder.”

Gram and the P-cubed spent another weekend locked up to a dormitory over to UT. That’s the University of Texas at Austin for my out of town guests. Last Friday we were cutting some of the spring calves away from their mothers out to the ranch- Gram, Streaker Jones, SAC Ellen and I. The SACster had never been around cattle before and thought it might be fun.

Is fun for like maybe a half-minute until you see the look in those little calves eyes as you rip them from their Mommy’s breast. I mean literally from their breast. Gram kept telling me to, “Hurry yur shit up, Mooner. Stop yer grabby assin with Miss Ellen an grab them calves fer me.”

Then she added, “P-cubed and I got us dates over to the UT.”

When I asked her if the computer majors had called for an encore she told me, she says, “Nah, we’re takin tha car and lookin ta find somethin sportier.”

Sounded to me like she was taking her Ferrari to look at trading it for something faster. I told her, “Look, Gram, you don’t need anything sportier. What you’ve got is already more than you can handle.”

“Mind yer own beeswax, Mooner.”

Anyway, this last weekend Gram and P-cubed took the Ferrari down to the Drag to troll for some college men and ended their journey in one of the athletic dorms. Little did I know that she was looking for something sportier than computer guys. That saddens me deeply.

I love UT athletics and to think that she might have scarred the psyches of my football team, well that is just too much for me to handle. I did call Deloss Dodds, he’s the big-time boss man for men’s athletics over to UT, and I offered to pay for Dr. Sam I. Am to come over and help straighten things out. He said he’d think about my gracious offer.

As for my Gram, she’s had a smile plastered on her face that looks like it was branded on. And she keeps doing this cheer, she goes, “Hit um agin, hit um agin- harder boys, harder boys!”

Gives me the chills to think it over. And the drizzle squirts as well.

Anyway, next I need to talk about the lack of development here to the bloggie and attached webber site. Or is the attachment a reverse-ways dealie? Whatever, there has been no development other than my stumbling over the map locater that shows you where visitors come from when they click onto the map.

I was looking for a bed and breakfast place in Alpine, Texas for the SACster and me to stay when we drive out there in a few weeks. I’m clicking around with my mouse thinking I’m making reservations for the two of us for three nights- with the full breakfast option, and the next thing I know I’ve got the map locater and a visitor from Kathmandu.

So. I have spent weeks looking for one, or more, persons to help me with this stuff. You know, design a logo, finish construction of the website, and make the bloggie spiffy. I have interviewed numerous designers and graphic artsy-fartsies, but none have suited me because none has found me to be suitable.

I was bitching about it over dinner last night. We were having cabrito- that’s roasted goat, sweet bean tamales and Mother’s pan fried potatoes. That’s Mother’s one dish best done, regrettably, and we have it often. I bought her a semester to one of the big cooking schools but she has yet to enroll.

Why are women so hardheaded? I mean really, what is up with that? If the dish I cooked best hit the serving plate looking like dried pinto beans and chewed like granite gravel, I’d take myself some lessons.

No amount of salt or pepper or ketchup helps smooth the path for that grit.

But Mother did have a pretty good idea about my need for some help. “Mooner, why don’t you see if you can put your blog to some useful purpose and use it to find some nice young people to help you?” Then she added, “Use young people, Mooner. Students would be best. That will be a mutually beneficial relationship.”

See, a good idea, right. Students will have fresh ideas, they were all weaned to the computer and Internet, and they know what’s hip in today’s culture. And I can get students to work for less! I’ll let them use their efforts for class credit and I’ll give them credit here in ether space. I can help to promote their careers.

So consider this an invitation to apply for work. Tell your friends that I have some work and stuff. Maybe I can even use students for some product development.

Apply by posting a comment.

SAC Ellen asked me why I don’t just go to UT or Austin Community College directly to find student persons. When I tried to explain to her that I have been barred from those avenues of pursuit, she just held up her hand to my face, like a policeman does when he signals you to “Stop”, and said, “No need to go on, Mooner. I get it.”

I guess we two have been dating long enough for us to have that ESP thingie that couples sometimes get.

The camel toe posts have turned-out to be the most popular things to attract visitors here. That surprises me. I thought it would be my erudite dissertations on politics and religion.

Actually, anymore- politics is religion. Wait, maybe that should be politics are religions.

Since I wrote about camel toes, I’m getting approached constantly by women asking me to evaluate their pocket meat. I am A-OK with that so long as I can perform the evaluation you desire without the need for any actual touching of the evaluated camel toe. SAC Ellen approves of my evaluating with eyes only. No touching. Woman carries a gun girls, so don’t push the issue.

And this word to my gay friend Lloyd. You packing your Size 40 ass into a 32-inch Speedo does not produce a camel toe. So don’t be asking me for an evaluation. Even I think that’s a tad inappropriate.

Oh, and I almost forgot. The woman who was part of the great teaching team for bloggers is Nettie Hartsock- nettie@nettiehartsock.com and not the other Nettie. That one is Nettie House, Editor of Shit Happens, the newsletter for my compost trade organization.

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Posted in Apply Here To Help, Chelsea Handler, Humor | 5 Comments »

American Justice

Monday, April 5th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I really am funny.

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

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

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

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

“Oh, dear,” sighed Mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Look, I’ve got to go. I’m up.

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Posted in Humor, Moon Shows, Religion, Uncategorized | 2 Comments »