Posts Tagged ‘Republican Asswipes’

President Obama Is In Town!; Hot Cha Cha

Tuesday, July 17th, 2012

 

So. President Obama is coming to Austin Today. And the loonies are already out. I don’t know if this freakish phenomenon is exclusively a Texas sort of dealio or if the President’s visiting other places creates Halloween in July.

Here, assholes are going door-to-door in our poorer neighborhoods telling people that the President is coming to Austin to pay their utility bills, getting folks all hopped up for their leader to help them cover the costs of staying cool in this era of Global Warming. My guess is that these door bangers are a few conservative shitballs taking stupid to a whole new level.

Once word spreads over to East Austin that folks are fucking with their President’s reputation, the next dumb ass knocking on a door will be in for a shock.

Which reminds me. It was 98 degrees with 81% humidity today at 3:30 pm. That, dear friends, is a fucking shock. I’d been inside working on some business and when I walked outside to check on Gram, I almost feinted. I try to keep indoor temps at 73 and the humidity in the 20% range. Stepping into the sauna outside was like entering a weather-induced sleep apnea. All my breath left me, my mind went all fuzzy and my body gaped and gasped involuntarily, greedily attempting to grab a lung full of air.

In the distance I heard Gram’s voice, tinny sounding, tell me, “Ya look like one a them grumpy fishies out tha water, Mooner. Here…” and with that, she squirted me with the garden hose.

I must have been doing that fish-out-of-water dealie with my mouth. “Whatthefuck, Gram!” I felt the same shock as that one time Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and I were over to Sweden and ran between dips in boiling water and a hole cut in Arctic river ice.

“Are ya OK, sonny boy? Want another squirt?”

I held my hand up to say “No”, but Gram sprayed me again anyway. Our drinking water out here to the ranch is from a well dug deep, deep down into the soft limestone that forms the crust of most Central Texas geology. That water comes from the well at a constant 66 degrees, and when added to the mix of relative differences in outside and inside weather, it was the shock I needed to regain clarity.

“Thanks, Gram. I guess I needed that. Now I want you to come inside for awhile, you’ve been out in this heat far too long.”

I rarely worry about my grandmother as I think she’ll outlive us all. But a buddy of mine just put his mother into a partial care facility that houses old folks with early Alzheimer’s and mild dementia. His mom is Gram’s age and almost as feisty, but her incarceration was involuntary. She got all mean and nasty, and badgered her family to their breaking points.

I guess when you can’t remember shit, you can forget how to act as well.

I’m starting to think that the dementias—all of those maladies that waste our memory—might be the worst of all human conditions. As humans, I hold the firm opinion that it is the vastness of our memory that sets us apart from all other life. Reactions are genetic, as even one-celled amoeba have auto responses to stimuli. The farther up the cell structured ladder you climb, the more memory is added to control and influence reactions.

I know that most of the really smart people say it is the ability to reason that sets us humans apart, but I disagree. Almost all primates are proven reasoners and I met a snake this one time who could reason as well. We were down to Mexico one summer and Streaker Jones and I were out looking for some Peyote cactus. It was hot as hell and we sat on a pile of rocks to rest and hydrate. Stupidly, I was lounging back with closed eyes while lazily lifting the flat stones with the toe of my sneaker and letting them drop with a clunk.

“Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz… Bz-Bz.-Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!!!”

“Don’t move, Mooner, she’s a big un,” Streaker Jones warned.

I opened my eyes and saw the head and beady eyes of a rattlesnake with a two-inch girth swaying, daring, as she danced her warning at me. Then I head a dozen small “Bzzz’s” coming from under the rock. I had uncovered a nest buzzy snakes and, basically, screwed the pooch. Gram calls them buzzy snakies.

If you think about it, everything an organism does is a reaction to something. Our memories only serve to store data for future use in evaluating what reactions to make. Initially, Momma rattlesnake was reacting to my intrusion instinctively and I was reacting rationally, with thought. While my instincts were to run like hell, I knew from personal experience that Momma snake would have me pierced several times before I could get all the way to my feet.

“She’s a eying yur pecker, Mooner. You might ought’a wore some undie drawers this trip.” And with that, Streaker Jones started laughing maniacally. “It appears she sees a tiny one-eyed snake here to harm her family.” He laughed some more and finally, slowly, unsheathed his large hunting knife.

As careful as he was, the knife blade made a small “hiss” as it slid from the leather scabbard. The big snake swiveled, whipping her head to face the knife. And then something interesting happened. She sighed, A deep, breathy, mother’s sigh—the kind I hear often from my own mother when I disappoint her.

Her nostrils seemed to flare with the sigh and then her eyes softened and her body un tightened. Here head tennis-matched between Streaker Jones and me as she slowly recoiled and backed under her rock.

“Move yer foot, Mooner, slowly. I reckon she reasoned that she was in one of them lose/lose propositions.”

Me, that experience built a rattlesnake memory that will serve me at some point in the future. I’ll process it with the other rattlesnake memories lodged in the rock piles of my mind next time I hear a “Bzzzz” and my reasoning will, hopefully, be more precise.

OK, I have to go get my teeth cleaned so I’ll be stopping here. I’m unsure of what I just said about memory but I know I’m on to something. See you manana, y’all.

 

 

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Posted in Obama | 5 Comments »

Hitler Bashed Gays Too; Think, Republicans, Please Think

Tuesday, December 13th, 2011

 

So. Republican presidential candidates, I have a message for you. Enough gay bashing already. Your pandering to the lunatic fringes of the far right are getting downright nasty.

And stupid.

You had better be careful from here on out as gay folks, and supporters of gay folks, are starting to tire of your antics. My sister and her wife, my ex number three appropriately named Anna the Amazon, were over to dinner last night and the subject arose.

“Why are they targeting us as the cause of all things rotten in American society?” Sister asked the table. “You’d think that at least Newt the Gingerbread Man would stand up for his own lesbian sister.”

“Now don’t you be speaking ill of Speaker Newt, Sister,” the woman I find myself calling “Mother” said. As I mature and improve my mental health through extensive psycho therapy, I find myself wondering if this woman actually birthed me from scratch.

“What?” Sister was trying to maintain mealtime decorum but her eyes were starting to bulge from their sockets. “Are you going to defend a man who ridicules his own sister’s lesbianism when he himself fooled around on his sick wife and then divorced her as she was dying in the hospital?”

When Mother failed to answer, my sweet and lovely lesbian sister said, “Really, Mother? You will defend that lying sack of dog shit, that evil… fucking… man…”

Anna reached across the table and patted Sister’s hand. “Your mother means well, honey, she just doesn’t have perspective as we do.”

“She doesn’t have a fucking conscience except for what Pastor Browningwell tells her to think. That idiot at the church still thinks you catch homosexuality, like a cold. Jesus Christ, Mother, will you ever learn to think for yourself?” Sister was pissed but hurt too, as only a child can be hurt by a calloused parent.

“Yer mother’s a asshole, Sister, don’t pay her no mind. Now pass them taters and let’s talk about what we want Mooner ta fix fer Christmas dinner.” Gram has a way that usually kills talk on unpleasant subjects, but not last night.

“Look, Mother Johnson,” Anna began, “you don’t really believe all of that hooey that homosexuals make a choice to be gay, do you? Do you actually believe that I chose to fall in love with your daughter while I was married to your son?”

Now let’s take a short pause in the storyline at this point because I have often wondered about this myself. Not that I think Anna chose to fall in love with Sister while married to me, but all of the whys and wherefores of that dealie were quite confusing to me when they happened. Many gay people get married before either coming out of the closet, or recognizing they were in the closet.

Anna was one of the latter, and I wonder which Dr. Marcus Bachmann will turn out to be. Anna knew she liked girls but didn’t know she was gay until she met Sister. Sister was traveling in Europe for a year and was, therefore, not around when Anna and I courted and wed. Not that marriage to Anna wasn’t wonderful, but I firmly believe that I would have but nine ex-wives at this point if Anna had met Sister first.

Before dinner last night, my mother had a bunch of her Baptist church ladies over for “tea”[.] Baptist lady tea is not actually tea at all. Mother and her buddies consumed six pitchers of my world famous Margarita’s made with Hornitos tequila and fresh-squozed lime juice. I love saying “squozed” rather than squeezed. They also ate about a gallon of my garlicky guacamole with salsa we canned back in May.

The drought and super-high temps killed my garden this year and out tomatoes burned out in late May, a first.

Pastor Browningwell’s wife was there, Leticia is her name, and the six women all came in the big van the church uses to haul kids around. Margaret Jenkins was the designated driver and since Leticia was there, I doubled-up on the tequila in the drinks. Mrs. Browningwell was my Spanish teacher for several years of my schooling and we have a history. Yesterday was maybe the twentieth time I have gotten her shit-faced drunk and sent her back to the church. This time with a drunk’s nasty garlic breath.

A humble man seeks his pleasures as they find him.

I went out to the drive to welcome the ladies when they arrived. “Welcome to the Johnson family ranch, ladies,” I said. “Come on in and make yourselves to home.”

“Well, well well,” Leticia said, sarcasm dripping off each well. “Everyone get a good look at Mooner here, friends. God will be striking him down quite soon I think. Let’s hurry inside for some tea before the storm clouds move in.”

I have been somewhat sacrilegious lately in some folks eyes and I’ve caught some hell for it. When politicians use their supposed religious beliefs to beat and batter already oppressed people, I find myself thatwise moody. The word is “thatwise” right? The opposite of otherwise?

But I was in a fiesty mood yesterday afternoon so I said back, “Oh, Letecia Browningwell, you silver fox you. Why don’t you ditch that boring old preacher so you and I can make a run together. I’ve been in love with you ever since I was in seventh grade, and you a handsome young woman.”

The other ladies all giggled at that remark, so I thought to add, “You know you want me. How about I change my sheets and get the tazer gun charged up?”

Anyway, by dinnertime Mother was wearing a buzz and forgot to put on her tact. “You two listen here. You have absolutely no idea the pain I suffer at your hands, the indignations that I quietly endure because you two are queer.”

I told you the Baptists like to call gays queer.

“How do you think it makes me feel when everyone at church knows that my daughter is a homo (gulp) sexual, and now she is married to my (another, larger gulp with the first blobs of tears welling in the corners of her eyes) my… (gulp, gulp, deep shuddering) my heretical, embarrassing son’s third ex-wife?” This was followed by more gulps, whimpers and at last a big sniveling of Mother’s now snot-laden nose. “The third of ten ex-wives.”

My mother took a second to adjust the fitting of her cross, I guess it was hurting her wrists and ankles, then continued with, “Don’t you children ever think about how your choices effect me? I’m your mother.”

Let me interrupt the regularly-scheduled program here to make an announcement. My dear mother is not a bad person in the classic sense of bad people. She doesn’t rape or maim or kill or steal or lie to improve her own lot in life. She is actually kind hearted, honest and hard working. What my mother is though, is the worst kind of bad I think there is.

Mother is a blind follower. A person who does evil out of their acceptances of another’s preachings or dogma. My mother is one of the blind followers who believe things “just because”[.]

Mother is one of those people who have blind faith in something and refuses to be stirred by reason, logic, humanity or facts. Mother is an evangelical Christian and believes any fucking thing that Pastor Browningwell tells her to believe.

That, dear friends, is a belief system that mirrors—and precisely so—the thinking of Nazi supporters in the middle of last century. Millions of Germans persecuted millions of Jews and gays and communists in their blind faith of Adolf Hitler. Today’s Modern American Evangelical Christians are doing exactly the same things in their blind faith.

Don’t believe me? Go do some research and listen to or read some of Hitler and his cronies speeches on the subject of those groups. “Aberrations, mutants, evil, Devil’s workers” are all names and terms used in the 1930′s and 1940′s to describe the named abused groups. Those people were blamed for what was wrong with Germany the same as the Republican Christian right blames them now.

And guys, the rhetoric is getting the ratchet treatment now just as it was back then. Go listen to Rick Perry’s Iowa TV commercial and then tell me I’m wrong. Listen, if you can stomach it, to some of Michele Bachmann’s comments on the subjects. The strength of accusations is growing.

So again, I ask the Republicans to stop this bullshit.

Which reminds me. As you all know, the Squirt has been afflicted by three infections at once. Two broken-tooth abscesses now removed, a single infected anal gland and a hurt tooter. She hasn’t been what you would call sick, but she hasn’t been her usual chipper self. She’s been spending more time sitting than running and I’ve caught her napping often. So I bought my book, Full Rising Mooner, and put it on her Kindle so that she could read it.

She has agreed to do a book review when she finishes. She can’t believe that Clarion gave me four of five stars because, as only Squirt could say it, “Sie, Mooner, sind ein Arschloch.“

I guess that in the Squirt’s eyes assholes can’t get four of five stars from Clarion, and that reminds me of something else.

Hey, all of you foreign fuckers who come here every day to steal my shit—yea you, shitheads, you know who you are. Can you man-up just a little bit, and compensate me a touch for all of the content you steal from me, by purchasing my book. Click over there ====}}}} and link-up and buy one. It’s the right thing to do. The book is full of content you can steal, and I won’t be pissed at you if you buy the book.

OK, I’ve got errands to run and Carta Blanca beers to drink after. Manana, y’all.

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Posted in FullRisingMooner, gayrights, Squirt | 12 Comments »

Pope Delivers Stirring Speech; Old Queen Blesses Poor

Tuesday, December 28th, 2010

 

So. I hope everyone had a happy and a merry. We did and it was great. Too much food, too many gifts and too much Gram. Way much too much Gram. My entire weekend was, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner…..,” and then you fill in the blanks.

“…Fix us another drink…; …you got any more a them snail biscuits…; …I’m gonna shoot yer fucking pig iffn he gits near me…” And my personal favorite,”…Tell yer Aunt Hilda ta go with us. Come on Hilda, whyn’t cha go with me an tha P-cubed to tha Spoke. We’ll git ya a cowboy an knock tha crust off.”

Of course, Gram yins all of the yangs when she tells SAC Ellen, “Come here SAC lady an lemme tell ya sumthin. You hang onta Mooner real tight, cause he’s wurth it.”

Naturally that heart-warming yin came with, “A course tha case a tha ADHD tha boy’s got is enuf ta chap tha Pope’s ass.”

Which reminds me of the fucking Pope. Here’s what happened in Popeville this holiday:

The scene takes place in the Pope’s quarters in the Vatican a few afternoons ago. It’s a bone-chilling day in Vatican City as an unusual cold front moves in to frost southern Italy. Italian Republicans go on local TV shows and declare that the freak weather bears no connection to global warming.

It’s Christmastime, right, Christdom’s holiest of all holy days– the celebration of the birthday of baby Jesus. Pope Benedict knocks back a couple of stiff martinis to steel himself against the cold as he rehearses the annual “Peace and Good Will” speech Popes are required to deliver each year at this time. Catholics worldwide await the old queen’s divinely-inspired speech as if God Himself had placed the words in the Popester’s mouth.

At the five minutes to go mark, one of his handlers helps Benedict to his feet, assists him to the royal Pope dressing area and props him up in front of the big mirrors. “It’s very cold outside, your Eminence. You’ll need a warm wrap– do you have a preference?”

The look on the Pope’s face would confuse most outsiders. Me, I think he looks like he’s ready to pinch off a yule log and he’s eaten too much holiday cheese and salami the last several days. Other outsiders might think he was sucking on a lemon, but the assistant knows the look well.

“I understand it’s a difficult choice, Sir, but we need to hurry,” the young man says.

The assistant walks to the closet and points to a long wall on the right. There, arranged on thickly-padded hangars, sit half-a-hundred elegant outer-garments. “These are the traditional robes for this speech, sir. Might I suggest this little number?”

The man smiles as he wraps his arm around the waist of a garment and pulls it out for the Pope to view. “This one will highlight the rosy blush on your cheeks and won’t clash with your choice of Christmas gown.”

The Pope nods his approval and offers his shoulders to accept the long-trained cape. “Stunning,” the assistant almost sings. “Absolutely stunning, sir. Would you like a last sip of tonic before you perform?”

He did, and the assistant walks him to the big patio doors and then hands him the fine crystal goblet only half-filled with dry martini. When the Pope cast a sideways glance at the assistant, the young man said, “I’ll make another batch when you finish. You don’t want to be chilled.”

There was a knock at the door and a half dozen or so Cardinals enter, each dressed in the red finery that marks their position. One of these men looks to be the obvious leader, as he heads the pack into the room and is the only one who speaks directly to the Pope. “What is the message tonight, Your Eminence?”

“Provide for the weak, hungry and homeless.” The Pope attempts to stand taller as if practicing the speech.

The Cardinal is impressed with the Pope’s special ability to boil things down to their essence. He is also envious of the Pope’s attire. “You look especially grand, sir.”

Now all the lesser Cardinals remark in animated fashion, each attempting to make a more flattering comment than the last. The Pope loves flattery, but his nerves overwhelm his ego. “Quiet so I can think.” He says this with a flip of his wrist.

The Pope shuts his eyes, murmers a prayer and then crosses himself. Suffering an old man’s clumsiness, he bangs his elbow on the golden staff at his side and punches his nose with a huge ruby ring as he does. His eyes water from the punch.

“It’s time.” And with that, the assistant opened the big double doors. Led by the Cardinals, the Pope follows to his perch.

It was a beautiful speech, full of compassionate pleas for the nations of the world to dig deep into their pockets and provide support for the poor and starving impoverished. Halfway through, the wind starts whipping– cold and harsh as it knifes its way over the collar of his tunic and across his shoulders beneath.

The Pope shrugs against the incessant wind and reaches back to pull the lush ermine collar of his cape over his chilled neck. He pauses the speech and holds his head in a Popely regal pose– humility and grace in one gesture. The desired effect is to hush any talkers in the crowd to add impact to his final line conclusion.

 He delivers the last words and the applause and shouting start. He hugs the fur-lined robe tightly around himself, the robe like icing on his royal cake.

No Pope has ever been as well-dressed as I, he thought to himself. I must reward my assistant. He has a good sense of things.

That’s right. The most high muck-a-much of the Holy Roman Catholic Church stood on his patio and asked the citizens of the world to pay for support of the impoverished while dressed in rare furs and custom finery laced with silver and gold threads.

Sporting rings and bracelets and necklaces of fine gold and precious gems that were plundered from native peoples around the globe by the Pope’s predecessors, Pope Benedict, Queen of all Catholics, told us all that we need to dig deeper into our pockets to help the poor.

I have a Catholic friend who was raised a staunchly Catholic as a boy can be raised. I phoned him after the Pope’s speech and he answered with, “Don’t even start on me Mooner Johnson. The ermine cape was not a smart choice.”

What my Catholic buddy can’t see is that the Pope dressed in his best choice. The Pope did what Popes do. He made the most decadent impression he could.

It’s what Popes do for shitsakes. Just like with the other Queen, Elizabeth the Second of England, Queen Benedict’s loyal followers expect all that finery. Demand it even.

Me, I laugh at their ignorance and cry for the poor. If that old gasbag had a shred of pure human decency, he’d work at feeding the poor by returning the trillions-of-dollars stolen from the weak and unarmed over the centuries by the mighty Holy Roman Catholic Church.

But rest easy Catholics. The Pope is as delusional about world hunger as he is about pedophilia.

Squirt and I are headed to the Food Bank with a trailer of lettuce we just cut from the garden. After that we’re stopping to stock up on Carta Blanca beer and headed to see Streaker Jones and Dixie. They have a new mushroom strain that Streaker Jones says might make a natural substitute for the Haldol used in Loony Bins worldwide.

As I have experience with Haldol, I’m the Guinea pig.

Manana, y’all.

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Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Religion, Squirt | 1 Comment »

What the Hell is a YA?

Thursday, September 9th, 2010

 

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

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

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

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

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

Take last night, for instance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe she’s an author.

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

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

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

Am I wrong?

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

Then everybody starts opinionating and the conversation turned to shit.

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

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

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

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

How’s that for erudite?

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

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

They clapped, and I left.

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

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

Manana, y’all.

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Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Humor, Psychotherapy | 1 Comment »

DrLaura F-ball! MoonerJohnson F-ball?

Saturday, August 28th, 2010

 

So. I’m up early this morning and reading the Austin American Statesman, our local newspaper. I’m an old fart and I love the newspaper, as an actual pile of paper. I love the smell of it, the feel of the paper between my fingers and I adore my clumsy, fumbled attempts to fold its sections for my most comfortable reading.

I can read it sitting at the kitchen table, out on the porch, while sitting on the pot, driving the little farm tractor, on a plane or a bus or a train. I like to read it anywhere, Sam I Am.

Dr. Seuss’ Sam I Am, not mine.

I love washing the ink off of my fingers when I’m finished. I inspect my hands before each washing to see how much ink has stuck to me. Usually, the amount of deposited ink I wash down the drain confirms how much joy the paper gave me at that day’s reading.

Because President George W. Bush and his fuckball associates ruined our economy, my newspaper carries maybe half the weight that it had before. I enjoyed more pages of print, more stories, stronger smell and more ink down the drain before Bush crashed our economy with his silly war and blind eye to Wall Street.

I miss ignoring all of the ads stacked into a full newspaper, and I miss my investigations to determine precisely how an advertiser had managed to get me to read the few that caught my wary eye. With a four pound Sunday addition, a couple of ads would trip me up and make me read them. A two pounder can’t seem to manage an override of my efforts to ignore advertisements.

I love a newspaper printed on paper. I love everything about it. It is my source of news and information, and the place I gain insight about the world that I cannot obtain from my family and circle of friends. I don’t want to ever give it up.

This is a problem for me

I am an environmentalist. Not a saboteur-tied-to-a-tree-or-chained-to-a-rock environmentalist, but rather I consider myself as what I call a practical environmentalist. I understand that we can’t change ten thousand years worth of civilization’s bad habits overnight. I think we need a conscious, planned restructuring of wasteful and damaging habits.

However. My insisting that I read a paper newspaper that then requires me to waste water to wash ink into the drain- adding chemicals into our water system, is beginning to bother me. I have always justified this personal indulgence because of everything else I do that exemplifies my planet-saving mentality.

I became an environmentalist many years ago, when I first realized that we would run out of potable water with our wastefulness, and polluting, of every body of water and watershed on the planet. I’m somewhat of a water maniac if truth be told. Like my constant scoldings of automatic sprinkler system owners.

But I’m becoming torn by my justifications to break my own rules just because I keep so many more. Can I justify my newspaper habit because I recycle everything possible, and pee in the sink to save water? I think this is what Dr. Laura would call a, “Moral dilemma.”

I’m going to need some extra psycho therapy to work my way through this one.

And speaking of the good Dr. Laura….. Are you fucking kidding me? It’s 2010 you psycho right-wing religious shitwad. You preach your “always-take-the-moral-high-ground-and-do-the-right-thing” dribble day after day, and yet you feel free to pitch the N-word around like it’s your favorite new toy?

Shame on you.

Holy shit but my ADHD is fritzing my brain to distractions! I think I had a point when I started this bloggie dealie, and I better make it before I get off track again.

OK, let’s look at it this way. Is my justification for reading a paper newspaper the same thing as Dr. Laura’s justification for her idiotic usage of the N-word? Am I a fuckball- granted, a fuckball of a totally different nature from her, yet am I a fuckball like Dr. Laura just the same?

I think I want to puke. Is it too early for a Carta Blanca beer? I will be back when I finish mission incommunicado, y’all.

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Posted in A Life Lesson, ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Psychotherapy | 1 Comment »

The Cockroach Solution; First Amendment Yin Yang

Saturday, August 21st, 2010

 

So. I’m cruising over to the Sprouts there to the Arboretum, and I’m clicking through radio stations because Howard Stern is reruns on Friday and I heard all his shows this week. I punch AM 590 and get Rush Limbaugh’s voice saying, “And aren’t we glad we have the Internet so we can get the real news!”

Are you fucking kidding me?

Wasn’t it not so long ago when Old Hog Jowls was bitching about I-net news? He was complaining about how Internet reporters have no moral compass, nor are they accountable for the truth. Am I crazy?

OK, of course I’m crazy. Let me rephrase, “Am I imagining that Rushie has taken both sides of another fence?”

I find it repugnant that many of these so-called pundits consistently twist every story and circumstance to suit their ideologies for starters. But the real American Tragedy to me is that their followers seem ignorant of the ruse. And it isn’t just the right-wing religious fuckballs doing all the ruse’ing. We’ve got ourselves some rusers of the liberal bent as well, also fuckballs, and listed on the Mooner Johnson Fuckball Roll Call.

It isn’t what you believe that buggerates the ever-loving-shit out of me. It’s how you conduct yourself.

After I switched around some more, I heard some other numb-nuts talking about how our President is a Muslim and a foreign-born Muslim at that. Again, are you fucking kidding me? Get yourself a grip to reality for shitsakes.

Before the Presidential election, anti-Obama forces spent very significant economic and research assets to dig that dirt, and plant their seeds of anger. All of this, “He’s a Muslim and not American born nonsense,” is just that. Turns out to be sterile dirt and sterile seeds both.

But when do these guys ever let a little truth get in the way of their ruses? Maybe that should be rusi, or possibly russess.

Americans’ right to free speech, maybe our most important right, is a huge benefit that carries an opposite, and equally large negative. That balance is ignorance and blind faith. When the followers of a free speaker are too dumb to see lies, or so devoted as to ignore them, Rush Limbaugh is born.

Yin, and yang- a terrible thing to waste.

Which reminds me. I spotted a cockroach in a cardboard box when I went to my office this morning. We don’t have many bugs out to Mooners Compost Plant because of all the bats. Seeing the roach, thinking about the bats and thinking about this poker player named Jerry Yang reminded me that Colleen Lindsay is having trouble with palmetto bugs. You know- tree roaches, the big suckers. She needs to get some of our Mexican Free-tail bats from down to the Congress Avenue Bridge. Those guys will snatch the air clean of any insect. And they’re real cuties.

Anyway, I need to prepare for going incommunicado again, so this will be my last posting for a few days.

Manana de la manana de la manana de la manana and so forth until next weekend, y’all.

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Reader Questions Answered; Rush and Rick Still In Closet

Thursday, August 12th, 2010

 

OK. Seems that now might be the time to answer a few questions from viewer mail. When I decided to make the commitment of time, and energy, and the attention span necessary to do a webber and bloggie, I set some rules for myself. Maybe if you see my rules, they will answer some questions off the top. Here they are:

  1. No subject is off limits.
  2. Nothing is too inappropriate to discuss.
  3. Be willing to discuss subject matter that has painful roots in personal experience.
  4. Maintain personal integrity- tell the truth even in the face of public ridicule.
  5. Do not take a stand on any issue without having a well thought-out position.
  6. State pertinent well thought-out positions.
  7. Listen to and contemplate other points of view.
  8. Admit when I am wrong.
  9. If there’s a hard road- take it.
  10. Give credit- talk about interesting or smart or courageous people.
  11. Don’t have more than ten rules.

 

Now, I admit that anyone who knows me will say there’s nothing new in these rules. As my Gram put it, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. These rules is what we taught cha. Tell me sumthin I don’t know.”

I would also hope that any person writing a blog would adopt the same spirit as I have here, but the Pollyanna in me was raped and killed when I was an adolescent boy. I know that almost everyone else out there cares only about their own, pointed views. That’s one of the reasons I decided to do this. I thought maybe there might be an audience for somebody willing to be brutally honest.

Anyway, I have gotten many interesting questions and comments and this seems like a good time to answer a few. The first- “How can you have ten ex-wives who still like you, and now have a girlfriend of the high caliber of a Special Agent in Charge of US Department of Homeland Security?”

Well, that’s a tough one. My critics will say the answer lies in the overly generous Mooner Johnson Ex-wives, LLC compensation package each of the ten enjoy. New houses of their choice, alimony, free psycho therapy sessions with ex number one (that’s Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson), medical and life insurance are among the group benefits my exes enjoy.

Anna Johnson-Johnson-Johnson, that’s Anna the Amazon, is my ex-wife and is now Sister’s wife. That makes Anna family in a whole new way, so we have to get along. Sister is my actual sister, like Mother is my actual mother and Gram is my gram. Which brings up a very interesting point. Why am I not Brother, or Son or Sonny Boy? I’ve never been known by any names other than Butcher, Mooner or He’s A Disruptive Little Shit.

Several of my exes have been interviewed for print and TV, and basically what they say is that they took me with my flaws up front and weren’t surprised to be an ex in the end. That would be with the single exception of ex number one- Dr. Sam I. Am. She will tell you that I am her unshakable curse.

Personally, I credit my manly Johnson charm and pheromones.

Question Number Two. “You started life as a Republican. What happened?”

Well, that’s a tougher one than the first because I was raised Republican, but I have wiggle-waggled between major and minor political parties most of my mature, adult life. I was mostly Republican until maybe partway through President Reagan’s second term, when I started sensing the right-wing religious influences gaining power over that party. If memory serves me here, it was about the time that fuckball Rush Limbaugh was getting popular.

Rush Limbaugh the radio personality, not Rush Limbaugh the pig. The pig is one of my favorite people. And just to answer another question simply, yes, Rush and the ostrich Rick Perry are still hiding in the closet.

Since then, I have attempted to vote for the man/woman/dog based upon their platform. I voted for Kinky for Governor when he ran, and I voted for Reagan, and I voted for Dixie when she ran for Mayor. I voted against George W. Bush for Governor of Texas and for him as President the first time.

Yes, I did. Might have been the single stupidest thing I have ever done except for that one time I peed on a 220-Volt electric fence. I think maybe that’s why one of my balls hangs lower than the other.

But look, here was my flawed logic. In Texas, our Governor wields real power and I felt Georgie was dumb enough to screw things up. Plus, Ann Richards was a great Governor and I wouldn’t have voted against her anyway. However, since our President has limited power to start, and federal politics is so complicated to get things accomplished- I thought George W. was too stupid to screw-up our entire country.

So, I’m batting Zero-Point-Zero on George W. Bush voting.

Today, however, I will vote against any politician who presents clear evidence that he desires to insert his religious beliefs into my life using the power of political office. Here to Texas, that often requires me to seek a third party candidate to support, like Kinky Friedman.

Specifically, the Republican Party has become the political puppet of the Christian right. That is wrong. In my opinion it flies in the face of our Constitution. Again, I think Anne Rice got it spot on. The right-wing Christians have lost Christ.

Which is a perfect lead-in to Question Number Three. “What is it with you and the Baptist Church?”

Well…. this one is easier to answer, but more complicated to explain. Fact- I was born into a generations-old Baptist Family. Fact- I was raised with a minimum of two visits per week to a Baptist church until I was sixteen years old. Fact- Mother and Gram are Baptist tithers and supporters to this day. Fact- I have been Baptized twice in the Baptist church. Once when I was at age ten because I believed that baptism in the Baptist church was my only road to personal salvation. The second time was after I was molested by the Baptist Deacon Boy Scout Leader of my Baptist Church-sponsored troop. I sought the second baptizing in an effort to gain forgiveness for being such a bad person as to deserve getting molested by someone I trusted.

Fact.

At sixteen, I had been reading psychology writings about child molestation, gaining some sense as to why I felt responsible for another man’s horrible actions against me. Then, I had my first sexual experience with a female, the daughter of another Baptist Deacon. One night after an RA and GA meeting at church, this young girl showed me what her daddy had taught her to do for a man.

While we didn’t have actual sex, she performed other near-sex acts for me that I fully enjoyed. At least until she told me that her daddy had taught her, and then I felt even worse about myself.

But those things are background only, and in my mind allow me the authority to take my stand on the Southern Baptist Convention and its member churches.

It is the beliefs, as practiced by its followers, that I abhor. That entire, “I have the only way to heaven,” bullshit- the foundation of their church, that is what sets me off. Enough said?.

Question Number Four. Many have said, “You are crazy if you think I believe that you have dogs that can talk.”

Actually, this is not a question but like Gram always says, “Who gives a shit?”

According to Dixie, most dogs have language skills, but they lack an outlet for expression. She feels that I am so totally fucked up, with the ADHD and other stuff, that my brain provides a fertile environment into which she can push her thoughts.

Since Dixie herself is a language savant, we have made quite a team. Squirt, Dr. Sam I. Am’s adorable little puppy, is showing to be an able assistant and helper for Dixie. But the bottom line is this-

it’s OK if you think I’m delusional about the entire talking dog thingie.

To answer Part Two of Question Number Four, “Why does Dixie speak only with you?”, allow me to quote Dixie herownself.

“Mooner,” she’ll say patiently, “I have you.”

A simple yet eloquent answer. I wish I could express myself as simply as my dog.

I’m pooped with all of this explaining things for now. I need a cold Carta Blanca beer and it’s only ten-thirty. Which brings up the final question for today. I’ll start with the answer- No, Carta Blanca Beer does not sponsor my webber and bloggie. I wish they would, I encourage them to do so, and I feel that I would make a model spokesman for them.

It’s time for my first sitz bath of the day. Manana, y’all.

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Three Caitlins No Carta Blanca; Rick Perry, Puppet

Tuesday, August 10th, 2010

 

So. I was up to Dallas on business yesterday and had to miss President Obama’s visit to Austin. I drove up, leaving Austin at 5 am, then had to drive back to Austin in time for a dinner appointment. The need to drive back made me miss the President’s late afternoon visit to Dallas as well.

Since the Dallas trip was on a legal matter, the loss of opportunity to see my President in the flesh was a deeper cut than otherwise. Now is not the time for me to speak about the state of our legal system other than to say, “God bless the American jury.”

I’m a Democrat in most all ways, and I consider our current President to be my President, both because he is President and because I voted for him. But even if the Republicans still held that lofty office, I would have wanted to see McCain in the flesh. Because he would be my President. We Americans don’t have many chances in life to get close to a President to pass on the chance if we have it.

Governor Perry showed up to the airport to greet the President as he departed Air Force One yesterday, and politely clapped. Little Ricky wasn’t there to meet our President, he was there for publicity sake. That’s simply what politicians do, so I am not taking a poke at him for that action.

What buggerates the ever-loving shit out of me is what he used his personal face time to accomplish. With all of the issues facing our fine state wherein the President might help, our Governor handed a Presidential aide a four-page letter about border security. Like border security is our biggest problem in Texas.

See why we named our stray ostrich Rick Perry?

What about the sorry state of Texas’ education financing, mental health initiatives and feeding our poor? Oh, that’s right, except to insure that creationism by God is the only concept taught in our schools, none of these issues are important to our Governor. Our right-wing religious puppet governor.

Border security would not be a problem in any state if we eliminated our country’s biggest problem- that self same puppeteer controlling little Ricky and his ilk. Remove right-wing religious influences from politics, and we have no border security issues. Stop treating pot smoking with the same logic as used to eliminate teen sex, and our borders become safer overnight. Stop using the same methods of control attempted with the Eighteenth Amendment, and allow adult Americans the right to choose their past times, and smugglers will stop killing people.

Then, our borders become safer in one instant. Then, the only real concerns we have with our borders are those of rational immigration.

Just like with Prohibition, when whiskey smugglers became ever more sophisticated by the day, the Mexican cartels are always two steps ahead of government’s clumsy efforts to stop them. When a drug cartel can afford to arm their soldiers with surface-to-air missiles, while we still have trouble providing protective armor for our troops overseas, the government will be behind by at least two steps.

And just like with Prohibition, government efforts fail because the American people don’t respect those efforts. When will religious zealots learn that you cannot legislate morality? You fuckballs can’t even control the morality of your own preachers, for shit sakes. Your leaders stand in their bully pulpits every Sunday telling me to not commit the same sins they committed last night. And last Thursday morning in room 216 over to the La Quinta Inn there to IH 35.

Who are you fucking kidding?

During Prohibition, religious leaders thought they could keep people from drinking by outlawing drink, therefore making drinkers criminals. All they needed was more patrol boats, more tommy guns and more officers to patrol our borders and root-out local moonshiners.

But those massive efforts failed to stop the American people from drinking because Americans want to drink, and don’t think it is criminal to do so. After a few years, Prohibition was stopped and happy days were here again.

Yet here we are, one more once, attempting to impose religious morals on the American people in a situation that is identical in almost every way to Prohibition. A large percentage of our population wants to decriminalize pot, and feels no obligation to obey those laws. Like moonshine, pot is easy and cheap to produce, and the growing problem is moving inside our borders. A $1 million bundle of pot is smaller than five-hundred-dollars worth of beer, so it is simple to hide and smuggle.

The profits generated from pot smuggling are more significant than the the taxes available to fund border security and other anti-pot operations. I’m not an economist, but I will bet you that you couldn’t stop Americans from smoking pot if you allocated 25% of every tax dollar from every taxing jurisdiction in the country to stopping it. The more pressure you put on large production operations, the smaller those operations will become. Next thing you know, we’ll have 35 million home-grow pot operations to bust. It’s a weed for shitsakes- anybody can grow it.

And then we’ll need 35 million new jail cells to house those hardened criminals. Prove me wrong.

You cannot legislate morality when your morals are unsound. You will not mold me to your views if I do not wish it. Anne Rice got it dead-on straight: right-wing Christianity has lost Christ.

And speaking of getting somebody to do something they don’t want to do. Hell, I can’t even get Vivo to carry Carta Blanca beer and you want everybody to stop smoking pot. Plus, I have real economic reasons for them to do so. I would go to Vivo more often, and spend more money there, and tip wait staffers named Caitlin, or Katelyn or even Katelin an even bigger percentage, if they would honor me with even a small selection of icy cold bottles of Carta Blanca.

I know they have reasons for not offering me my favorite cerveza, but they don’t make the moral attempt to stop me from drinking Carta Blanca somewhere else. That’s because they have a logical reason to deny me total satisfaction, not a religious one. I hope it’s a logical reason and they aren’t simply trying to keep me away.

And get this- my Vivo there to RR 620 has three wait staffers named Caitlin! Different spellings, but you catch my drifting. Thank God they don’t look the same or I’d be in deep shit. I’d be calling Caitlin Katelyn, and getting everybody all pissed off for nor reason. Last Friday, we met Caitlin for the first time, but Katelyn stopped by to say, “Hello.”

Caitlin told us, “I’ve never before met another person with my name in my life, then I come here and meet two. What’s up with that?”

Indeed, what is up with that? This Caitlin is a pretty brunette, not blond, and is a grad student studying political science, and moved here from Tulane, where she was an economics major. Those facts make her smart in my eyes. But when I asked her about working the nifty patio at Vivo in the stifling summer heat, she said, “I love it.”

I love a steam room too, but for maybe fifteen minutes at a whack. Our Caitlin, however, was working like crazy in that heat and didn’t show the first sign of it. Me, I’d been there to the patio for three minutes and my balls are calling for a life raft. I endure the heat since SAC Ellen also loves it there to the patio.

Anyway, we drank our tasty East Side Margaritas and had the California Nachos with smoky grilled chicken. Those are the SACster’s favorites, the ones with the tiny sprouts on them. And our appetizer was queso and Vivo’s fantastic chips and salsa.

Yummy!!! You can check Vivo out at www.vivo-austin.com.

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 »

A Small Town Parade; A Bigtime Blunder

Saturday, July 10th, 2010

So. I wanted to tell you about the good time we had out to West Texas. The hurricane was blowing big bands of rain across the state, so it rained every day and most of each day. Not heavy downpours but enough to keep things cool and wet. I was the only one of our group who liked all that rain.

SAC Ellen kept complaining about her hair and her shoes and the damp linens in our room. The Squirt was unhappy because she loves the rain but doesn’t like when it splashes all over her cute little puppy titties. Her eight miniature boobies are her favorite feature but she’s built low to the ground. So I was required to carry a hand towel with me and my job was to wipe the wet crud off her belly and girl stuff to keep everything fresh and polished for her.

Actually, Squirt can be quite embarrassing when she shows-off her little naked belly with its eight miniature nipples. She rolls over onto her back and pushes her tummy out to expose her goodies. I know she doesn’t do it just to embarrass me and now that I’m talking about my embarrassment, I realize I need to schedule more psycho therapy.

How can I wave my bare ass around like it’s a flag on the Fourth of July and be embarrassed when a puppy shows her doggy stuff like doggies do?

Dixie bitched about everything but mostly she was unhappy about the unruliness of West Texas dogs. “No manners, Mooner. No manners at all,” she said, and often. The Dixter is getting a little long in the tooth and I think she is spending too much time with my Gram. The two of them are so cranky they could turn an old fashioned ice cream maker with nothing but their bad moods.

But I am willing to humor Dixie regardless of her crankiness. She has done so much for me that I will take anything she dishes out. I did tell her that if she was on her period that these unruly West Texas hounds would be her cup of tea, she told me, “My cup of tea- you are delusional.”

Which reminds me to tell you about the big parade in Fort Davis on the Fourth. It was everything a small town parade should be except for the right wing Republican Baptist Tea Party-supporting small mindedness of so many of the people. The biggest cheers were for any float that had anti-Obama slogans, or NRA Signs or Tea Party posters on them.

Which is the root cause for my comment in the last postie about how I’m glad to be dating a Special Agent in Charge for a major United States government crime enforcement agency. That would be SAC Ellen.

See, one of the things that you do in a small town parade is throw candy and toys and stuff to the kids on the parade route. We had adorned the big wagon I’ve had since I was a boy and dressed it up with red, white and blue bunting and a bunch of American flags. I decided to cut the seat out of a pair of old shorts and make a hole that exposed only my furry, “Happy Birthday America,” tribute. That way children would only see brightly painted hair and not any adult body parts.

Then, since the parade was full of horses and livestock, I couldn’t use the sparklers and Roman candles I had planned to hold along the route, so my hands were free. Sparkly fires and loud noises spook livestock. So, I decided to get some candy to throw to the kids but all they had left at the store was big bags of Almond Joy and Mounds. Full-sized packages. I bought all they had but if I threw a full pack to each kid- no way I had enough.

This made me wonder why it’s Mounds but not Almonds Joys.

Squirt came to the rescue and advised me to open the packs of two candy parts and I would double the count, a number of candy parts Dixie felt would cover us. Then SAC Ellen reminded us that we would be pitching naked candy to kids lining a dusty, dirty paved Ranch Road and in the rain. So we needed a solution to this new problem.

I quickly solved this problem because I’ve been getting one of my products ready for sale here to the webber and bloggie and I had an entire case of printed plastic baggies in my car. So, Thursday night we unwrapped and bagged maybe 500 Mounds and Almond Joys and put them in a box to carry on the wagon. SAC Ellen wouldn’t have anything to do with the whole candy deal saying, “Mooner, this is a very bad idea.” Each time I asked her why she just looked at me in that way women look at me when they think I’ve lost my mind.

“We’re wearing plastic gloves for shitsakes,” I told her. “Nobody’s touching the candy and the bags are all new-in-the-box.”

“Mooner, you don’t have a clue,” and off she went to shop in one of the cute stores.

The next morning early, we loaded everything into the trunk and headed down to park near the parade route next to the new Whole Foods Store where they have great food and coffee. This is not the same as the conglomerated Whole Foods headquartered up to Austin but rather a local bunch with a good idea.

The coffee they price by-the-cup at whatever the temperature is, so that morning a cup of coffee, good coffee, was $.69 plus tax. We sat on the front porch of the store from about 7 am until a half hour before the parade’s 10 am start- drinking good cheap coffee, eating pastries and reading.

When we unloaded the box of bagged candy to start the parade, I noticed that the trunk must have heated a bit in the sun so the candy had warmed to that stage where it hasn’t melted but it’s really soft and malleable. I opened one to see if they were OK and it was a little squishy, and it left a chocolate smear on my fingers, but it was fresh and tasty.

“We’re good to go girls,” I told my team. SAC Ellen helped me get the cute harnesses on the dogs and she drove the car to the end of the parade route to watch. I hitched the dogs to my wagon and took my place in line.

I should have known that things were headed South in West Texas when the first comment I heard was, “Shudda painted Obammie’s ugly mug on yer ass podner. That’s always good fer a laff round here.”

Now look, like I said before. Not everyone was a right wing fuckball. They were just the most vocal.

So. I’m settled onto my display perch in the wagon and the parade gets started. The two girls are doing their best to pull me steadily, but the two feet in height difference made things a little wobbly. I was throwing bags of candy with each hand and maybe squeezing them a little tight as I threw, so I knew I was adding a little distortion.

Have I told you about the first product I hope to have available? It’s called Republican of Texas Compost and the sample bags we used for the candy were for that product. I make this variety of compost as a semi-gag gift. The compost is made from nothing but organic chicken manure and it is actually a great product.

But for marketing purposes I label it, “Ingredients: 100 percent chicken shit. Uses: Like all good Texas Republicans it’s not good for anything.”

Turns out I should have taken SAC Ellen’s sage advice about the whole candy dealie. What I was doing, basically, was throwing bags of melted and deformed candy that looked like little milk and dark chocolate turds, the labels to said bags printed with a message deemed to be highly inappropriate, nay offensive, to the parents of the child recipients.

I’m just glad it was a short parade because I was unharnessing the girls and putting our stuff up before my latest act of stupidity caught up with me.

Drew quite a crowd though. Unhappy crowd and unruly to boot if you ask me.

So, this is why I love SAC Ellen. After letting me twist in the heated breeze made by a few hundred angry West Texas Republicans, she stepped in to save me. “Step back everyone, step back now.” Then she flashes her badge and says, “I’m a federal agent and I’m arresting this man.” And then, “Put you hands up sir or I’ll need to use force.”

That sounded like some serious foreplay to me so I said to SAC Ellen, I say, “Oh who elected you queen of me. I’m not doing anything but having a good time,” and I walked to the car with my back to her. I leaned into the back seat to strap the Squirt into her seat and, “ZZZZZAAAAAPPPP!”

She tazed me right between the “M” and the “E” in AMERICA.

Since it started raining and rained the rest of the day, it was OK that we spent it all in bed. The girls studied languages and later came to get us for dinner. We went to Alpine to eat at Riata, a solid eating establishment. As we waited in the bar, I had an interesting conversation with Martin Lujan, a graduate from High School in Alpine who was back for somebody’s graduation.

If I had any computer skills, I could type Martin’s real name, but you say it Mar-teen. He said that his family goes way back in West Texas and he gave me some interesting information about the area.

Martin is a former US Navy man and now a law student at The University of Texas. I told him that I usually do not like lawyers and I hope he wouldn’t become what most of them become- a giant flaming asshole.

He assured me he would not become an asshole, and the very attractive blond woman, who joined him after my group was seated for dinner, seemed to agree.

I don’t remember what everyone else had for dinner, but I had grilled pork chop, potatoes, a nice iceberg wedge with a tangy blue cheese vinaigrette, and of course, icy cold Carta Blanca beer.

Speaking of which, it’s CB Time! Manana ya’ll.

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

Tuesday, June 15th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I must have been thinking out loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I warned everybody that talking pig makes your nose run.

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

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

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

I am strong, aren’t I.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuckballs.

Thank God for Carta Blanca beer.

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Will Rush Limbaugh (The Pig) Come Out of the Closet?; Mooner Tells All

Saturday, June 12th, 2010

It’s Friday folks and time to clean-up a few loose ends. I’ll start by finishing the part about when I was over to the Barnes and Nobles and this one woman started a big scene. I know I broke my promise to finish yesterday but you just need to get over that. I’m doing the best I can with limited time and resources.

Besides, I’m not charging you yet and I think I have the right to disappoint you until you’re paying customers. If you are a Republican or a Baptist and that’s not acceptable to you, go fuck yourself.

As you recall, I was researching for Dixie in the kids section and the kids all started misbehaving and this one severely obsessive/compulsive woman had this book with the mug shots and criminal histories of all child molesters reported to be living in the area.

I think the woman is bi-polar, like Bi-polar Bob over to Shoal Creek loonie bin. It’s all ups and downs with Bob and I was sensing some of the same from this lady. Mental health professionals call the two extremes Manic, the upsies part, and Depressive, which is definitely the downers. These extreme mood swings typically last days and longer as the pendulum swings back and forth.

Not for this lady though, no siree Bob. This gal could go from sweet neighbor lady to the Devil’s right hand man in what seemed to me to be two seconds. Maybe less.

When she comes up to Bert Massey, he’s the head of security for the Arboretum, and holds a picture of Clovis Williams up to my face, the lady was all triumphant smiles and confidence. However, when Bert points out that said Clovis is nearly a foot shorter than me, and that I show no evidence of ever having a Popeye tattoo on my forearm, she went ballistic.

“He only looks six feet four inches tall,” she yells angrily. “It says right on the bulletin that he uses disguises.” Then she starts stabbing at me with the pen she’s holding. “Gotta be body putty or something stretching him out.”

Body putty?

After maybe a dozen pokes I took the pen away from her.

“Don’t you dare touch me mister. I know your not you, you’re Clovis Williams.” Now spittle is flying from her mouth so I know she’s off her medications. Bi-polar medications give you the dry mouth something fierce.

It would take seventeen properly medicated bi-polar patients to lick a stamp.

This I know to be a fact from this one time when I was locked up over to Shoal Creek. But, my ADHD is digressing us. Let me just say this about that. The new no-licky sticky stamps are one of those, “Why didn’t I think of that?” kind of dealies.

So. She’s being restrained by mall cops now and she starts staring at my shoes with her just arrived crazy eyes almost spinning in circles. If you know a bi-polar person you know those eyes. She says, “Check his shoes for elevators,” and then she starts snapping with her teeth and kicking and writhing around trying to get at me.

Now, let me take a breath here and explain something to you. I’m not that crazy, like this lady, but I am crazy. Having spent many months locked away to the loonie bin myself, I have a unique and experienced perspective on crazy folks. I always try to err to the side of compassion anytime I encounter one of what Dr. Sam I. Am calls, “Your people, Mooner.”

So I tell Bert, I say, “It’s OK Bert. You can let her go. She just wants you to listen to her. Crazy people don’t often feel well heard. I can handle this.” This is something I am sure about.

“OK Mooner, if you’re sure about this.”

I said, “I’m sure,” and he said, “OK,” and his guys let her loose.

She just stood there crazy-eying me for a minute, looking me up and down at the same time. It was like she had lizard eyes- you know where they kind of pop out and can move independently? Then both eyes latch on to the hemp tote bag that serves as my portable tomato kitchen and she says, “What’s in the bag buster?”

“Just my stuff,” I told her. “Not your business.”

I mean really, this was not her business.

Her eyes started that lizard dealie again, and then she says, “Make him open that tote bag Sheriff. He’s got kiddie porn inside.”

Now with her eyes doing that independent action she was looking at Bert and me at the same time, he and I answer at the same time. “I’ve/he’s got no warrant,” the I’ve from Bert and the he’s from me.

And then, again together, “And I’m/he’s not the Sheriff.”

“I don’t care whose who’s or what’s your problem, I’m looking inside that tote bag.” And with that, she grabs my tote by a strap and gives it a yank.

She was stronger than she looked so as I defended myself and the integrity of my private property, I yanked back and maybe just a little too hard. I pulled her clean off her feet, her still latched to my bag, and she smashed into me with my tomato-filled tote between us. I felt my precious reds get squished from the impact and felt a few squirt as vine ripened tomatoes will do when exposed to significant pressure.

When the lady pulled away from me still trying to steal my tote, her pretty white blouse was covered in deep red goo. Blood colored goo because of the mini plum bias to the varieties I was carrying that day.

The woman felt the wet through her blouse and when she wiped her hand across her chest and looked at the gatherings on her fingers, she screamed and said, “He stabbed me, somebody call 911!” and promptly fainted like an empty flour sack to the carpeted floor.

I opened my mouth to say, “It’s OK, it’s just tomato goo,” but all I got out was the “It’s.”

ZZZZZZZZZZZZAAAAAAAPPPP!!!

I love the smell of ozone and fried synapses in the morning.

One of the silly mall cops got excited and blasted me with his tazer. I came to in the back office area of the store with Bert looking over me as I lay on the floor with my head in the lady’s lap. Bert’s just shaking his head as I open my eyes and says, “Can you focus Mooner?”

“Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow,” is all I can muster. “Oh wow,” is all I can ever muster when I first come to after getting tazed. “Take my cell phone and hit #1 on the speed dial. Tell the woman who answers that I’ve been hit with a stun gun and I’ll meet her to the La Quinta near her office in thirty minutes.” That would be the SAC Ellen. She won’t pass on this opportunity.

Now the lady speaks up. “I’m so sorry Mr. Johnson, I had no idea it was you.” Then she eyed the boner that is the major attraction in the aftermath of all of my stunnings. “Would you like me to take you home and fix you a drink?” And then she whispered in my ear, “I’m not wearing any underwear- want a little peak?”

What a nice offer. “That is a very nice offer, Miss, but I’m spoken for.”

The crazy eyes came back and she started getting surly again when the manager walked in.

He surveyed the scene for a bit and then said, “OK Bert. I’ll take this nice lady out the front way and you take Mooner out the back and put him directly into his car. You, Mooner, will drive away and stay away.”

He helped the lady to her feet and as he walked her out he said to me, he says, “You are one disruptive asshole Mooner. Please stay away from my store.” And then after a beat he pleaded, “Please.”

“Stop whimpering Stanley, I got what I need for now. Just call me when my Jeff Hwang poker book comes in.”

“Someone will meet you at Sprouts to deliver it to you. I’ll let Harry know when it gets here.”

Harry is the manager over to Sprouts and my buddy. And I just checked the word counter and we’re at 1,600-plus words.

Fuckballs.

The 400-word limit is basically one double-spaced page with 12 point type. I guess I do four or more pages with each posting so I’m giving you an entire week’s worth of postings for the price of one.

What a bargain. But I do need to get back to the ranch and spend some time with Rush Limbaugh the pig. He’s been in the closet and I’m trying to talk him into coming out. Hiding in the closet is never a good idea especially when everyone knows that you are in there and why.

I asked Dixie to translate for me and she says that Rushie said, “Tell Mooner that Gram will kill me if I come out of the closet. Gram just doesn’t understand me.” Dixie speaks pig.

Actually, Dixie speaks the Southern United States Porcine dialect, which is our version of the original Chinese piggy speak. But like Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. I’m gonna Louie Louie that fuckin pig if he furts my ass agin.”

I hope Gram means she’ll Hawaiian luau Rush Limbaugh if he sticks his snout up her butt- you know roast him in a hot rock BBQ pit.

I told Dixie to tell Rush that Gram will be hurt and maybe angry at first but she will eventually get over it. Then I said to her, I said, “Dixie, tell him I’ll gather a support group and grill some ribs and sausage and make it a coming out of the closet party for him.” That hog does love his pork ribs and links.

Streaker Jones said he’ll come and SAC Ellen has said that she’ll introduce him and make a nice speech in support of his decision to come out of the closet.

It is a terrible waste of your life to live it cowering in the closet. I just hope that Rush Limbaugh can muster the strength to come all the way out.

Just hit 1,750 words and I need a Carta Blanca.

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Rethinking Memorial Day; Katlyn at VIVOS Gives Good Advice

Tuesday, June 1st, 2010

So, we were all celebrating Memorial Day, which in the USA is the day we pay homage to those brave men and women who risked their life for our country. I’ve got the big grill fired up and we have a goat, a full rack of beef ribs and a few dozen links of sausage smoking away. I use a blend of oak and hickory for most smoking but today I’m going to pop in a little bit of mesquite for the last half hour. It’s about noon and the day is heating up as I start this story.

All of the men got an early start- that would be Harry, from over to Sprouts, Streaker Jones, Woozie who would be Sheriff Wozniac, Gnat’s Special Agent in Charge who is her beau, chief Ruffled Feathers who is Streaker Jones’ uncle from New Mexico and an unnamed musician. We cracked the cold Carta Blanca beers at 7:15 am, Harry started pouring Hornitos shots maybe at 8:05 and Gram gave us a little pick-me-up at 9:00 sharp with a new BBQ potion she wanted us to test drive for her.

To her magic mushroom tea base she added liquid smoke, squid ink and some other stuff she wouldn’t name. When I asked her what else was in the little bottle she said, “Girl’s gotta have her a touch a mis-tree bout her, Mooner.” That’s how she put it.

When I asked her what she was going to name the new brew, she said to me, she says, “Cain’t decide. Gonna be Burn my meat an I’ll kill ya, or maybe it’ll be Smoke my meat not my grass.”

I suggested Burned meat will smoke your ass, and she whacked me with the big wooden spoon in her hand and said, “Mooner, who told you to stick yur pointy snoot inna my bidness?”

Anyway, like I said, it was noon and the men folk were gently buzzed and enjoying the day off. Since we also had a touch of the munchies, I fast-grilled a few sausage links and cut them into big chunks. Placed them on a long oval platter with a mound of the cold-pickled veggies I like to make. Wait, it was a pile of chilled cold-pickled veggies. I make the pickled veggies without cooking them in the brine.

Think rings of onion, jalapeños sliced in quarters, cucumbers, carrot, celery, eggplant (yes eggplant and from our garden), radishes, and some other stuff. This batch was heavily dilled with dill plucked from our garden. Ask and I’ll give you my formula.

Beside the platter was our fresh picked cherry tomatoes, all Sweet 100′s, which I halved and marinaded with coarse sea salt and black pepper, basil from the garden and chunks of Maytag blue cheese. The marinade was lemon juice and this Greek olive oil I like.

So, we’re standing around and eating from the platter and bowl of food using toothpicks to spear bites. I’ve got a work counter built by the grills and the platter sits in the middle with the men standing around it. We each have a frosty bottle of Carta Blanca and they make those nifty water rings on the tile surface of the counter when we set them down. I always sit my beers down in spots to where the water rings resemble butt cheeks.

Streaker Jones says that’s me doing some brand marketing.

I like to stab a chunk of onion, meat, tomato and cheese onto a toothpick with my right hand and hold a spear of jalapeño in my left. Two-fisted eating is a manly endeavor and common practice at these events.

Then what Streaker Jones said next is the reason for the moral of this blog posting. He said to the group, “Fellas, don’t cha rekkin tha Germans anna Japanese anna Iraquis an even tha Taliban has gotta right ta have a Memorial Day?”

“What the fuck, Streaker Jones!” This in unison from the rest of us.

“Think about it an git back wi me,” Streaker Jones said to halt further discussions.

I started to say, “But…”, when he cut me off with, “Mooner, I said ta think furse.”

Which reminded me that last Friday we went to the VIVOS Mexican place over to RR 620 near US 183. I took SAC Ellen there for happy hour so we could sit outside and enjoy one more afternoon before it gets hot. She wears a bullet-proof vest and professional suit to work and it just gets too hot for her to sit out after the first of June right after work.

Our server was Katlyn who closely resembled the SACster except younger and with nifty tattoos. I love tattoos. Katlyn made numerous suggestions and we had a nice chat with her. We got Eastside margarita’s because they don’t serve Carta Blanca beer, an oversight which must be corrected. We got a small cup of queso- especially good here at VIVOS, and something called California Nachos. The nachos had avocado and alfalfa sprouts on them.

“Alfalfa sprouts,” I barked. “I’m not eating my nachos with a fucking hay bale on top.” And with that I downed my drink in one gulp.

I motioned Katlyn over and ordered another with two shots of Hornitos and told the SACster, “OK, I’ll eat your damned rabbit food. But now you’re the designated driver. No more drinks for you!”

I’m thinking, “Take that!” to myself. I liked the thought so I said to her, “Take that!”

I might have said it a touch loud.

SAC Ellen said to me, she says, “Mooner, after you lower your voice you think about why you feel the sprouts are a bad idea. But shut up about them because you can always take them off if you please.”

God I love a woman with clarity of thought.

I really had no good reason to be sprout prejudiced and I ended up picking some sprouts from SAC Ellen’s nachos to bolster the roughage on mine. The added flavor made the nachos taste clean and rich. And I almost forgot to mention VIVO’s salsa. It is unique and I think it is flavored with onion juice.

Their salsa is rich and sharp flavored. Oh yea, and their chips are top three in town.

Anyway, having recently been required to think before sticking my feet in my mouth over the nacho dealie, I was able to apply that lesson to Streaker Jones’ comment.

I guess what he was saying is this. The virtue of heroes lies in the eyes of their beholders. Or said another way, can a man be a terrorist to me and a hero to you? Did you also win exclusive rights to honorarium when you win a war? Is it our might or our viewpoint that makes us right? If I ask you to honor my heroes should I honor yours? Can I honor your fallen heroes without showing support for your cause? Are brave acts less brave if you fight for a bad cause?

Fuckballs.

This discussion put me in a terrible place because I truly believe that every man has the right to have his own values and to think whatever he chooses. And as long as he doesn’t infringe on others he can practice his preachings in safe harbor from me. But I think you lose your right to breathe clean air if you want to force others to think and act as you do.

And I really don’t like you if your forcing is based upon religious beliefs. See, that’s when I can’t distinguish a Muslim extremist, who wants to shoot me dead, from a Baptist asswipe Republican who wants to poison my brain with his religious Kool-Aid or kill doctors for performing elective surgeries.

My grandfather fought in WWI and Daddy was in WWII, the Korean War and some other stuff. Sam I. Am’s father was a WWII pilot and her mom was a WASP- one of those amazing women service pilots in WWII. My appreciation for all of them is not lessened because they didn’t die in service and I honored them yesterday as well.

You don’t need to be killed in a war to suffer a death in your heart from the fighting. Every person I have known who fought in a war saw no glory there. But every one saw the necessity to fight.

Now that I think this through, I also realize that many of my American heroes were fighting for their religious beliefs and not just for Freedom. They fought for God and Country. So, if I was to prejudice my thoughts against one religious-based hero I would need to adjust my support for those I was honoring yesterday.

Which reminds me. I am sure that somebody else has already thought of this, but I want to rename the Religious Right and call them the Religious Wrong. It scorches my butt when they represent themselves to be all for personal freedoms while they kill our true rights at every turn.

I need a beer.

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Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer, Home Grown Tomatoes, Hornitos tequila, Humor, Religion | 4 Comments »

Respect Thine Ownself (Part 9)

Tuesday, May 11th, 2010

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

And then she added, “And you stink!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I could try to be nice.

Or I could take a bath and brush my teeth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Respect administered from the one person who most respects me.

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

So- fuck Rick Perry.

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Posted in Environmental Issues, Humor, Moon Shows, Psychotherapy | No Comments »

Poker Players Alliance; Republicans Stomp On Individual Rights

Thursday, April 15th, 2010

I was going to wait on this one, but Poker Bonus posted a comment and spurred me to do it now. As I hope I have made clear to everyone, I do not like my government officials ruling my life while they are under the influence of their personal religious convictions. This nonsense seems like the norm here to Texas and maybe worse that most of elsewhere.

I am a member of the Poker Players Alliance, which is the amazingly professional trade organization for supporting the right all American People have to play poker. The PPA is working to fight much of the silliness and misinformation and politics that inhibit/prevent adults from enjoying poker. Poker as either a recreation or as a career.

You will notice that I use “American People” often in this post and you will see why later.

The rights of adult American People to play poker is under attack by right-wing Christian-backed, mostly Republican, legislators at the National and State levels. Based upon their personal religious thinkings, these lawmakers are trying to force the American People to live by the supposedly-Christian standards as preached by said lawmakers.

I say “supposedly-Christian” because in a search of the Bible, you will find not a single mention of poker. I happen to think that Jesus and the band of twelve played some ancient form of poker on those lonely nights they spent on the road.

But, of course, you might say, “Wake up, Mooner, poker is gambling and the Bible prohibits gambling.”

OK. First, the Bible does not prohibit gambling- maybe it says gambling is foolish, but prohibit it absolutely not. And second- if you think poker is gambling and has its results based strictly on “Lady Luck”, let me gather a few of my professional poker player buddies out to the card room to the ranch. Bring your paycheck and let’s just see what luck has to do with it.

Last fall the PPA sponsored a letter-writing effort to demonstrate poker players support for favorable poker legislation in the US Congress. I always participate, so I sent letters to my Representative, Lamar Smith, and my two Senators, Hutchinson and Cornyn, each of whom is a Republican. My letter explained to them the good sense it makes to support the legislative actions I recommended, and likewise the silliness in not supporting a particular law Bushie Boy pushed through.

To a one, I received the same basic response containing the same infected strain of infectious, diseased logic. I will discuss said responses in context of the letter, dated September 2009, that I received from Congressman Smith. In this letter, he tells me why he supports existing legislation that was designed to prohibit Internet poker playing. And remember that this is some kind of party line concocted by the Republicans to respond to the hundreds of thousands of PPA letters.

He says that the Internet has illegal gambling operations, which I am sure is true. As a matter of fact, that is precisely why the PPA is working to get smart laws enacted to provide known, legal poker sites where the American People can play responsibly. Safe, legal sites and with taxable sales and reporting.

If you are worried that adult American People are in some kind of danger playing at unregulated poker sites, providing regulated sites only makes sense. Right?

I guess not, at least according to my federal elected officials.

Let me quote the most telling of his remarks. You know we poker players love our “tells”. When he justifies his position to attempt to prohibit poker playing, Representative Smith says:

“I supported the enactment of H.R. 4411, the Internet Gambling Prohibition and Enforcement Act, in 2006. It has been estimated that this law reduced the weekly use of the the Internet for gambling from 5.8 percent of college-aged youth in 2006 to 1.5 percent in 2007.”

Huh? Are you fucking kidding me?

If I understand you correctly, Sir, all the justification you need to deny adult American People their rights is to have a perceived reduction in the “youth” population? Really, are you fucking kidding me?

OK, look. Let’s forget about the fact that he doesn’t provide the source for the statistics that his silly law produced a 75% reduction. And forget about the fact that he had to find that specific narrowly-focused statistic to drive his point. Notice he didn’t quote anything about under-18 youth, or mentally-challenged adults, that kind of almost-meaningful statistic.

Let’s also forget that he is talking of a reduction in college-aged youth. Let me think that one out- college-aged is what 18-22 years of age. Or 32-years old in the case of this one nephew of P-cubed who attends Texas State down to San Marcos.

Rep Smith classifies American People who can vote, drive and serve in the military as youths, but not as young adults.

Republican asswipe.

But in the interest of fairness, let us assume that this man got it right. That when the Legislature denies adult American People the right to do something, it will cause significant (75%) drops in under-age use/consumption of same. Where I come from, 75% is significant. And let’s assume that this reduction in itself is all of the justification we need to enact stupid, rights-restricting laws.

If I follow this line of Republican thinking, we need to enact any law to prevent adults from doing things if it significantly reduces abuse by our youth.

So, since 70% of all nineteen-year-olds have reported that they have been heavy drinkers, if we prohibit and enforce adult consumption of booze, we can reduce the percentage of heavy drinking youth by 75%, or down to 17%.

Holy shit folks, let’s have us a Prohibition. What a great idea!

And let’s move on to teenage driving. Teenage drivers aged 16-19 get 52.7% of all speeding tickets and have 61 accidents per 1,000 drivers annually. So, therefore, let us ban adults from driving and and then teens will only have 13% of the speeding tickets and 15 accidents per 1,000 drivers.

Hoo-yaa! Side benefit- fewer policemen on public payrolls. Hippity-hoo-yaa!

Wait, what about smoking? An incredible 34% of all high school students (actual youth) admit that they smoked last month. Outlaw adult smoking and what do we get- an amazing reduction down to only 5.7%.

Sign me up because I already think smoking should be outlawed. Why doesn’t the Bible prohibit smoking? If God really wanted to have these boys legislate for the betterment of the American People, he’d of said, “Commandment Number 11- Thou shalt not smoke tobacco.”

OK, childhood obesity. The US CDC says that 60% of American People who are children are obese. The main reason- improper diets. I say let us outlaw adults eating fast food, pre-packaged meals, soft drinks, candy, Twinkies, and any of that stuff. That will automatically reduce the obesity rate our American People who are children down to an even, very cool 15%.

Easy prohibition to enact, easy law to enforce.

Wait. Let’s not ban Twinkies, OK?

But here is the scariest. If we follow the Republican logic to the most important Christian issue, we get ourselves quite a conundrum. Of all American People under the age of 18 years, 74% of the females and 82% of the males admit to having been had in a sexual encounter. And an amazing 33% of the females had at least one pregnancy.

Soooooooooooooooooo. If Representative Lamar Smith will please sponsor a bill to prohibit and enforce adult abstinence from sexual activities, our teenage sex participants will average not 78% but rather a paltry 18.7%. And most important- under 18 pregnancies will plunge to but 8%!

Just think guys. All we have to do is give up our right to have sex and our kids will gain huge benefits.

Oh wait- what fucking kids? I can hear Governor Rick Perry’s public interest ad now, “Save a child’s life- don’t have children.”

I just love logical thinking.

But actually I can see one real benefit from banning sex. That means we would have a 75% reduction in shithead radical Christian terrorists killing and intimidating medical professionals and others who support a woman’s right to choose.

In his October 3, 2009 News Release, quoted here as posted to the website of the Right Reverend Representative Smith of the Texas 21st District, this fine American Person says,

“The role of government should be to loosen the bonds of restrictive regulations and punishing taxes, which lead to decreased economic growth, which leads to fewer jobs, lower wages and higher consumer prices. Policies should encourage job creation in our communities, not in Washington D.C. Decisions about our own lives should be left to the American People.”

Rep. Smith goes on to say that, “The Democratic Party is built on the sand of envy and jealousy and lack of trust in the American People. Republican principles stand on the rock of freedom and opportunity with faith in the American People.”

Really? If you stand so rock solid on my rights, then show a little faith in me and stop stomping on my freedoms.

My Jesus thinks this particular Republican is an hypocritical shitball. My Jesus thinks the American People should be free from the actual perspective rather than this crazy Republican’s imaginary “rock of freedom” bullshit.

Rocks in his head are the only thing Smitty is rockin’.

I hate government intervention in any area of my life. But I know that in order to have a “civilized” society, we need laws and regulations. But our government needs to stop burying us ever deeper into religious-defined moralities.

Leave poker alone! And join the Poker Players Alliance at www.theppa.org/join as soon as you can.

And by the way. If you can find a faulty thread in my logic I would like to hear from you.

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Posted in A Life Lesson, Poker Players Alliance, Religion | 9 Comments »