Posts Tagged ‘Squirt’

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.

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.

More Jury Woes; Squirt Helps Mooner (Part 3)

Sunday, June 27th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For shit sakes I’m tearing up now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bon appetit!

Are Two Sarah Palins Too Many?- Jury Still Out (Part 2)

Friday, June 25th, 2010

OK, let’s continue our discussion of my jury duty experiences. When we left off, I had avoided potential conflict at the X-ray stand, the numbered paddle problem had been exposed and I had already been admonished by the Judge simply for being there.

And that would be when my phone started ringing. “Oh for crap sakes Mooner, turn your phone off.”

“Sorry, your honor,” I muttered. “It’s a new one and I can’t quite figure it out.”

“I told him at least twice your Honor.” This fussily said by the jury rustling fuss budget.

I fumbled with the off button and put the offending electronics back into my pocket. This phone distraction got me off the hook and the Judge says, “Next.”

Number 26 stands with his raised number 25 paddle and says, “I’m number 26, your honor and my name is…”

“Oh for shit sakes Mooner, will you trade paddles with that man so I can get on with this?”

“Objection your Honor,” this from the Prosecutor. “This man, number 25, has intentionally disrupted the record. He held a number 26 paddle while representing himself to be number 25. I move to strike his testimony and arrest Mister Johnson for mal intent.”

I’m thinking to myself, I thought, “Mal intent. What the fuck is mal intent?”

Maybe I should try to stop thinking to myself because the judge says, “Mooner, stop cursing in my courtroom and let me handle this or I’ll pitch your rosy red ass into my jail. I have experience with that, don’t I Mister Johnson.” That last part was statement not question.

Then he said, “Objection overruled Mister Prosecutor- irrelevant. He means well but trouble sticks to Mooner like ticks on a deer’s belly.” He added, “Now let’s move on.”

We traded paddles and the judge went all the way through the rest of the numbers without incident. The judge starts back in on his speech about how jury duty requires you to be honest and answer questions under oath and that he can pitch your rosy red ass into his jail if you tell lies. I know that this threat lacks any actual teeth because so many people tell so many obvious lies and their rosy red asses do not go to jail.

Me, it’s not my lies that get me locked up. It’s always the circumstance. And circumstantial evidence.

Anyway, the Judge is about five minutes into his speech again when my fucking phone goes off. Again. “I am so sorry Billy- I mean your Honor. It’s a new phone and I can’t figure it out yet.”

“Bailiff, would you please remove the battery from Mooner’s phone for him?”

He did, but under my watchful eye to insure I could figure how to put it back later. And we get back to the silliness that the judge has to go through as part of the voir dire jury selection process. Those silly words basically mean “truth telling” in French, and it is used to see if potential jurors might be prejudiced either for, or against, a particular party in a legal action.

Why are most French words so silly sounding? I think if I was French I would feel compelled to wear frilly dresses and speak my French with a snotty nose and phlegm-clogged throat.

Again, prejudice has no place in a courtroom. Except, of course, for the attorneys on both sides of the isle- prosecution and defense alike. With the exception of my guy Jeff, I think I might hate all lawyers. I say might only because I haven’t met all the lawyers.

I bring the bias part up now because bias raised its ugly head right at this point. “Your Honor, I wish to approach the bench.” That would be the Prosecutor.

“OK,” from the Judge.

A snippy announcement, “I would like to call number 25 to the bench for a conference.”

The judge says to me, he says, “It’s show time Mooner but I am warning you. If you drop your pants and wave your ass in my courtroom I’m authorizing the Sheriff Deputies to shoot it.” He then turned to the two armed men watching over things and told them, “If this man waves his bare ass at me, I want you to shoot to kill.”

Everyone laughed but me as I walked to the podium known as the bench. The prosecutor starts in on me right away, “Allow me to cut to the chase Mister Johnson. You have been arrested and charged with murder more than once, right?”

What the fuck is this all about?

“What the fuck is this all about?” I waited a beat and he replied, “Just answer the question.”

Now me, I have already been sworn in and promised to tell the truth, which does not require a promise from me, but I know I need to be careful what I say and sometimes the truth can hurt.

“I plead the Fifth.” Take that asswipe.

“Your Honor, will you instruct him to answer.”

“Answer him Mooner.”

From me, “The Fifth.”

“Did you know that this is a murder case?” The Prosecutor.

From me, “I do now- hell everybody knows now. Did he kill anybody I know?”

“Lower your voice, sir. Now, can you tell me why you should be allowed to participate in a murder trial when you hold the District Attorney, my boss, in such low regards?” He says this and folds his arms in that “got you” posture small-minded men use.

“Just because your boss is a brain dead Republican right wing religious fuckwad doesn’t mean I can’t render fair judgment for another man who is assumed to be innocent.”

He was looking at me with this stupid look on his weaselly face so I added, “Maybe I mean presumed innocent.”

Then my ADHD started this fritz dealie it does when I get angry and I had dozens of thoughts spinning in my head all at once. “Hold on just a minute and let me sort out my thoughts,” I told them.

After some short period of time the snotty Prosecutor blinked and said, “Come on Mister Johnson you are giving the wheels of justice a flat tire.” And then he turned and snickered for the audience.

“I have an idea Mister Assistant District Attorney,” I said.

“And that would be?” he inquired.

“You go fuck yourself because I plead the Fifth.”

Normally, this is where I would lower my pants to half mast and display my tastefully-coiffed butt hair, currently plucked and dyed to say, “Happy Birthday USA,” in red, white and blue. Like I told you the other week, SAC Ellen and I are taking the dogs, Dixie and Squirt, and meeting some folks out to Marfa for July Fourth. I’m going to march in their parade and the dogs are going to pull me in a wagon. This particular parade route is too long for me to waddle backwards with my head between my knees, so I’ll be pulled in the wagon this time.

I love parades.

I left SAC Ellen in charge of our accommodations for this trip and you would think we were planing a trip around the world. I have never heard so much conversation and cogitation required to book three rooms for three nights in west Texas.

“It’s Marfa and Fort Davis for shit sakes,” I said this one time after she had spent several hours on the phone with various hospitality people. “You grill those poor people like you think they smuggled a weapon of mass destruction into your territory.”

I think maybe my attitude cost me a sexless night but I always stand up for the little guy.

And I am digressing. Basically, the Prosecutor did not want me on this jury but the defense did. So this Assistant District Attorney is trying to grill my ass in front a courtroom full of nice people and the defense attorney is doing nothing to stop him. The Judge, of course, takes a neutral stand because that is his job and he harbors at least a slight bias towards me hisownself.

I won’t bore you with all the details of the discussion, but the Prosecutor’s argument was basically this. “How can you, Mister Johnson, provide an unbiased ruling in this case when you have been accused and acquitted of so many crimes, including murder?”

My answer, “I can do that by setting my bias aside and factoring your case against the accused tempered with the defense presented by this other lawyer. And since I have a very clear understanding of what, ‘beyond a reasonable doubt means,’ I will, thereunder, render fair and impartial judgment.”

“But you are biased by your experience, Sir,” was all he managed to get out.

“Well fucking duh. Of course I am,” my clever response. “Is it not that lifelong experience coupled with my promise to be fair and just that qualifies me to be a juror?”

Now the Judge is paying attention. “Stop preaching and go sit down Mooner. The Prosecution deserves you for poking his stick in your cage.”

When I took a deep breath to continue my sermon, the Judge stopped me cold. “I said sit!”

I sat. I got several pats on the back and “Atta boys” from my fellow prospective jurors- rewards for a job well done. I started thinking about things not courtroom related and the next thing I know, I’m debating that, if I absolutely had to choose, whether I would rather have sex with the Sarah Palin lookalike from down to the security station or would I choose the actual Sarah Palin.

Would I prefer a 300 pound-plus local girl with a cartoon of the Alamo and my autograph on her ass and who looks like the politician, or would I instead be more desirous of the actual lunatic right-wing religious fuckball with nice skin and who seems to maybe have a dirty side?

See this is a debate because I would have sex with either of them if I liked them because I do not judge books by their covers. Which reminds me that I need to get the cover designed for my book. I have been letting that slip and need to get it on schedule.

Anyway, it seems that my not paying attention to the live action and thinking about having sex with the two Sarah Palins had turned into a dream in which the two Sarahs were fighting over who got to have sex with me. I was at the point in my dream where I say to the girls, “You don’t need to fight over me girls, there’s plenty of Mooner to go around.”

I hear a voice that says, “What did you just say?” to which I repeated the part about not fighting over me.

That’s when everything unraveled on me. But I better stop right here before I offend the blog word count police again.

Let’s all have a cold Carta Blanca beer and a slab of homegrown tomato. More later.

Water Wise Sprinkler Hints; Dixie Writes a Book

Wednesday, May 26th, 2010

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

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

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

Which is the root cause of my consternations.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dixie and Squirt (Part 5)

Tuesday, May 4th, 2010

First of all allow me to apologize for making a mess of yesterday’s post. My ADHD does not seem to work well with my body odor and I fritzed the first page and didn’t post it. I caught the mistake this morning and corrected it. I think.

Anyway, if you read yesterday’s post and it seemed like you were walking in in the middle of a conversation- you were. Please try again.

March To Respect- One Man’s Struggle For Appreciation is making no headway. I smell so bad that I can’t even get the flies to land on me. I’m desperate to feel the touch of another living anything that I am actually disappointed that I can’t draw flies.

I’m pathetic.

I’ve been sleeping in the loft out to the barn and now all of the animals have moved out. Dixie said the milk cows told her we might as well burn it because they won’t go back inside. The big bison got pissed at me yesterday and started a run to butt me. I was preparing for the blow but he came to a skidding halt a few feet away. He snorted and shook the tears from his eyes a skulked away.

I am seriously ripe.

My new tactic is that I’m not going to sign any checks until I get the respect and appreciation I so richly deserve. Like my Gram always says, “Ya want their tention Mooner, hit um inna wallet.”

In this morning’s phoned-in psycho therapy session, Dr. Sam I. Am told me that real respect isn’t for sale. “Who gives a shit,” I told her. “I need a bath and some red meat.”

We’ll see how this works.

I got a call from Dixie so she could brag on how much progress Squirt is making to her language studies. If you recall, Dixie is teaching the little shitbird to talk and she’s using this method she developed. It’s this intensive immersion in multiple languages at the same time. We’re in the Beta testing stage with the Squirt.

Once we get the bugs out, I think we can get a contract with the State Department to sell them a license to use the teaching method. Anyway, Dixie is just all overjoyed and excited and wants to put Squirt on the phone to talk to me. I told her, “Put her on but she’s got to make it quick. I keep passing out every time I fart and I don’t want her feelings getting hurt if I lose it and don’t compliment her.”

Dixie said, “This is important Mooner. Keep your shit together.”

“Fine,” I said. “Put her on.”

I hear the phone rustling on the other end and then I hear, “Buenos dias, monsignor Mooner, ach tu lieber ich nacht un der underwear?” Then I hear the silly sounds of two dogs giggling and, “Nic nic shooooosh whoosshhh and so are you!” Then more dogs laughing.

“Very funny Squirt. You have learned to disrespect me in four human languages and if I’m remembering correctly, Japanese yew. Very clever, I’m just so proud of you,” I told her.

Whatthefuck. I’m paying for both ends of these lessons and they make fun of me. See what I mean about this respect business. However, I will not cave in and say something to strike back.

When they stopped laughing long enough to catch their breath, Dixie gets on and says to me, she says, “How about that bear’s ass boy? We got us a talking dog!”

That’s all I remembered when I woke up on the dirt floor of the barn. I was dreaming of honeysuckle and roses when Gram woke me up with her bullhorn. I must have passed out and fell face first with the phone still in my hand and hit a pile of horse apples. I’d been dreaming with a face full of horse shit.

Folks, I stink so bad that horse apples smell like honeysuckle and roses to me.

I need help. And a cold Carta Blanca beer.