Streaker Jones « Mooner Johnson

Posts Tagged ‘Streaker Jones’

Pope Still A Queen; Tries To Ruin THKSGVNG

Wednesday, November 24th, 2010

So. I’m not feeling very much of the Thanksgiving spirit. With the bad economy, all but one of our business enterprises is in a down year for sales. The only thing that’s up is Dixie Johnson Limited, L.L.C. That’s the umbrella company that handles my dog’s career. Dixie won a European Grammy award for an album she made to help rice farmers improve their crop performance last year, and the boost record sales got from the award boosted profits for us.

But everything else is down, business wise. I know that work stuff isn’t the most important thing in life, but for us, the work stuff is more than just work. Lower sales means lower profits and that means lower bonus pools for employees. As a staunch believer that employees are any business’ most valuable asset, this stinking economy has punished my employees in a very unwarranted way.

Then there is the hidden downside of a bad economy. Like many businesses, Johnson Family Enterprises, and all of our affiliated companies, donate a percentage of our gross profits to various charities and research groups. In bad times like these, the less fortunate suffer even more misfortune. It’s heartbreaking.

And the Pope. Let me see if I can get this straight. It might be OK for a male prostitute to use a condom to prevent the spread of AIDS, but it’s still not OK to use condoms for birth control. Did I get that right?

That silly bastard is more concerned about protecting priests from getting infected by their boyfriends than he is for the masses of followers who blindly obey his silly edicts.

And the debate surrounding this potentially life-changing announcement is comical. One side says, “This is a monumental shift in policy that will have far-reaching benefits to Catholics everywhere.”

The other side says, “This is a cataclysmic shift in policy that will bring the Apocalypse.”

Personally, I think the Public Relations Department over there to the Vatican has been working overtime to think of something to help mitigate damage on the priest rapist issue. In an effort to avoid taking full responsibility for the raping of their followers, they throw a bone in sheep’s clothing into the public arena.

OK, maybe that metaphor was a bit remote to be effective. A reference to a stiff pecker cloaked in a sheep intestine condom used as a Trojan horse might require a brain as fucked-up as mine to follow.

Anyway, fuck the Pope, and fuck anyone who thinks the Pope is special.

I do like his dresses though. Both his and the other Queen, Elizabeth. Those two kids don’t know what a smock even looks like. I still remain convinced that they are twins that were secretly separated at birth. From the look of things, their tailors were twins as well.

Anyway, I’ve got to get my head straight before morning because I’m cooking for the fifty, or so, that always manage to wander their way to our Thanksgiving dinner. This year I’m doing the Cajun deep fried poultry thing, featuring turkey, but frying ducks and a goose as well. We always start festivities early in the morning, when I fire up the grill and smoke sausages and quail and venison outside, and Mother and Gram make pancakes in the kitchen.

This year will be special because SAC Ellen is making her family secret recipe French Toast. When Streaker Jone heard about the toast, he flew up to Vermont and brought back a barrel of fresh maple syrup.

“I like tha one what comes from trees livin onna Canadian border, Mooner. Got better balance.”

I think Streaker Jones is right about that since he’s always right about everything. I used it to make a maple syrup basting glaze for the smoked meats that is, as Gram likes to say, “Worth killin fer.”

When I told her the expression is, “To die for,” she told me, and not too kindly, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner? Iffn you don’t skedaddle from my kitchen I’m gonna kick yer scrawny butt.”

Which brings on another holiday puzzler. What am I going to do about Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry? How can I make room at the table for my pig and ostrich yet hide them from Gram?

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

Tags: Streaker Jones
Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, gayrights, Religion, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig | No Comments »

Unintended Serialization; Dilemma’s Double Indemnity- Part Two

Wednesday, November 17th, 2010

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

Like what I did to you yesterday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Manana, y’all.

Like what I did to you yesterday.

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

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

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

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

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

Manana, y’all.

Tags: Gram's sex drive, Streaker Jones
Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Psychotherapy, Squirt | No Comments »

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

Tuesday, November 16th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuckballs.

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

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

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

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

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

Tags: Gram's sex drive, Streaker Jones
Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, selfpublishing | No Comments »

#ColleenLindsay, Still Hero; #MoonerJohnson, Crybaby

Friday, September 3rd, 2010

So. I have been debating the wisdom of sharing the coming topic for the last two weeks. I’m actually proud of myself for keeping it to myself for this long, and I’m debating whether I’m ashamed of myself for feeling compelled to speak of it now.

I have always been a manly man- proud, dependable, thoughtful, stable, human. I have endured many hardships throughout life without many complaints, and I have suffered many fools without killing any of them.

OK, without killing any of them on purpose.

I get that I can be whiny and act like a baby at times when I’m hurt, plus I also get that I speak my mind almost every time something bothers me. And I do understand that I get hurt often and bothered always.

If you got your pecker caught in a zipper would you cry like a baby?

As for all of the bothers that bother me, imagine if you had, let’s say three, individual trains of thought working their way down the tracks of your synapses, all at the same time. Right there you’ve got three times the bother, right?

My brain has been tested and shown to hold as many as twenty separate and distinct thought patterns simultaneously. They measure that by scanning your brain to see which parts are active. The software was written to detect a maximum of twenty brain wave patterns because no previously tested individual had shown more than four separate thought patterns. Basically, I am that rare character who uses his entire brain to think.

But the bother to that lies in the fact that, rather than focusing all of that wattage on a single thought, my entire skull is filled with myriad, disparate thoughts, none of which receive enough attention to be well thought out. If you don’t have my kind of ADHD, you simply can’t understand what it’s like.

Why that bothers me is, well think about it. What if you used 100% of your brain rather than the typical less than 15%, and you were still dumber than a rock? What if you utilized almost seven times the normal person’s brain power and you still screwed things up all of the time?

What if you had started this bloggie posting with the intention of praising Colleen Lindsay, and before you knew it you’d spent 400 words crying like a baby because you have ADHD?

Look. At dinner last night, I was talking to the family about what I wanted to say in this posting. Mother and Gram were there, Gnat came solo, Dixie and Squirt, Streaker Jones, Sister and Anna the Amazon came over, and Sheriff Woozie Wozniac dropped by to serve me a summons.

Woozie always tries to serve me with my summonses on a Thursday night. For as long as I’ve been alive, Mother has cooked her famous mashed potatoes and cream gravy for Thursday dinner. And the Sheriff loves Mother’s, as Gram puts it, “Taters n gravy.”

When he stops by on a Thursday night, all he eats is that. He plops a giant pile of potatoes in the middle of his plate, and pushes a big cup into the center with the serving spoon he uses to eat. The potatoes look like a fresh white cow patty that someone stepped in. Then, he carefully measures the gravy to ensure he gets a potatoes-to-gravy ratio of 3-to-1, based on volume.

Then, he consumes the pile one serving spoonful at at time, and each trip of spoon to mouth is accompanied with a swallow, and a, “Mmmmmm, Mother Johnson. These ‘r mighty fine vittles.”

After maybe the first dozen spoonfuls, I’m ready to kill him with my fork, and Holy Shit guys, I’m digressing the undies off us all. Make that re-digressing us to nakedness.

My point is to say that Colleen Lindsay is one of my heroes. Check her out on Twitter to see why.

Me, I’ve been sitting on hard wooden benches for the last two weeks (not wooden benches in a church), and I feel compelled to tell you what’s bothering me. I wish I could stack myself up to Colleen’s height and suffer quietly, but I cannot. And here’s the deal.

Remember me telling you about the significant infection I had in the non-colon-non-prostate parts of my ass? The parts that lie between anus and coccyx? Remember me telling you that 80% of all sufferers of the malady healed without further problems, but that 20% developed fistula?

Me, I’m a twenty-percenter.

I was talking about it to the dinner table last night, and attempting to describe what it looked like. I kept trying different descriptive words and analogies, none of which seemed just right.

Since Gram had inspected it for me just before we sat down to eat, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Just write that it looks jist lik that Crack Yur Toe Jam volcano over to Iran. Ya got tha one big ‘ruption, an then there’s them three little crates offn to tha sides.”

OK, for starters let me interpolate. What Gram said was that my ass looks like the Indonesian volcano Krakatoa with lava bubbling from three smaller craters on its sides.

To boil all the bullshit out of this, I have an active fistula, and I will need major surgery to be rid of it. That means stitches and donut-ring seat cushions and sitz bathes and drainage and pain.

I have been trying to stop feeling sorry for myself and be more of a man about this, but I can’t seem to shake the dread. I want to be like Colleen Lindsay, but I don’t know how.

I want to talk to her to find the source of her strength and grace, but I won’t bother her with my bothers. I’ll just suffer in semi-silence and keep you guys posted.

I’m gonna need more Carta Blanca though.

Manana, y’all.

Tags: Streaker Jones
Posted in A Life Lesson, ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer | No Comments »

Mexican Jails and Carta Blanca Beer

Friday, August 27th, 2010

So. I just got back from being incommunicado for the week, and I will be required to be so, again, from Sunday through Thursday next week. I’m not supposed to tell you what I am doing, but I’m dying to do so.

OK, I’m squirming in my pants to tell you.

I’ve been thinking about how I can tell you what I’m doing in some fashion that won’t get me into any trouble, but will provide you with hints that will tell you what’s what. Like some kind of a word-gram dealie. You know, where I write a quick story and you find a key to know what words to write on paper to get my message.

The problem with that is I’m too tired from answering questions to write something as complex as a word-gram.

Then, I thought maybe I’d tell you some parable, you know like Jesus does in the Bible, or as I think other religious high muck-a-mucks do in their Holy Books. But I haven’t been able to think of any story to tell about a guy who spends inordinate periods of time listening to men in suits say terrible things about him while he is required to sit and, “Look confident and un-fazed at all the nastiness.”

Another option might be to do a crossword puzzle with a complex solution that tells you what I’ve been up to if you turn it a certain way when solved. But I would be bearing false witness, and standing in your judgment as a liar, if I said I was smart enough to do a crossword puzzle of any kind. Much less one that might provide clues if turned in a clockwise rotation of 136 degrees.

I did try to write a crossword puzzle this one time when I was in jail down to Mexico. I didn’t have any paper, so I was scratching it onto the walls of my cell. The walls were old fashioned stuccoed adobe with a fresh whitewashed finish. I was using a nickel I found in the lining of the jacket I was wearing when arrested to draw my boxes and to write.

My major problems with the endeavor were my ADHD and that entire obsessive/compulsive thingie. My clue questions were so long and detailed that I’d used up an entire wall of my cell by the time I got to Number 6 Across. Then, all of my erasures for corrections started to flake off the stucco, and that got me pitched into solitary for attempted escape.

I don’t like Mexican jails or the law enforcement types that run them. So I stay away from that border. In fact, I have a 100-mile rule and the navigation systems on all our vehicles have alerts programed into them whenever they get within 150 miles of Mexico.

Ever been in a Mexican Jail?

I couldn’t take the dogs with me on this mission incommunicado, and I missed them like crazy. And mostly the Squirt more than Dixie. Dixie has been spending most of her time with Streaker Jones, but Squirt has been keeping me entertained with her constant chatter.

Which reminds me. I was asked this question that made an especially nasty accusation about Streaker Jones. It pissed me off so much that I forgot my decorum and I answered, “Let me answer by saying this, fuckball. How about I tell Streaker Jones what you said and that you called him Mister Jones?”

Should have maintained my decorum.

Anyway, Squirt is asleep on the chair next to me and she is adorable. She snores like my ex-wife Ingrid, you know Ingrid right. She owns Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium and provides me with the ass art I use in my moon shows.

Made the mistake of telling Ingrid that she snores like a bullfrog. A few days later I asked her to pluck and dye my ass to look like George Washington crossing the Delaware River for this thing I had down to City Council.

Imagine my surprise when I saw the TV report to the Nighttime News and realized that Ingrid had instead plucked me to show two dogs attempting to couple.

My ass looked like a pink poodle trying to mount a lime green St. Bernard.

But we made up, and had Ingrid sex. And let me say right here and now, that Ingrid sex was both fun, and dangerous.

Look, I’m beat and I want a cold Carta Blanca beer. I’ll get all rested-up and try to do another bloggie posting before I re-incommunicado.

Manana, y’all.

Tags: Streaker Jones
Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Squirt | 1 Comment »

#colleenlindsay- Hero; Mooner Lied

Wednesday, August 18th, 2010

OK, so I’m a liar. The dealie that was to make me incommunicado has been delayed a week. Of course it wasn’t delayed until after I was already there. Now, I will be incommunicado all of next week because I have to go back. Which gives us time to discuss a few things.

I am still waiting for your entries into the bloggie contest, and I am especially awaiting responses from #colleenlindsay and #americacalling with special bated breath. That pound sign business is my attempt to twitterate Colleen Lindsay and Calling America, and get their attention.

Colleen is a publishing professional with many years experience and who is living the life experience of cancer. She is living cancer in real time and on Twitter. I admire her attitude and frankness and I think we could be buddies. I know who she is, specifically. Her name, her photo is posted to Twitter, and she makes comments about herself. From all of that, I get a feeling that I know her.

And please, don’t start that dog person/cat person crap with me. I don’t have any cats, only a dog. But that isn’t because I don’t like cats. Gram always said that cats are more trouble than dogs, and I bought in to that shit. Dixie is more trouble than any of my ten ex-wives, and cats are so aloof I bet I could ignore my cat and it would be happy.

So, I figure I know Colleen and that we would get along famously.

America Calling is another dealie entirely. What I am certain of, is that they have a Twitter account and that they started following my bloggie and my new Twitter stuff. I know that they, like Colleen, post voluminous numbers of tweets on a daily basis. I know that, contrary to Colleen, their tweets reflect a distinctive anti theme. Anti to Democrats, liberals, President Obama and many of the values I hold sacred.

I don’t know if they actually write anything or express any views. But I do know that they make conservative comments about events, and provide reference to articles and situations they think support/express conservative views. I know that they sound as angry about our President as I am about brain-dead conservative right-wing religious fuckballs. But they don’t have a face to see, like Colleen’s.

I guess what I might be attempting to say is, “I know what they are (probable right-wing religious Republican or Tea Bagger fuckballs), but I don’t have a name or face for Calling America.” Maybe they are a bot. You know- some mindless, soul-less computer program with keywords as triggers. Like a mean spirited HAL 2000.

Like some evil Republican locked a poor computer genius in the basement until he created this content bot. Then, he flew the computer guy back to his native China, or Malaysia or to the Ukraine or wherever, and sicked the bot on Twitter World.

Then, all of that leads me to think that they chose to follow my rantings for some reason other than to support me. Maybe they consider me to be a threat to the American Way, like taxes for education. Or maybe one of them is a closet liberal and he snuck me onto their follow list over to Twitter.

But like my Gram says. She’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Iffn they follow ya, they’s followers.”

Now, I don’t mean they follow me like lemmings. If that were the case, I’d be leading them to this tall cliff I know out to Lake Travis.

I know it is supposed to be “sneaked” and not snuck. But it should be snuck.

When I read Colleen Lindsay’s tweets, I get lessons to remember if I become afflicted with a malady more significant than infected anal glands. While I am a truly manly man, I’m told that I can be a crybaby. I’ll remember Colleen’s battle and try my best to follow her lead.

Speaking of ass glands, remember I told you I took a cell phone photo of my recently-incised wound? The one that made me faint. Well, my new phone, the one I got after I fell into a swimming pool with the last phone and the same one I used for ass photos, is quite sophisticated and has a great camera.

Sister and her wife Anna took my phone on their trip up to Yellowstone last week because their digital camera was down to the shop, and my cellular takes great photos. Sister is big on taking pictures for nostalgia sakes, and Sister is quite nostalgic.

Anyway, I got my phone back when the ladies returned last Friday, before they could show their vacation pictures to the family. When I returned home early Monday, we set Yellowstone show-and-tell time for after dinner Tuesday night. Sister and Anna, Streaker Jones and Gnat, Dixie and Squirt, Aunt Hilda and Dubbie J, and SAC Ellen all gathered with me to the TV room after dinner to see the photos from the amazing National Park.

Dinner was fried okra, stuffed zucchini squash and cucumber salad- all made from our garden’s crops, and broiled catfish from one of our ponds. And Carta Blanca beer. Wait. The catfish were from our pond, and then I broiled them.

We all get seated and Sister hooks my phone up to the TV with the RSTLNE connector, or whatevertheshit you call those cords, and starts flipping through the pictures. She starts in reverse order since that was quicker than backing all the way through. Sister also knows that she needs to get straight to things or my ADHD is liable to sidetrack events.

So. The first is a picture of the two wives hugging at the airport in Austin when they got back home, followed by a picture of the two of them hugging at the airport up to Wyoming as they were getting on the plane to fly home. Then we had the rest of their trip in reverse order- maybe 200 photos. Roads, deer, bison, bears, birds, trees, campsites, mountains, campers and shit, the two lovebirds that are my sister and Anna, and each over-and-over-and-over again.

This trip was right after that bear attacked those people awhile back, so bears were a central theme. I was starting to lose interest when Sister said, “We’re almost to the end,” and this picture hit the screen.

“What’s that, Sister?” asked Anna. “I don’t remember that.”

“Huh,” Sister replied, “What the hell is that?”

Aunt Hilda said, “Dubbie J thinks that looks like one of those apes from back to Africa.”

Gnat said, “It looks like the dark brown shag carpet on the floor in that rat nest apartment I had in Moscow.”

Then Gram pipes up, “Looks lik sumbody shot one a them black bears inna ass an dumped im onna side of tha road.” Then she added, “I heard they caught that crazy bear. Serves im right, but that’s one ugly wound..”

This is when I woke from my daydream and looked at the picture. “Oh my,” I gasped, and fainted dead out.

I know you are wondering why I didn’t delete that nasty picture of my ass from my phone, so I’ll tell you why. You know that I try to be a better man at every opportunity, and this is one. I’m going to look at that picture every once in a while until I can look at it and not drop like a pair of wet Jocky shorts.

But if I’m going to loan my cell phone to people, I need to remember to warn them.

Anyway, I will try to keep in touch before I head back to incommunicado’ville, and I will fill you in on my trip when I get back. In the meantime, it’s 103 degrees and I’m grabbing a cold sixer of Carta Blanca and heading to Sam’s pool.

Manana, y’all.

Tags: Streaker Jones
Posted in A Life Lesson, ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Humor | 2 Comments »

Re-edit, Relived, Relieved

Tuesday, August 3rd, 2010

So. I’m doing another edit on my book and I am unsure if I can take any more. This edit, while I agree with most everything I was asked to do, is hitting me the hardest of any of my many edits.

Look, I’m not stupid. I’m dumb and inappropriate and, “A crazy redneck fuckwad,” to quote my publisher, but I am not stupid. OK, maybe I’m a little stupid, but not your garden variety brain dead stupid.

I’m not a Republican.

I don’t know why I’m taking this so hard except to say that I thought I was finished writing the book after the last edit. What I have to do to make everyone happy is to take out some pop culture references and “fourth wall” interplay. Pop culture, it seems, is fleeting and temporary. Like Willi Manilli or coonskin caps, you know, things that grow out of fashion and out of a reader’s mind.

My nature is to argue about this because when I wrote the book, it was a real-time dialog. Just like the stuff here to the bloggie. So, if I’m pissed at Rick Perry and I have a point to make, I tell you. But I’m told that in my book, and I’ll quote Pulled Pork Publishing, LLC, “You need, Mr. Johnson, to be pissed at the Republican Party as a universe, not the fleeting, caricature that is Governor Perry. And you can talk about Elvis or Liberace, because they are enduring entertainers whose legacy will stand the test of time. But leave out all that talk about the Beatles.”

I think they are full of shit, but they do have a point about topical issues with short expiration dates. But, I will talk about the Beatles anytime I think about them.

As for the fourth wall interplay business, that is a theatrical term for when the author takes the audience aside and tells a story, or provides insight, that is not a direct part of the story line. Again to quote Pulled Pork Publishing, LLC, “Fourth wall interplay is the lazy man’s prose, Mr. Johnson. Stop cheating your reader and be creative.”

Fuckball publishers.

That’s how my brain works for shit sakes. If I am talking to you and I need to go to the bathroom, I’m not always going to take you with me, so I would throw in a little story I had printed somewhere else to keep my readers entertained, and informed, while I was away.

Then they went on because fuckballs always feel compelled to go on. “You should also attempt to provide better tracking in your storyline. Your digressions are distracting.”

Well fucking duh!

Are you kidding me? My digressions are distracting? Did you not read the part about the ADHD? Give me a break because I’m not going to do anything about the digressions. If I change that, my entire real-time dialog concept is ruined, and all you will get from me is dumb chatter.

But I do want to give you the best product I can, so I am rewriting my book, again.

However, what I really want to talk about today is my friend Lloyd. Lloyd is the college buddy who is the man I most admire. (See bloggie posting of April 20, 2010) Lloyd has started blogging, and if you will go there, you will understand just what I mean. Lloyd makes me cry and feel crummy about myself every time I think about the kind of man he is.

Crummy in that good sort of way where you end up feeling good about yourself just because someone like Lloyd calls you, “Friend.”

Please go to his website at www.lifeslessonslearnedlate.com and read what he has written. It’s OK to cry and feel crummy if you want. Just understand that what you see is precisely what Lloyd is.

Next, let’s talk about my butt. It is getting back to normal and I have been cleared for sexual athletics. Except for for no stun gun foreplay. SAC Ellen is trying to hide it, but disappointment is written all over her face.

“How do we warm up without a dose of Direct Current Mooner?”

We have never had sex without a jump-start from a stun gun. That all began when she and I first met. SAC Ellen headed the multi-jurisdictional task force that was investigating me, and I have to stop talking about this since it’s in my book.

Anyway. Grab a cold Carta Blanca beer and go check out what Lloyd has to say. Me, as a fourth wall indiscretion, am going to take a sitz bath and get prepared for some serious sexolating.

Manana, y’all.

Tags: ADD/ADHD, Streaker Jones
Posted in A Life Lesson, ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Moon Shows, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig | 3 Comments »

Feminine Hygeine Product Exposes Mooner

Thursday, July 29th, 2010

So. I’m feeling better with all of my butt problems and will go in to see Dr. Ashworth in the morning for a checkup. That will make it a week since he carved on me, and hopefully he’ll see good progress. I have learned my lesson, so I won’t talk anymore about that subject.

I got up early this morning and felt well enough to actually go out to Mooners Compost Plant and work at my job. I picked the Squirt up from over to Dr. Sam I. Am’s house on my way so she and I could spend some time together. Dixie is mostly with Streaker Jones anymore, but I don’t take it personally.

Dixie is getting older and it breaks my heart. She has been a loyal and valued friend for a very long time. She’s been grooming the Squirt to take her place and she’s got the little shitbird almost to the kick-out-the-nest stage. Actually, what Dixie said was, “Well Mooner, Squirt needs to learn how to fly blind, so I’m leaving her with you.”

I ignored the blind-leading-the-blind jab from my trusty dog. She deserves to live her last times doing what she wants, and she wants to work with Streaker Jones developing new spoor varieties.

When I walked up to Sammy’s place, Squirt was through the tiny doggie door and at my feet before I could knock.

“Buongiorno, Bwana Mooner, nie ist your day?” This greeting was made with her “sitting pretty”- on her haunches like a bunny rabbit, a smile on her face and tail going at 90 MPH. This is the pose Dixie has Squirt use during proper, polite conversation.

“I’m hunky dory Miss Squirt, how about you?”

She got a quizzical look to her face and asked, “Que significo eso ‘hunky dory”, Monsieur Mooner? Est ist Snufft Oink Pflushott, ode es inner Suahili?”

I had to think about all of this before I answered. Squirt had just asked a question in Spanish, German, Polish, Italian, common barnyard porcine, French and I think, Swahili.

“Well,” I began. “It’s not piggy talk nor Swahili either one. Hunky dory is an American slang term used to mean “OK”, or “all right”. You asked how my day was, and I told you it is OK, I’m doing all right.” I thought to add, “And before you get too deep into quizzing me about the origins of the phrase, ask Dixie because I don’t know.”

She wasn’t happy, but she walked to the car with me and let me buckle her in without too many more questions. The ride out to the plant was cheerful, and funny, as Squirt entertained me by reciting the Gettysburg Address. She can give the entire speech where she speaks every three words in a different language, changes languages with each three words, and she doesn’t use any language twice.

When I get more time, I’ll write it down for you. But for now, take my word that you’ll laugh your asses off with this one.

I drove the Squirt around the plant when we first got there so she could see everyone and spend some time watching the big machines. Squirt is fascinated with all the big yellow iron. We professionals call the loaders and other big machines yellow iron. I parked in my slot in front of the office, and Gnat got real pissy at me when I walked through the door.

“Can I help you sir?” she asked. And then, “Mr. Johnson only sees visitors with an appointment, and we don’t expect to be seeing him around here for a few more months.”

I guess it had been awhile since I was sitting to my desk.

“Un-wad your panties and tell me what you got for me this morning, Gnat. I feel like getting something done.”

“Well,” she started, “I’ve got quite a bit to do myself and I wasn’t planning on babysitting your whiny ass all day.”

My trusty assistant shuffled some papers around her desk and said, “Why don’t you start by going through the spring catalog for If You Can’t Smoke It, Wear It, LLC. Streaker Jones and Dixie are waiting on your thoughts before going to print. I looked through it and it all looks good, so you can do that in less than an hour.”

She hesitated a second, then added, “But don’t you dare get on the computer and start messing with my financial reports. Steve Midgett is expecting me to send them this afternoon and they’re almost finished.”

That catalog would be the spring line of hemp fabric clothing we make over to New Mexico, and Steve Midgett would be our trusty CPA accountant. The hemp, as a raw material, is a bi-product from one of Streaker Jones’ growing operations. When I get the chance, I’m going to logoize some of our hemp clothing and make it for sale here to the webber and let you buy it. Tee shirts and stuff.

What would you call it when you print your logo on something- logoize or logotize? Logorate maybe.

So, I’m going through the catalog and it is obvious that the clothing guys have done a great job again. I’m still working on the ultra-lightweight protective body armor for the military, my personal contribution to the spring line. We’re using hemp and bamboo fibers in a special weave that is proving to stop the bullets from most street guns.

Anyway, I stopped taking my pain meds since I was driving and I was starting to throb with pain. Now don’t get me wrong about this pain because it was nothing compared to what I had before Dr. Ashworth lanced me. If the pre-lancing pain was a 10, this is maybe a 0.036 on the pain meter.

But I guess that I’m a big baby when it comes to pain because I wishing I wasn’t driving. Speaking of driving, I had a surprise for Squirt. “Hey Squirt, you want to go drive a front end loader with me?”

Squirt had a stunned look on her face and said, “Voglio drive los loader die mich? Are you serious?”

“As serious as the open wound on my ass little lady. Let me change my absorbent pad and we’ll head out.

I already told you I’m using what I have always called a Kotex as both a cushion for my sore tushie, and also to soak up my oozings. Actually, I use an ecologically friendly brand. Cut them in half so I’m not wasteful. They slip and slide some but I’ve gotten used to having a cotton wad stuck up my butt.

The Squirt and I were driving the loader around the plant, she in my lap and me letting her touch controls to lift and dump and stuff. She was having a blast and I managed to do but minimal damage to Javier’s carefully-managed wind rows of compost.

Sammy called as we were finishing and asked if Squirt and I would mow her lawn. We said, “Sure,” and we parked the loader and told Gnat we were leaving.

Once back to Sam’s house, I changed into my gym shorts- loose, short billowy nylon things, and Squirt and I headed out to the garage. I unplugged the heavy duty electric mower and started mowing. Dr. Sam I. Am’s lot is big, maybe 200 feet wide at the street, and her street is very popular with the neighborhood’s walkers. It’s got light traffic and the entire half-mile is tree lined and shaded from the nasty summer sun.

When I mow, I like to make long runs across the lawn parallel with the street and starting at the street. Squirt likes to help by nipping at my ankles and getting in my way. The street was crowded with walkers and as I made the turn at the far end to come back, I spotted two of Sam’s neighbors walking towards me. They were waving their hands and pointing. When I reached the end of my pass, the two nice ladies were at the curb beside me.

One said to me, she says, “Afternoon Mr. Johnson. You dropped something back there and it looks like Squirt is going to retrieve it for you.”

The other nice lady says, “Isn’t Squirt just the sweetest little thing?”

“Yes,” I replied as I turned to see the Squirt prancing my way across the grass, a blood-stained white cotton wad in her mouth.

I thought to myself, I though, “Oh shit.”

Squirt raced the last ten feet and dropped the fallen feminine hygiene product to my feet.

“Oh my,” gasped one lady.

“Why that’s a bloody Kotex,” said the other. “What the hell…”

“I can explain, it’s not what you think,” I tried.

“Oh for God sakes Mooner Johnson. Have you no shame at all?”

I thought about that. “Well,” I started, “I think I might be full of shame, but I’d need to consult with Sammy.”

“Well Dr. Am-Johnson will certainly be consulted about this, Mooner. My God but you are inappropriate.” And she finished with, “For the life of me I don’t know what Samanta ever saw in you.”

And with that they huffed off.

I finished with the lawn and wondered about two things. First, I wondered just how pissed Sam was going to get about me dirty-wadding her neighbor ladies. She thinks I intentionally disrupt her life, but I know most everything is just bad circumstances. Like this particular circumstance.

The other thing I was chewing on was the whole, “Have you no shame?” dealie. What does that really mean? I mean, whatthefuck?

I know I can be ashamed of my actions, I know I can recognize shame in myself and others, I try not to but I know I sometimes shame others. Shame is not one of my goals, and I certainly don’t like it, but where does any of that fit in with the question.

And why isn’t the question, “Do you have shame?” Isn’t that a cleaner way to ask, or am I even getting that part wrong?

“Come on Squirt. Let’s go to the ranch and have some Carta Blanca beer. Let’s finish our day at the BBQ grill.”

“Yo soy love BBQ, Signore Mooner. Vamanos!”

So, I bid you, “Manana, ya’ll.”

Tags: Dixie- Dog of Wonder, Dr. Sam I. Am, Streaker Jones
Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer, Humor | 1 Comment »

One Man’s Pain In The Ass Is Another Man’s Ass Pain

Tuesday, July 27th, 2010

OK, so I’m a slow learner. It started when I was just a little kid, the slow learning thing, and I think it was a progressive disease from that starting point. Ever since I can remember, I can either grasp something right away- or as Lauren Bacall told Humphrey Bogart, “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

I’m still trying to grasp the true nature of quantum mechanics. I have trouble obtaining absolute certainty when I can’t see the subject of discussion, and my teacher tells me he knows that it exists because, “There is no other logical explanation.” Like the quark, for example. Basically, a quark is like the DNA components of the smallest parts of protons, electrons and neutrons.

Allegedly.

“Fine,” I say, “But it can just as easily be something else altogether, right?” Like with religion and faith- I say quark, you say I’m a devil-worshiping quack. The single letter changed makes a huge difference.

My first memory of learning slowly came from when I was maybe four, and Streaker Jones was over to the ranch for one of his first visits. Gram had a nasty old black cat named Lucifer, a properly-named animal if ever there was one. I pulled on Lucifer’s tail the first time and was favored with an arm full of nasty scratches. Gram said to me, she said, “Serves ya right, Butcher.” And then she added, “You’ll learn ta stay away from that devil- er else’n you’ll be a needin some sewin and one a them blood transmissions.”

Streaker Jones, also maybe four, said, “He needs time ta wurk it out, Gram. Better git his blood type.”

My good buddy Streaker Jones has always been smart.

Gram developed a special potion to stem infections from when that damned old cat would cut me up. I Got Yer Cat Scratch Fever was its name, and a little tincture bottle of it was always handy until I was almost six. Lucifer died when I was almost six and Gram thinks I was lucky he did.

I bring that mangy old cat into this conversation because his name came up last night, Sunday, at the dinner table. I’m still a touch wobbly after my butt surgery of last Thursday, so my throbbing and quite sore ass is always at the edge of my mind. And near the tip of my tongue as well.

I had dinner with SAC Ellen Saturday night and we went to Damian Mandola’s place there to the Triangle, north of the University. When I was a kid, that area was North Austin, and you could hunt rabbits near the triangle. Now, that would almost be the northern edge of central Austin.

We got a salad mista and a Margharita pizza, both to split, and some wine. The salads there are terrific and so are the pizzas. Hell, everything we’ve tried is above average to great. I always get some of their homemade sausage on my pizza half and the SACster gets roasted garlic on her half.

I don’t know why she won’t just order meat on her half because she picks half the meat off mine. I don’t get pissed about it any more, but it used to buggerate the ever-loving shit out of me. They don’t have Carta Blanca beer so we had a nice Italian something in red instead. No tequila either, but with Italian I’m liking either my beer, or a nice red wine.

We were halfway through the salad when our pizza arrived, and I had been sitting on the wooden chair for maybe twenty minutes. Comfortable under most circumstances, the chair was starting to telegraph pain signals to my Codeine-and-Gram’s-potion-soaked brain. SAC Ellen was driving because I was unsafe to do so, so don’t worry about that.

I placed my salad fork down to the table and said, “Cripers, Ellen, I think somebody just parked a Dodge Ram pickup in my ass.” I fidgeted a bit and said, “I think the front bumper took out my prostate.”

In response I got that “Have you lost your mind?” look.

“No, really,” I blundered on. “I’m starting to worry that my entrails are falling out around my Kotex pad. Like from when we watched Saving Private Ryan the other week.” I was wearing a lady’s cotton pad back there to soak up the blood and noxious fluids that continue to drain from the excavation site.

Another of the same looks headed my way, except this one had real intensity. I misunderstood the look and saw concern, so I barged on. “Would you come to the bathroom with me and check things out?”

This time, the response was for SAC Ellen to place her salad fork beside her plate and she put both hands on the table, gripping the outer edges like she would do if she wanted to flip the table over. “For shit sakes, Mooner. Would you shut up about your ass while I’m eating?”

“But it hurts,” I bravely stated through the blur of pain.

“Oh don’t cry Mooner, you aren’t going to die. But I swear to God, if you say one more word about your bloody ass before I finish my dinner, I’m packing up and leaving you here to fend for yourself.” Then she added, “Now shut up and eat.”

Since SAC Ellen is always good for her word, Streaker Jones picked me up from Mandola’s place and dropped me off to the ranch at about ten. I bided my time waiting for Streaker Jones walking around and talking to people in the crowded cafe. They needed my table to handle the big crowd and I needed to bounce some things off people. You know, get some third-party feedback on stuff.

This one lady tried to slap me when she figured out who I was. She’s a Catholic Republican and an area representative of the party. That’s not why she slapped me, but it is why she called me, “An inappropriate and Godless creature who should spend Eternity burning in hell.”

I told her I had already read her E-mail, thank you very much, and appreciated her support. She was wearing a nurse’s uniform and had her ID badge from the hospital around her neck, so I asked her, “Hey, would you mind taking a look at my ass for me? I think I might have blown something like that big BP mess out to the Gulf.”

That’s when she tried to slap me.

So. We were to the dinner table last night, the whole lot of us, and I was retelling the entire Saturday night dinner story, looking for sympathy and understanding, when my Gram pipes up. “Mooner, ya dumass,” she began. “You ain’t not one bit smarter than you was with ole Lucifer the cat.”

“Lucifer the cat? What the hell does Lucifer the cat have to do with the mess I call my ass?” My Gram often dumbfounds me.

She gives me this matronly stare that says, “They shoot horses, don’t they?” Then she says to me, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. You was a slow poke then an yur a slow pokier now.”

Confused, I eased myself from my chair and went to the fridge for another Carta Blanca. “Anyone want anything while I’m up?”

Only Gram answered. “I want you ta pull yur head out yur butt an stop talking about yur ass at tha dinner table”

Which reminds me. Have I told you that my actual birth name is Butcher Einstein Johnson? I wasn’t called Mooner until my first day of school. I think that’s a great story, but it’s in the book. When things are included in the book, they are verboten here. I am forbidden from talking about it now.

But I truly am a slow learner. They say the the definition of a crazy man is one who keeps repeating the same action with the expectation that he will get a different reaction. It’s like if you were to thump your thumb with a rubber mallet ten times in a row, and you expected to feel no pain with the eleventh thump.

I don’t want to dig too deep into my psyche right now- I’ve got too much pain killer and hallucinogenic potion in my bloodstream to get serious. But let me tell you about slow learners. When we get lucky and actually do learn something, it is learned. Bone deep.

When you convince a slow learner that something is what it is, he knows what it is. His learning is fact-based and reliable. After we mature and get things properly oriented mentally, slow learners are people upon whom you can depend. I guess it’s that whole conviction dealie.

I actually think the letters on my keypad are little black-shelled turtles that are slowly melting into a puddle on my desk. Vicodin has always done that when combined with one of Gram’s potions.

Have I told you that my ass hurts?

I need a Carta Blanca.

Tags: Gram's potions, Streaker Jones
Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer | No Comments »

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

Tuesday, June 15th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I must have been thinking out loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I warned everybody that talking pig makes your nose run.

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

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

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

I am strong, aren’t I.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuckballs.

Thank God for Carta Blanca beer.

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

Dental Hygienists Sue Gram; Sprouts Has The Answer

Saturday, May 22nd, 2010

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

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

Well fucking duh!

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

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

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

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

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

That was the point when Mother fainted.

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

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

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

That just cracks me up.

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

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

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

Is it any wonder I’m so fucking crazy?

Explains Mother’s feinting as well.

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

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

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

See why I like to go to Sprouts?

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

I wanted to kiss her.

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

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

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

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

Tags: Gram's potions, Gram's sex drive, Streaker Jones, University of Texas
Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Humor, Sprouts Farmers Market | 10 Comments »

I Get That A Lot, or, When Your ADHD Is Not Obsessively Compulsed

Friday, May 21st, 2010

I was over to the Sprouts Farmers Market store this morning and Harry called me back to his office for a chat. I spend so much time there I am often mistaken for an employee. When I say that I spend so much time, I am speaking both from frequency and duration of the visits.

If we were evaluating me as a porn star based upon the frequency and duration of my Sprouts visits I’d be a star.

I go often- almost daily and sometimes more than once a day when I forget things from my list. Always armed with my Postie Notes list as I enter the store, my ADHD interferes with my list checking and digresses me into activities and purchases not on the list, at the expense of listed necessities.

Like yesterday when Gram insisted I get her 40 pounds of fresh ginger for some new potion she concocted and Sister asked me to get some of the fajita meat that was on special. When Sprouts puts something on special it is usually a big deal so Sister invited a bunch of her lesbian buddies out to the ranch for the Johnson Family Friday Night BBQ.

Gram’s new potion is to prevent gum disease and she calls it Ginger I’m Invitin Ya Ta Go Away. When I tried to tell her it’s gingivitis and not ginger-invite-us, she said to me, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. People need pink gums.”

OK, but 40 pounds of fresh ginger?

As I was choosing the zucchini that was on my Postie list yesterday, I started admiring the legs and eyes and bottom of this lady, none of which appeared on my Posties.

So, I’m kind of googling at this nice lady’s long, tan and silky smooth legs and she says to me, she says, “You look just like that asshole Mooner Johnson. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

“Why yes, as a matter of fact they have- I get that a lot.” I am always quick with a clever retort.

And she added, “Well if I was you, I’d fix that problem. Have you considered cosmetic surgery?”

“Well,” I said to her, “I did have a little work done recently. Let me show you the results.” At which time I dropped my shorts to my sneakered ankles and waggled my butt in her direction.

Did I tell you guys about the stains on my skin I got from not bathing recently? Streaker Jones figured out this concoction that works but it stings so bad I can only do little patches at a time. Ingrid applies the liquid fixer a with fine paint brush and just for kicks, she’s writing something in fine lines on my butt areas to work into a show as she de-stains me. So far, she’s got “Eat At,” and nothing more.

Maybe that should be un-stains.

Streaker Jones’ stain remover does two things. First it clears my skin of the stain and restores my color to its pretty one-fourth Native American luster. Second, it bleaches my hair into these dense, almost white curls. Great contrast to my natural black-black butt hair.

So, I drop my shorts and waggle for this nice lady and she screams and pepper sprays my face.

“You inappropriate asshole!” the woman shouts. And then, “Somebody get the Manager.”

“I’m OK, I don’t need any help from the Manager,” I tell the gathering crowd. “I’m used to pepper juice except on my crotch. I’ll be OK.”

“No you won’t,” the now not so nice lady quipped. And with that said, she pepper sprayed my balls.

Have you ever been cutting fresh hot peppers and gotten a little of the capsaicin oil on some delicate skin? Capsaicin oil is what makes peppers hot and that is the ingredient in pepper sprays.

Wait, I’m digressing you while I tell you about digressions. All of this stuff was yesterday’s visit to Sprouts and this bloggie post is about today’s visit. Let me just wrap up yesterday’s discussions by saying that I was glad to not be driving Gram’s Ferrari because I always have a cooler of Carta Blanca beer iced-up in my pick-up.

I stuffed a six pack in my shorts to cool my balls as I headed home.

Anyway, I go often to Sprouts and I tend to dawdle while I’m there. I dawdle because my ADHD causes my mind to wander me into predicaments. I also dawdle because, as a defense mechanism to help control the AD part of my ADHD, I am a touch obsessive-compulsive. But only a touch.

One of my compulsions involves the choosing of things, like produce. First I must choose which varieties of produce I desire, like is tonight’s dinner side dish stuffed zucchini or shall I make green beans? When Sprouts has specials this can be perplexing.

The second compulsion over which I obsess is choosing the very best of my previously chosen variety. Like today, when I went back to get the fajita meat for Sister, ginger for Gram, and zucchini for stuffing to go with the fajitas.

When choosing squash which are special priced at Sprouts, you get two or three big displays to look through, each with many examples. This morning’s choices were maybe a few hundred in each of three displays. So I’m required to inspect maybe 800 squashes to obtain the dozen needed for tonight’s dinner.

Each person gets a half squash filled with my special stuffing except for Anna the Amazon. Anna is my ex-wife and Sister’s current spouse, also a wife. Anna likes my stuffed zucchini and eats a full squash worth.

So that explains the width and breadth part of my frequency/duration discussion from earlier.

Anyway, I’m choosing my squashes this morning when I hear my name over the speakers. “Mr. Johnson, will you please report to the Manager’s office?”

I’m still squeezing and smelling squash when I hear the speakers, “That would be you Mooner. Now!”

“I didn’t recognize your voice on the speaker Harry,” I told my buddy the Manager as I entered his office and took a chair.

Harry handed me the ever-present pint bottle of Hornitos tequila he keeps in his desk for my visits. “Here, have a pull of this. I need a drink.”

“Please don’t tell me that Regional Director McCoy is banning me from the store Harry. I’m running out of places to shop.”

“Stop crying Mooner. This is about me.”

Harry had a weird look on his face- like half happy and half facing a firing squad. “I took Patty to meet mama for dinner last night and now I’ve got a big problem.”

“Oh just give your mom a chance Harry. Patty’s a great Wiccan woman and your mom will come around,” I counseled. I can be a thoughtful counselor. “Maybe I can get the Pope to bless something for your mother.”

The Pope owes me a favor.

“That’s not the problem Mooner. They like each other and that has become a problem.”

Wait a second, I just remembered something. I need to go back to Sprouts to get three more squash- I was on number nine when Harry summoned me to his office.

Fuckballs. I’ll see you guys later.

Tags: Gram's potions, Streaker Jones
Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Hornitos tequila, Humor, Moon Shows, Religion, Sprouts Farmers Market | 3 Comments »

Home Grown Tomato Hints; Unique Sea Salts of the World

Wednesday, May 19th, 2010

Summer has officially arrived to Austin, Texas. I just plucked the first fully-ripened tomatoes from our garden out to the ranch! Four heirloom purple jobbies, a bucket of grape size and another bucket of Sweet 100 cherries.

Hoo-yaa!!!

I love tomatoes, homegrown tomatoes, in a way I have difficulty explaining. Homegrown tomatoes are a different species from nearly all commercial choices and my homegrown jobs are unusually good even compared to other home growners.

“Why is that, Mooner,” you might inquire.

Well, I will tell you. The why answer that is the root cause for me growing great tomatoes is my unnatural love and desires for the best that tomatoes can be. Since I love good tomatoes so much, I have endeavored to grow the finest.

The how answer to the why question is simple. We grow all possible varieties in copious quantities; we use organic methods only; I make special compost and compost teas designed for tomato plant needs; I have vast experience; I am water conscious and use mulch; I monitor constantly and I care.

Oh yea. And Streaker Jones is my best buddy and Streaker Jones can grow the best of anything. Streaker Jones has a doctorate of plant sciences from Texas A&M and from The University of Texas he has doctorates in chemistry and botany. Streaker Jones knows all there is to know about plants and how to best grow the best plant specimens.

With his faithful sidekick, Dixie, they make a plant growing machine. Dixie can talk many plant languages so she interprets for Streaker Jones.

Actually, if you ask Streaker Jones why I grow such great tomatoes out to the ranch he will say, “Cuz I don’t allow Mooner to fuck with um.”

That is true at the micro level so I won’t try to argue about it. But at the macro level, it’s all about me. Like when I was doing this interview with Rolling Stone Magazine after Dixie was nominated for a European Grammy Award last year.

The little interview guy asked me, he said, “Mr. Johnson, to what does Dixie owe her great success?” and I told him, I said, “Well, I guess since I paid for her vocal lessons and never got her spayed, I can take most of the credit.”

I was going to spay her but her voice coach felt it might ruin her upper register and maybe kill-off some of her emotional range. I had to agree with him because when Dixie is in heat, she sings in this screachie high voice and sounds like what I imagine the Sirens must have sounded like back to mythology days. You can hear her wailing for a man in the neighboring counties as evidenced by the collection of horn-dogs that accumulates to the ranch when she freshens.

Freshens is the same thing as having her period except it sounds a little more sociable. And is animal talk.

Every year when I harvest the first fully ripened orbs from the garden I prepare my portable tomato prep kitchen. That is: a special hemp tote bag with tomato scenes stitched into the cover; a seven-inch Japanese chef’s knife with those crenelated indentions in the sides that keep the slices from sticking to the blade; knife stones, oil and chamois for sharpening; small cherry wood cutting board; two china plates for serving; three pepper mills with different pepper varieties; six dropper bottles of my favorite olive oils; my special cooler holding one Carta Blanca beer; and my antique silver snuff box filled with sea salt.

The only thing that might change from one season to the next would be the kind of sea salt I carry. Everything else is set in stone unless it breaks or wears out. But the salt is an evolving pursuit to find the perfect salt for tomatoes.

The last twenty years has seen my trips to salt mines and factories around the world. France and Italy and Korea and Africa and so on. This year is special because I got a chunk of that pink, so pink it’s almost ruby red hued, Himalayan salt. You see it on the cooking shows in big slabs that they use to both salt and serve the food like it was a plate.

It has a great flavor and I think it is showing great promise as a tomato salt. As always, my first pluckings from the vines are less acidic and not as sweet as they will be and the salt overpowered their flavors. But I am almost certain that when things hit full summer heat I might create me some magic.

Wine snobs say, “Mooner, beer is a remote second choice to a fine wine to support the sweet acidity of a perfect slice of tomato.”

To which I say, “Fuck you, shitball. Try this.” At which time the wine snob discovers the joy that is a thin slice of late summer Celebrity with Indonesian black pepper, gray French sea salt and two drops of Tuscan olive oil- which is folded in half and placed on the tongue for the thirty seconds it takes the salt to bring the juices out.

After thirty seconds chew slowly and then swallow. Wait ten seconds and then drink two-to-three ounces of icy cold Carta Blanca beer.

Call my name, Gabriel, cause I’m ready to go!

And don’t try to sell me another brand of beer because I already know better through personal experimentations.

I think my ADHD is almost under control and I am not even digressing at all. You guys think I can back off my psycho therapy to one session a day? Normally by this late in the day my ADHD would be digressing my socks off me.

Like yesterday when I got so discombobulated when I discovered that Luigi Fulks gave me an erroneous e-mail address.

Don’t you just love that word? And why don’t you spell it discomboobulated?

Would anybody buy my portable tomato prep kitchen if I put them for sale here to the bloggie?

ZJ4SUEVVJCBA

Tags: Dixie- Dog of Wonder, Home Grown Tomatoes, Streaker Jones
Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Humor | 16 Comments »

Am I Bleu?; Cheese Talk with Mooner Johnson (Part 10)

Friday, May 14th, 2010

Does anybody know how to get stains out of your skin? I have now been hosed down with a power washer, soaked in bleach, abraded with a wire brush, had maybe 36 showers, enjoyed an even dozen full body scrubs with that gritty oozie goop I got from Dana at Arbonne, and.

Wait, wait wait. Let me start all over.

First, if you don’t know, I felt disrespected and unappreciated so I went on a protest to get some. Respect and appreciation that is. I did not wash myself or brush my teeth and I ate a diet that consisted of garlic and onions exclusively. After the first day I had a slight ripeness to me, like maybe what you would get from sniffing through the tight plastic wrapping on a little chunk of bleu cheese down to the Sprouts store.

You know what I mean. A person knows what blue cheese smells like so even though it is tightly-wrapped in clear plastic, you can smell it. Maybe you aren’t actually smelling the cheese, like one of those psycho thematic dealies, but your nose catches just a whiff of that incredible, rich smell of my favorite cheese even if it only comes from memory.

I truly do love bleu cheese. I love blue cheese as well- any kind of bleu cheese made anywhere and by anyone. I am non-discriminatory as to a cheese’s country of origin, religious affiliations of the cheese maker and I don’t even care if the cheese maker or animal producing the raw milk product are Republicans.

In my opinion, the only thing that matters is that the cheese was produced without chemicals and that it has good flavor. I mean it.

Wait. Psycho semantics- that memory dealie is psycho semantics. It’s all just a matter of words, right?

I do, however, have preferences as to which variety of bleu cheese to use in particular situations. As an example, in a salad or salad dressing I prefer a cheese that is on either extreme of the flavor spectrum. Either the most mild, like a Maytag, or a really mean French triple-cream aged-in-a dead-goat’s-carcass and costs $50.00 a pound- a real Gram gagger.

Gram hates bleu cheese and I love to pester her with it.

“Iffn you gag me puttin that bleuie cheese shit in my face one more time Mooner, I’m gonna stake ya to a anthill,” my Gram told me this one time. I had a chunk of Limburger, it wasn’t an actual bleu, but my Gram lacks any culinary sophistication. Like she always says, Gram will say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Iffn it smells lik shit, it’s shit!”

Have you ever been staked to an anthill?

Anyway, to continue the description of my ripening as the days progressed in true allegorical fashion, I began to unwrap the plastic covering as my blue cheese sat in the trunk of the car on 100-degree Texas afternoons.

By the fourth day, as you have unwrapped enough plastic to make a small opened crease that exposes some of the cheese to the air, my body odor would make your eyes water from the next room. By day seven, with the fully unwrapped lump of cheese fermenting in the sweltering trunk getting new infestations of bacteria and fungi, the now blackend bleu cheese has stripped the paint from the entire car and melted the soft rubber gaskets used to seal the trunk lid, windows and doors.

By day eleven- that’s when I had my epiphany and got respect, it is far safer to burn the car than to even consider looking inside the trunk. OK, that would be a bad example because the toxic smoke from the fire would likely defoliate much of Central Texas like Agent Orange. But you get my meaning.

Do you guys know about how the oils and acids and shit in garlic and onions can worm their way through your system and make an oil slick on your skin? All of the odor and flavor of garlic and onions will start layering your skin in this oil slick after you eat enough.

So, after my pressure washing to blast the rest of my clothes off me- that was shirt, undershirt, socks and bandanna, and then all the scrubbing with wire brushes to get the tar off me, I was left with a heavy coating of this oil.

And just so you know, Streaker Jones brought the Haz-Mat team out to the ranch from our research labs to do phases one and two. They bagged and jarred everything they pried loose of me and took it back to the lab for full military testing.

The Army is sending both chemical and biological inspection teams to observe our testing. They know everything that was removed from me is organic but they still can’t figure out what it is.

So. I’m all stripped down to the oil coating and that’s where Dana comes in. Dana, and you don’t say it like Dana Andrews, you say it like Princess Diana except without the “i”.

Jesus, Mooner that was lame. Try this: it isn’t day-nuh, you say her name dan-nah, like it’s got more “n’s” in it than it does.

She’s my beauty expert, so I called Dana to see if she could help me get the oil off my skin and she said to me, she says, “Do I even want to ask why you need such a product Mooner?”

After an hour of my explanation, she interrupted me to say, “Got it Mooner. You need Awaken Sea Salt Scrub from Arbonne.

“Fine,” I said. “Send me a few cases.”

This stuff is so great that as soon as SAC Ellen is talking to me again I’m going to have her pop me with her stun gun and then scrub me down with Awaken. I love this stuff. If you want some, get with Dana at www.danafrank.myarbonne.com. Be sure to tell her that Mooner sent you.

She won’t give me anything if you do, but you don’t want her to think you’re a stalker or some silly religious shitball wanting to get inside her guard.

And I also want to send out a special Thanks to the makers and importers of Carta Blanca beer. I would be dead if it wasn’t for Carta Blanca beer. Carta Blanca beer provided me with all of the essential vitamins and minerals I needed to supplement my restricted diet these last many days. I love Carta Blanca.

And Texas Governor Rick Perry, you small minded little imbecile, you managed to keep me in stitches with your snakes and guns and hollow-point bullet stories. We all know that humor is the best medicine, so Ricky- please keep sharing your innermost thoughts with me. You know, the ones that come from your hollow, pointed head.

OK, the ADHD has digressed me to near hallucinationing.

I’m back, I’m strong and I’m focused.

But if you are the first who can tell me how to remove the stains from my skin, I’ll send you a free copy of my book when it comes out. Bleach, acid washing, and lasers have already been tried.

Tags: Streaker Jones, Taser Guns as Foreplay
Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Humor, Religion, Sprouts Farmers Market | 7 Comments »

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

Saturday, May 8th, 2010

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

Mooner Johnson.

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

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

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

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

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

Sends Gram halfway to the moon every time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Will somebody please show me some respect?

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

Sarah Palin Wants to Taser Mooner Johnson (Part 7)

Thursday, May 6th, 2010

I have just awakened from a dream or maybe it was an hallucination where I was being chased by a pack of crazed women with Taser guns. SAC Ellen was there with Chelsea Handler, Sandra Bullock, Kathy Griffin, Sarah Palin, Oprah, Sarah Silverman and some others. All of the women are women I would have sex with if I were unencumbered, and all of the women obviously wanted to have sex with me.

Otherwise they would have chosen a weapon different from a Taser. Please don’t make me tell you the whole story about the world class boners I get when a woman Tasers me. I’m too weak to tell the whole thing.

And don’t start in on me about Palin because there is no reason. I don’t like to admit it, don’t like that it is true and I plan to get some extra therapy to try and understand why I would have sex with a brain-dead, right-wing religious shitball. One who can’t string ten words together without tripping over her own feet at that.

I am embarrassed to know it about myself but this bloggie is all about truth and full disclosure so I’m truthfully disclosing that I might boink Sarah Palin. Like Gram always says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Truth is as truth is.”

Besides, my hope is that this was not a dream and that I was simply hallucinating about the Palin sex part. I feel less responsible for my thoughts in hallucinations than those in dreams. Like the story I was telling yesterday when I conked out on you. You know, from when we were down to central Mexico that one time.

So, we were served this fermented liquid agave juice by the barkeep/sheriff and after a few jelly glasses of that and the cold Carta Blanca chasers required to wash away the slime coating our mouths, we were led outside to join the festivities. Our host drags us all over the little town introducing us to each group of people- mostly large family units with generations of grandparents down to grand babies. In some cases there were great-grand babies. He started with the first grouping, which was camped at the side door to the bar/cantina/jail/post office/general store and then wormed our way in a big circle through town.

As we walk from group-to-group and we have an empty glass, someone refills it with the sticky goo. And luckily, every Igloo cooler we encounter has Carta Blanca chilling on ice. Everybody is happy and festive and getting just a tad drunk. Of course we boys have been eating mushrooms for the last few days so the alcohol is providing us a layered high to add depth to our already magicalized central nervous systems.

So, we walk and walk and drink and drink and meet and meet and meet some more, when we get to the last family group, a herd of maybe twenty people set up to the front porch of the main building. Three elders, a handsome woman of maybe forty years- the sheriff’s wife, two young husbands and their wives with four kids, and eight young girls. The girls, I think they were from maybe twelve through nineteen, were all dressed in peasant blouses, rainbow colored skirts and sandals.

None wore makeup but each had a bright bow in her hair, dangling silver earring’s and a beautiful smile. They were stunners to a one, and one look left no doubt that they were their mother’s daughters.

And their proud papa left no doubt that he was just that. Papa.

We were welcomed to their camp with hugs and kisses, and then each of the three older girls took one of us boys by the hand. I think I got the second youngest of the three and she led me to the cooler where she refreshed my glass of slime and got two fresh bottles of Carta Blanca.

Her name was Blanquita, I’m reasonably certain, she was eighteen, I pray to God, and she liked me. At least she was enamored with me. She walked me back through the little town while holding my hand and pointed things out with glee. She yammered and yammered away in Spanish and I got maybe every eighth word or so, but I was becoming likewise enamored with her and didn’t care what she was saying.

I only cared that she was saying it to me.

After awhile she started sipping my drinks, slowly at first, and finishing the last of each glass and bottle as we neared the next refueling stop. I though it was cute the way that she would drink the dregs of each serving and then offer-up the fresh ones to me with a, “Salud!” and a kiss.

As the evening went along, her sips became gulps and the kisses morphed into gropes. We ate copious quantities of goat and pig and rabbit, all of which was perfectly roasted. People who grow animals to roast know best how to do the roasting. It was a dream date.

Somewhere along the line I must have passed out because the next thing I know I’m dreaming I was getting married and I’ve got Streaker Jones whispering in my ear.

“C’mon Mooner, wake it up.” This accompanied by a sharp shake of my shoulders.

“Wake it up damit!” And more shaking.

“Leave me alone Streaker Jones,” I told him. “I think I’m in love here. I do, really I do.”

“Thas tha problem Mooner, now git it up. And don’t be wakin tha girl.”

Tha girl would be the mostly naked Blanquita who lay comatose and wrapped around me like an octopus on a sea urchin. “Help me get untangled here and I’ll get up,” I told Streaker Jones.

“An be quiet Mooner. Can’t wake tha Sheriff.”

So I got untangled and stood on unsteady legs. When I started to speak, Streaker Jones shushed me, and that’s when I noticed that he was carrying the unconscious body of Woozie over his shoulder.

“Git yur keys out yur pocket and let’s hightail it to tha Paller.” Streaker Jones called my 1963 Impala Super Sport the Paller.

My God I’m getting weak and dizzy again. I better take another break and eat some garlic. You guys check with me later.

Tags: Streaker Jones, Taser Guns as Foreplay
Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Chelsea Handler, Humor, Psychotherapy | 1 Comment »

Day Nine; Rememberating Mexico and Other Hallucinations (Part 6)

Wednesday, May 5th, 2010

I’m having trouble distinguishing my stink-filled hallucinations from all of my other realities. I do know that since I barely have the skills to computerate when fully awake, everything I write here to the blog is real. It has been nine days of garlic and onions and poor personal habits for me and I think I might be a tad crazed.

You can’t trust anything I say except for if I tell you about something as if it were actual happenings in real reality and it was just my rememberating something that was halucinatory in nature. Or unless I’m here in actual reality writing for the bloggie and then I start hallucinating in my thought processes yet my motor skills remain in actual reality. I guess that would fall into the category of “actual real-time reporting of hallucintory events as they happen in real time.”

Like that time Streaker Jones, Woozie and I were down to Mexico late in the summer after we graduated from high school. I had this nifty 1963 Chevy Impala SS with a 350 cubic inch Corvette motor. It was Matador Red, which is appropriate for this story. It was this trip that got me hooked on Carta Blanca beer.

We drove through the border at Laredo and stocked-up on tequila, and then we headed south. It was harvest time for the maguay plants, that’s the raw plant product from which tequila is distilled and these days they call it agave. The agave plant is akin to peyote, or so I have heard.

Anyway, we drive for something like 20 hours and end up in this area in central Mexico where you can see some mountains in the distance. But there is nothing between where you are and the mountains except flat, arid land and millions of agave plants. Some are in tended fields, you know in rows and all orderly, but much of it is just old fashioned free-range agave ranching.

The fields are full of old trucks and cars, and people. The people are harvesting the long greenish-blue spears using either a machete or this sickle-looking tool. The way the sickle tool fit in a person’s hand reminded me of Jai-Lai, or whatever that game is called that they play down to Miami Beach. You know, the one where you bet on this little jockey-sized guy to outplay the other one in a handball game with a basket mitt and sometimes it’s a doubles match.

They would stack these spears onto wagons in big bundles, and when the sun shone on the bundles they turned a gorgeous blue color. In fact for years I thought that Elvis was singing, “To Blue A-ga-ve.”

At the end of the day we settled to this nifty little town for the night. The town consisted of: a single building that served as Police Station, Post Office, hotel, bank, telegraph office, telephone office and general store; a cantina; and maybe a dozen small tin-roofed houses. There was no grass or shrubbery, but each house had a small garden and one big tree in the yard.

As we were seated to the bar in the cantina, the town started filling with the vehicles and people from the agave fields. Several hundred people with dusty, sun-drenched faces started unloading tables and boxes and old timey Igloo coolers.

Streaker Jones was our interpolater so he asked the barkeep what was up and we were told that we were lucky because it was the day to celebrate the end of the agave harvest and we were invited to the party. Fact is, everyone was invited to the party.

They started fires and racked whole goats and rabbits and a couple of pigs on big iron skewers near the flames. Women began the amazing process of hand patting tortillas, an act that makes me cry when I see it done with love. Young girls did the rest of the cutting and chopping of peppers and tomatoes and stuff.

We ordered beer and were brought cold Carta Blanca in tall, thick glass bottles. The bottles were heavy with condensation and the weight of the glass, and that initial guzzle was inspirational. My first Carta Blanca beer was emptied with the second tilt of the bottle, and the barkeep had replacement set in the water ring of the first before I could ask. He said something to me in Spanish, and Streaker Jones interpreted.

“He says ya look lik a Carti Blanki man. He’s the sheriff an wants ta innerduce us ta his daughters.”

That explained the six shooter in the man’s belt.

Then, the sheriff/barkeep sets three jelly glasses to the counter, each filled with a milky white, viscous fluid, raises a fourth in a toast and says, “Poulquay. Salud!”

Poulquay, which I’m sure is spelled a different way, is the pre-distillation fermented agave mash and precursor of tequila. It is nasty tasting like peyote buttons, sticks to everything like grass burrs, and kicks your ass after maybe a couple dozen glasses like a quart of Gram’s mushroom juice.

Holy shit I stink. If I don’t get some respect soon I may kill myself. I don’t mean suicide silly, I mean death by poison gas.

Look, I’m feeling like passing out again so how about I finish this later.

Tags: Awakenings, Streaker Jones
Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer, Humor | No Comments »

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

Tuesday, April 27th, 2010

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

Arrested and scolded by the fine doctor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t smell so great to start with.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking asswipe Baptist shitwad.

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

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

We could.

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

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

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

City of Austin Employee Does Kind Act

Wednesday, April 21st, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Squirt loves to dry hump folks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ZJ4SUEVVJCBA

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

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

A Last Warning; Right-Wing Militia Shitballs and Jesus

Wednesday, April 14th, 2010

Why is it that people are so polarized these days? When I started this bloggie my intentions were to talk about what things are buggerating me to distractions, tell you to make donations to the Capital Area Food Bank, and then to sell some stuff to make a little cash.

I did not start blogging to attract any unwanted attention to myself, and for sure for any attentions I do attract, I intended to have those attractions be attended to here to the bloggie.

Wait, even I don’t understand what I just said. Let me try that again.

Please respond to me by making your sentiments known to me by posting a comment here to the blog. No phone calls, no letters and for sure no personal visits. This is my last warning that Streaker Jones handles my personal protection.

Look, I am sorry if you think that erudite discussions about camel toes are inappropriate. I am sorry if you think my left-leaning bias is offensive and I am sorry if you don’t like divorced men. I am sorry that you consider me to be, and here I will quote the Right Reverend Browningwell from over to Gram’s Baptist Church, “… that Godless heathen fornicator, Mooner Einstein Johnson.”

I am sorry for anything and everything it is about me that you don’t like that seems to anger you so very much. I am sorry.

However, I am not sorry to you, but rather my sorrow is for you.

It is one thing for us to harbor differing ideas on sex, war, drugs, marriage, sexuality and sexual orientation, Chelsea Handler’s camel toe, charities, or anyfuckingthingelse. I mean really, even the Apostles had differing religious beliefs and they were all taking the same walks with Jesus and heard the actual words coming from the actual mouth of the Son of God. Right? Yet even with all of that first-hand exposure, those guys managed to get things screwed-up.

Why can’t we just agree to disagree?

And, “Mooner,” you might say. “What the hell happened to get you off on this rant?”

A good question.

Streaker Jones was out to Mooners Compost Plant and we were inspecting the newest batch of compost we made for his mushroom farms. We decided to tweak the recipe just a touch by adding some expired-date Carta Blanca beer to the mix. The beer was from this warehouse the two of us bought recently. It was stacked floor-to-ceiling in old-fashioned wooden cases. Only reason the beer was there was the owner died without any heirs. Carta Blanca doesn’t expire under normal circumstances. But this was a terrible waste unless we can use it for special compost successfully.

Since beer is full of microbes and yeasties and a full matrix of spoor-supporting nutrition, we decided to use it for Streaker Jones special mix.

We’re out to the compost pad checking temperatures and checking quality and smell and such when a pick-up full of armed men came racing through the plant, dusting-up the air, and came to a screeching halt where we stood.

Streaker Jones spotted them first, and after just a quick assessment of the situation he said to me, he says, “Mooner, u git b-hind me an zip yur lip.”

So, I zipped it and stood in his shadow as the men arrived and the six of them scrambled out of the cab. The truck was one of the big Ford Extended Cab F350 “King Ranch Edition”- a monster. It was black and had all the rims and flags and bumper stickers a person would expect from the crew the truck shit-out its doors. It even had the snarling, slobbering pit bull in the back.

“We’re lookin for Mooner Fuckface Godless Johnson, mutherfucker. Whur is e?” This from the leader, a man of maybe fifty years- pot bellied, chaw-juice stained lips and teeth (maybe nine teeth), and holding some variety of assault rifle. These first words spoken as the six men fanned-out in a semi circle facing the sun. Each man carried a nasty looking gun.

Streaker Jones replied, “Mooners not taking company boys. Pack up and head out before you get hurt.” I noticed that the pit bull silenced and started shaking like a chihuahua as soon as Streaker Jones started talking.

Of course these dumb right-wing religious fuckballs aren’t as smart as their dog and don’t think clearly enough to think at all. So the speaker says, “OK boys. Rough em up fer me.”

I didn’t see everything that happened in the next three seconds because I had my eyes closed. I sometimes lack enough stomach to watch the killing machine that is my best friend.

When Streaker Jones says to me, “OK Mooner, you kin open yur eyes,” I did.

“Did you kill them all?” I whimpered. All six were in one big body pile. I saw no blood but no movement either.

“Nope. They’s jus gonna be wishin theys dead’s all.” Then he added, “You know who these shitballs are, right Mooner?”

I told him, “Well Streaker Jones, they look just like I imagined they would when their leader called me with the threats after he logged-on to my bloggie yesterday. I recolated his voice.”

“Tell Javier to bring tha loader over. We’ll put em in the bucket and dump em in tha pond. That’ll wake em up.” Sometimes my best friend has a mean streak. That pond holds the runoff water from our operations. It is nasty water.

“You’re right about that Streaker Jones. Wake them up and inoculate them with a few million possibly undesirable strains of bacteria. Sounds like a plan.”

Now I know you thought I was digressing on you with my ADHD or the ADD that infects my soul, but I am not. See, these assholes were from one of those new religious militias that want to eliminate Jews because the Jews crucified Christ.

I did this presentation to one of Sister and Anna the Amazon’s lesbian groups meeting where I discussed prejudices. I happen to have some very strong ideas about prejudice and I am told that my perspectives are interesting and somehow, this bunch of militia asswipes heard about my views.

Anyway, I was invited to speak about prejudice, and specifically the prejudice Christians seem to have against homosexuals. After a few minutes of discussion on that specific subject, my mind wandered to the militia groups that hate Jews for, “Killing our Lord and Saviour.”

In a nutshell, in my opinion, the Christians should be grateful to the Jews for killing Christ, if that was even the way things went down. Personally, I think you could blame the Romans if you wanted, but in reality the killers were greedy, fearful individuals. You know, men who were afraid that Jesus was going to take something from them.

But look here. The prophets said that Jesus was going to be put here to full-fill a prophecy, that He would be killed for being different, and that He would rise from the dead to clear the path for the rest of us to have Salvation. My Baptist church preaches to me that this sequence of events was God’s plan. God’s Master Plan in fact. Fail to perform any of the key parts and the entire plan fails. Right?

Then why are these brain-dead Bozos mad at the Jews for doing what it was that God programmed them to do? If God wanted the Jews to kill Jesus shouldn’t we Christians be grateful? Are we not asked to be grateful for the blessings bestowed upon us by others?

Hell, if I was in charge of holidays I’d have a holiday called, “Thank God for the Jews Otherwise I’d Have a Bitch of a Time Getting to Heaven Day.” Maybe I’d need to shorten it to “TGJOHBTGH-Day.”

That’s still not catchy enough but you get my point.

These militia types are angry because they are not Jews. That’s all. Their minds lack enough functionality to understand that no two people are really alike in any way. But because they don’t think well, or thoughtfully, they are afraid of anything some shitwad preacher or talk radio host or celebrity tells them to be frightened of. Or about.

When I asked Streaker Jones how he managed to incapacitate the six armed men without spilling any blood, he said to me, “Careful plannin, Mooner.”

Now that is a man who knows how to think.

OK, two items to clear up. First, I am not paid by Carta Blanca. I would love for them to sponsor me, but no, at this time they do not. They know how to reach me if they do. I love Carta Blanca beer- plain and simply.

Second. Well, second I have forgotten what else it was that was second. Maybe I’ll remember later. Isn’t ADHD/ADD fun?

Tags: ADD/ADHD, Camel Toe, Streaker Jones
Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer, Chelsea Handler, Humor, Religion | 4 Comments »

Posts Tagged ‘Streaker Jones’

Pope Still A Queen; Tries To Ruin THKSGVNG

Unintended Serialization; Dilemma’s Double Indemnity- Part Two

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

#ColleenLindsay, Still Hero; #MoonerJohnson, Crybaby

Mexican Jails and Carta Blanca Beer

#colleenlindsay- Hero; Mooner Lied

Re-edit, Relived, Relieved

Feminine Hygeine Product Exposes Mooner

One Man’s Pain In The Ass Is Another Man’s Ass Pain

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

Dental Hygienists Sue Gram; Sprouts Has The Answer

I Get That A Lot, or, When Your ADHD Is Not Obsessively Compulsed

Home Grown Tomato Hints; Unique Sea Salts of the World

Am I Bleu?; Cheese Talk with Mooner Johnson (Part 10)

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

Sarah Palin Wants to Taser Mooner Johnson (Part 7)

Day Nine; Rememberating Mexico and Other Hallucinations (Part 6)

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

City of Austin Employee Does Kind Act

A Last Warning; Right-Wing Militia Shitballs and Jesus

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