Posts Tagged ‘Taser Guns as Foreplay’

James Frey Uses Hitler Logic?

Monday, November 15th, 2010

 

So. It appears that this James Frey is a total fuckwad for the methods he uses to gain personal advancement, taking advantage of the creative efforts of others. I have been wanting to discuss my thoughts on Frey but didn’t have the chance until yesterday. SAC Ellen and I went to a party last night, and I finally brought the situation to the attention of a cliquish group of strangers.

This bunch, three women and two men, were sitting on the large entertainment grouping of sofa, love seat and side chairs. They had spaced themselves to where the five of them were dominating seating arrangements for nine people. Thirteen if everyone likes each other, and nobody plays down lineman for UT football.

I had been watching as others, in ones and twos, attempted to sit and join. Each had been ignored, or received chastened responses with that “eat shit and die, lowlife” look that cliquish people cast at outsiders. The five seating obfuscaters had grown bolder with each outsider’s attempt at sitting, and they had degenerated to stretching arms and legs and sitting sideways to hide areas not covered by an ass.

I watched this for maybe thirty minutes while listening to SAC Ellen talk to her Federal Agent cronies as they discussed the things Federal Agents discuss when off duty. Since many Federal Agents are consumed with Federal Agent’ing, much of the conversation was job specific. I won’t say the discussion was boring, but I was getting pissed at the action over to the seating area.

When the clique refused seating to a man with his pregnant wife, I’d had enough. I grabbed a hand-full of Carta Blanca beers, which is four, picked up a big bowl of chips and cradled it between by arm and my chest, and walked over.

I stood and looked at each clique member to await any form of acknowledgment. Receiving none, I pushed between a man lounging on a love seat and the woman to his left who was taking up three seats on the sofa.

“Oops,” I apologized as I stepped on the man’s foot as it lay positioned to block entry to the seating area.

“Oh, shit,” to the woman, as I dumped some BBQ potato chips in her lap.

I barged through like an asshole at a movie theater with my two arms full of refreshments. “Sorry about that, Darlin’. Can I sit here?” And with that I sat on her hand. She didn’t move the hand- she left it so I would get up.

“Oops, again. Are you hurt or are you just glad to see me?” That got the hand moved with great alacrity.

“Hi, everyone, I’m Mooner Johnson.” I placed my beers on the table and grabbed the previously sat upon hand with my drippy wet one for a shake. Her hand was soft and gave mine that “ooo, you are so icky!” part shake, part brush-off act.

I released her hand and half stood to shake the man’s hand, dumped more chips on the woman in process, and pushed the woman’s legs from the side, pinning them against the end of the sofa.

“Sweet Jesus am I a klutz,” I said as I air shook the man’s hand. “What are y’all discussing?”

When nobody responded I said, “Oh, this is one of those groups where the new guy gets to change the topic.”

I scratched my head like I was thinking of what was important enough to not waste their time. This was an act because I had been wanting to discuss this Jimmy Frey bullshit ever since Colleen Lindsey brought it to my attention last week.

“So. What do you guys think about this whole James Frey business?” When I got blank looks and sour faces in response, I told them what I know. Admittedly, what I know is little, but that never stops me from expounding on any topic.

When I finally stopped talking, this one guy, the one I had pegged as the clique’s leader, says to me, he said, “From what you say, my impression is that Mr. Frey has a sound business plan,” and then they all chuckled.

I asked him to expand and he did. The basics were that, in a free capitalistic economy experiencing tough economic times, new markets filled with desperate consumers pop up to be abused by forward-thinking businessmen.

“We have a responsibility to fill a market void,” he told the group, almost as an aside.

When he reached for a chip from my bowl, I slapped his hand away. “So, let me get this straight. You are telling us that it doesn’t make any difference that you are taking advantage of the consumer, or that you are providing shabby products, as long as the consumer buys what you are selling and you profit from it?”

“That’s right,” he says, and he reaches for my chip bowl again.

This time I pinched the skin on the back of his hand. “OK, this is sinking in.”

I ate a double fist-full of chips, chewed and swallowed, slugged some beer and said, “Then you think Hitler was a smart businessman and approve his tactics.”

Now see, this is another of those times when I get into trouble without justification. The man grabs angrily at my chip bowl, and I flick the end of his nose with my middle finger. Hard. I can bloody your nose when I place my middle finger under my thumb and flick. Streaker Jones taught it to me as a non-lethal defense technique back to grade school, and I have practiced ever since.

The man stands straight up in obvious shock, and big tears well in his eyes. Those big tears drain from the inside corners of his eyes, and race down his cheeks to join the little dribble of blood at his upper lip.

“He hit me!” He swiped his sleeve at his face and looked at the tear-diluted bloodstain on his shirt. “He drew blood. You all saw him hit me!”

Me, I’m starting to enjoy myself as this silly fucker has finally made an intelligent statement. But that’s when, from behind me, I heard the quiet electronic sound a Tazer gun makes when it’s handler primes it for use. It’s similar to the sound a camera makes when it primes the flash.

It’s also the sound that stimulates a primal voice in my psyche that screams, “Duck Mooner!!!!”

I ducked, spilling beer and the remains from my chip bowl. The free market businessman, who obviously lacked the psychic history required to get my advance notice, took a pleasant little charge of Direct Current. One cute metal-spiked wire stuck in his neck, the second in his chin, where tears and nose blood had started to drain.

Since, when standing upright this guy was maybe seven inches shorter than me, I surmised that the Tazer shooter was the SACster, and that she was aiming at my lower-left shoulder. She hits me at heart level whenever she’s desirous of the serious sex we enjoy after I’ve been mildly electrocuted.

I didn’t get arrested because the guy didn’t want to press charges, and I gave a short class on nose thumping to some of the women before we left.

On the way home, SAC Ellen quizzed me on the origins of the fight as she drove us in her Special Agent car. I told her it wasn’t really a fight and how I had compared the actions of James Frey to Adolf Hitler. “You know that ‘the ends justify the means’ dealie.”

She thought about it for a second and then went all misty eyed. “Do we need any beer?” I shook my head, then she asked, “Can you stay the night?”

I said, “Yes,” and tilted my seat back.

When I heard the little electronic charging sound, I shut my eyes, adjusted my undies to accommodate the redirected blood flow, and smiled.

Manana, y’all.

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Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer, selfpublishing | No Comments »

I R Dum; Need Carta Blanca

Thursday, September 2nd, 2010

 

So. I have finished my part in the business that has kept me incommunicado, and I’m home. And staying home. My part has been completed, but not the entire business. Therefore, ipso facto and heretofore, having been briefed and filed in prior postings, I still can’t talk about it.

But I will. Trust me, I will. Howsoever, maybe I’ll stop with all of the big legal words posthaste, and with unmitigated alacrity.

I got in late yesterday afternoon and went to Dr. Sam I. Am’s house first thing to get the Squirt. The entire time I was gone, all I could think about was one: who elected this guy; two: I wonder what underwear SAC Ellen is wearing; and three: I miss the Squirt.

Each of my phone calls to SAC Ellen started with, “Tell me which underwear you are wearing.” SAC Ellen has one of those bodies that was made for sexy undies.

Sammy’s house is on my way home to the ranch, so I had justification for picking Squirt up before heading home to refresh before my date with SAC Ellen. I clearly understand a few of the intricacies of the female brain, so I carefully thought through a road map of my travels once I hit the Austin City Limits.

I did miss one of those intricacies as SAC Ellen opened the door to her place and saw the Squirt, sitting pretty like a bunny rabbit and wagging her tail furiously. She was wearing one of those flimsy summer dresses that fit loose, and show every curve as the fabric embraces, then billows away with movement.

SAC Ellen looked down at Squirt and then up at me and said, “Oh, hello Mooner. I really appreciate you dropping off this cute little bundle of puppy love for a visit. I’ve really been missing her.” And then, “See ya.”

With that, she bent so the dog could jump into her arms, turned and slammed the door in my face.

Welcome home Mooner, you dumbass. You giant, liberal, shit-for-brains fuckball!

When I got back into my old GTO, my cell phone started ringing as I pushed the start button on the center console. I had a pushbutton starter installed after falling in love with the one in Gram’s Ferrari. Been thinking of getting one of those big twelve-cylinder engines too.

I fumbled the phone open and brought it to my ear. Before I could even say, “Hello,” SAC Ellen’s sexiest voice said, “Look at my front window Mooner.”

I turned to the big picture window on the front of the apartment where she stood in her flimsy dress. She smiled at me, showed me her stun gun, then cradled her phone between shoulder and ear, and lifted the dress to her neck with both hands.

“Like the undies?” And with that she dropped the flimsy dress, snapped her phone off and shut her drapes.

“What undies?” I answered into three triangulated cell phone towers of dead air.

I guess she was pissed because I forgot to bring flowers. I was too consumed with getting Squirt to rememberate the flowers.

I’ll be leaving this morning to get the Squirt before heading out to Mooners Compost Plant, and back to work. I’m getting the first tee shirt ready for sale here to the webber. It’ll be my initial product of any kind and it’s exciting. I’ve discovered that Squirt has a good sense of humor, so I’m using her to help me with my tee shirts.

Women intrigue me. All women. But they still make me stupid. When I think about all of the women in my life and the strength and duration of those relationships, I feel that I should have a clear understanding by now. With as many years of experience and in all of those situations, I should be better with this.

Think about it.

Gram, Mother, Sister and Anna the Amazon, the other nine ex-wives, SAC Ellen, Gnat and all the others. I’ve been married to a lesbian and have a lesbian sister; I have been married to a psycho therapist and she is my therapist still; Gram and Mother are polar opposites; I still have strong friendships with all of my exes; and I’m a thoughtful, reasonable guy with at least a modicum of good sense.

But I screw up all the time when dealing with women. What’s wrong with me?

But being a silver-lining kind of guy, I’m looking at the bright side. Make-up sex is always the best.

Manana, y’all.

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Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer, Squirt | 3 Comments »

RushLimbaugh and RickPerry Destroy Garden; Gram Gets Bent

Friday, August 20th, 2010

 

So. An unexpected pleasure that became a benefit of my rescheduled incommunicado event, and return to Austin, was for me to be able to spend time with the SACster’s sister from out to the Pacific Northwest. Her sister, let’s call her Kathy, is a research scientist in the behavioral issues field. She and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson have become fast friends, so when we made dinner plans for last night, Sammy was on the list.

I am trying to get more in tune with the whole “commonality of interest” syndrome. Since Dr. Sam I. Am and Kathy both work with human behavior, they have much to talk about. I must admit I was a touch taken aback when they started discussing a joint research project that would entail scientific observations of me.

Maybe it’s not a syndrome but simply a dealie. But like Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner?”

Kathy wanted Mexican food, so of course we went to Vivo, and for the first time ever we had wait staff not named Caitlin. We did have Katelyn’s husband, Garrett, and his pal Kyle, and still no Carta Blanca beer for me. Caitlin and Katelyn were working inside but we, of course, sat out to the patio.

We’ll call SAC Ellen’s sister Kathy, because she remains uncertain if she is comfortable having a close identity with my rantings. She and I share mutual leanings on most important issues, she is smart as a whip- which seems to be a family trait, and she laughs at all of my jokes. Well, she laughs at most of my jokes.

Some of my jokes.

Anyway, she’s smart, well read, thoughtful and compassionate. When we first got seated for dinner and our drinks arrived, I asked her if I could use her name here to the bloggie. She thought long and hard, with her pretty facial features scrunched studiously.

“Well, here’s my evaluation of the available evidence, and my unscientific conclusion. I say unscientific not because I lack the skills to evaluate, but rather because I don’t have any baseline data to use for comparative analysis.”

Deep breath, then, “In my rural home area, the bulk of the settling populations who migrated from around the country, did so in the 1960′s and 1970′s. And in a strangely unscientific way, that census was a distinctly dichotomous array.”

Deep breath, re-scrunching of pretty facial features, and slow exhale. Then, “These war baby pioneers were either Hippies, like me, or persons holding opposite world views.”

Stare blankly into the distance, deep breath, adjust reading glasses and take a deep sip of Eastside Margarita. The Margarita was on the rocks, with a lightly salted rim. “The old timers in town call my group the Hippies, and have named our opposites the Hicks. I don’t approve of that name, Hicks, Mooner. I think it’s disparaging. Let’s call the others Them, shall we?”

Breath, scrunch, gaze and another long sip before, “However disparaging I might find the old timers’ name for Them, their politics are distinctly revolting. And often unnerving. More guns, no taxes, no public schools, kill abortion physicians not babies, Jesus is my co-pilot and let’s have a whale for lunch are but a few of the many mantra of Them.”

Me, I’m thinking maybe it should be “…many mantra of the Them.”

Now I get an expression-less look followed by, “I wouldn’t want to be hunted by my crazy neighbors for anything you might say, Mooner. I can put my face on a wanted poster any time I choose to, and without your assistance.”

See, I get that. And I love when a scientist talks science to me. Maybe I can get SAC Ellen to dress-up in scientist clothes before she zaps me with her stun gun.

So, we’ll call her Kathy had the Enchiladas Verde and fell in love with Vivo. Me, I still love Vivo, but I’m getting testy about the entire Carta Blanca beer thingie. Maybe I should offer to bring my own beer and pay them a bottle fee. I’ll need to research the records of the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission and their archaic rules. Wouldn’t want to put the Vivo’s liquor license to risk.

Which reminds me to tell you that Rush Limbaugh the Pig and his sidekick, the ostrich Rick Perry, got into more trouble with Gram while I was gone that short period of time. I told the two of them to stay in the closet and out of Gram’s sight while I was incommunicado.

But you guys know Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh. They want to stay hidden in the closet, but just cannot control their impulses if their lives depended on it. Those two shitballs headed out to the garden in the middle of the night, because Rushie felt, and I’ll quote him here, “Ricky and I felt we deserved to take what we wanted as long as we left a little for everyone else.”

And armed with that asshole demeanor, they ransacked the just ripened sweetcorn.

To quote my Gram, she said, “Tha pig is gonna be a hulie how with a apple up his ass Mooner. An that fucking bird a yurs ul make me a nice chickin dinner.”

When I corrected her to the fact that Rick Perry is an ostrich, she says to me, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. By tha time I roast ‘im alive he’ll be squawkin lik a chicken.”

I decided not to risk telling her that pigs are the guest of honor at a luau. I did tell her, “I love you,” and, “I’ll plant more corn.”

When I inspected the garden, I once again realized that we had named these two animals correctly. Our big garden has, well had, four long rows of Silver Queen sweetcorn. Maybe a hundred big stalks of corn with just browning tassels when I last looked Saturday night.

Now, what we have are six lonely stalks, standing tall, and what appears at first glance to be the aftermath of a tornado. Uprooted corn stalks and empty corncobs strewn all over the place. At least they cleaned the cobs. Hell, they ate many of the cobs.

And let me ask you this. Have you ever smelled when an ostrich with a distended belly full of fresh sweetcorn takes himself a big old number two? Holy shit! Maybe the sixty-something feet of intestines in that bird might help to get that meal to sustain him for a month. However, the pile of ostrich poop resulting from the digestive process can only be called foul smelling.

I wonder if that smell is the origin of the word foul?

Just thinking about it causes me to need a Carta Blanca.

Manana, y’all.

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Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Psychotherapy, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig | 2 Comments »

Go Daddy Intimidates Mooner More Chelsea Handler Camel Toe Fights Sarah Palin

Wednesday, July 14th, 2010

OK. We were discussing the word count police and my recent bloggie evaluations from Go Daddy when I so rudely left you yesterday. They basically told me to see what keywords you guys hit the hardest and design all of my content around that. And a bunch of other nonsense.

So….. that means everything I write must be about: Chelsea Handler, Kathy Griffin, Sarah Palin, Oprah Winfrey, Rush Limbaugh, pig, Rick Perry, ostrich, including their camel toes, sex, sex dreams, coming out parties, Carta Blanca Beer, plus Mooner’s homegrown tomatoes.

Notice I did all of that without putting any stop words in it.

Everything else is a waste, according to those fuckballs at Go Daddy. Actually, I like Go Daddy and have had frequent and quite lurid dreams about Danica Patrick. She reminds me of SAC Ellen in her solid sexual energy. Except the SACster is much taller and lighter in the hair and longer legs.

Then there would be the whole badge and gun thingie.

I had this one dream when we were to West Texas that night after we watched the Marfa Lights. In this dream, I was playing a game like Whack-A-Mole except that it was camel toes and the whacker was my tastefully dressed pecker. Sarah Palin kept cheating- she was grabbing the whacker and trying to make contact. I’m not a cheater at anything, so I kept asking her to let go of my whacker and to please just push her pocket meat to the mole hill assigned to her.

The ladies were all positioned behind the big game board in the manner of that old TV show Hollywood Squares. Each woman stood behind the game board that had a mole hill for her to proudly display her camel toe. I was in a harness and hanging from a bungy cord so I could bounce around and try to whack a toe to the surprise of the women. But like I say, Sarah Palin kept poking her arm through her mole hole to grab the whacker.

I was quite impressed with her hand strength. I guess pulling the trigger of a gun is an isometric hand strength exercise.

Anyway, Kathy and Chelsea get pissed because Kathy likes to win everything, and Chelsea has the hots for me. I’m older than Chelsea and I’m crazy to boot, so that makes me precisely her cup of tea. So, Kathy is bitching at Sarah Palin and Chelsea is seething at her and the next thing I know, it’s a cat fight. Chelsea attacks Sarah and Kathy somehow gets in the middle and the three of them are all rolling around and pulling hair and shit.

Reminded me of that cartoon character the Tasmanian Devil from back on the Bugs Bunny Show. There’d be this frenzy of fighting and it was like they were spinning in a big featureless ball, with dust and hair flying. Then it seemed they would all tucker out at the same time and just come to a dead stop- each of the three of them heaving and sweating. They’d catch their breath and then Kathy would get pissed again and Sarah would say something stupid and the spinning ball would start again.

Have I told you that I think a sweaty woman is sexy? In particular, I am enamored with beads of sweat in the soft hollow of a hot neck. But my ADHD is getting control of me and now I’m digressing something fierce.

As the other three go spinning around for maybe the fifth time, Danica Patrick says to Oprah, she says, “Why don’t you and I go interview Mooner. I’ve got a stun gun and Mooner’s got his whacker.”

Oprah said, “Let me zap him, Danny, I’ve always wanted to pop a man with one of these.”

Now me, I was hanging there from a bungy cord and I’m thinking to myself, I thought, “Danny? Is that her nickname?” And before I could process any additional information- “ZZZAAAAPPPP!!!”

I didn’t get into any real dream trouble because that’s when I woke up, and with quite the boner. It seems that I can just dream about tazer guns and get the desired erectile effects. Hell, just thinking about it in a daydream can do it too.

See, I was to the Sprouts Farmers Market there to the Arboretum the other day and they were stocking the shelves with a truckload of brand-fresh produce from down in the Valley. The Valley is our big commercial produce part of Texas. This time of year is when all the melons start to ripen along with the red peppers and zucchini and okra and stuff.

I was waiting for them to get everything out before making my selections, hanging out near the cantaloupes. The only thing that was a must get from my list was the okra. Everything else I just get what I need to supplement what we grow to home. Since Rush Limbaugh the pig rooted-up all of Gram’s okra patch out to the ranch, I have to buy it. And massive quantities today because Gram wants to can some with the jalapeños that just got really hot.

“Git me an tha P-cubed some okree, Mooner. It’s cannin day,” was my Gram’s instructions.

My Gram is a great canner. OK, actually it’s P-cubed, Gram’s best bud, who’s the head canner, and Gram is the canner’s head bitcher.

And lookie here- we just hit 850 words. Fucking word police.

I’ll stop right here with my first icy cold Carta Blanca beer of the day and conclude by telling you that Katelyn checked me out at Sprouts and told me she was sorry but, “I don’t have a computer so I haven’t read your blog yet.” Then she added, “I’m a little behind the computer age.”

Now me, I’m behind the computer age myownself, so I won’t take advantage of Katelyn and say stuff behind her back. But it’s too bad that she won’t read that I think she is a number-one Cracker Jack check outer guy for Sprouts, and one of my favorites. Maybe Santiago will let her use his computer.

I’m not happy with this stop-before-you-get-an-entire-thought-out bloggerating business. It feels unethical. Why don’t you guys tell me what you want and maybe I can make some adjustments. And click onto www.godaddy.com and ask them to leave me alone.

Manana, ya’ll.

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Posted in ADHD, Camel Toe, Carta Blanca Beer, Home Grown Tomatoes, Humor, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Sprouts Farmers Market | 5 Comments »

Suicide Prevention Technique; Mooner Saves Jumpers

Saturday, June 5th, 2010

Hoo-Yaa!!! I just met with my web expert, Dustin Sparks, and I am major league pumped. He is going to fix my many I-net problems and help me get things designed and pretty as well.

He’s the man who told me about 99designs to do the logo contest. If you have been to the contest site the winner is Number 211 and the designer is SteveO. The contest drew logos from almost 40 designers and I looked at like 250 different designs.

Several friends in advertising have chewed my ass out for going to 99designs because it bastardizes the process and you can’t get the highest quality. “All you will get are amateurs and stoners giving you designs,” was how one put it.

But after the success of my 99designs logo adventure, I agree with Gram on this one. As she would say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. They’re all locos ta me!” And then she added, “Crazy artists ever one of em.”

Every time I’m ready to choke the life out of that old bat she saves herself by lighting up my life with the same mouth that has brought me most of my miseries.

I am very excited about the logo decision as well as all of the stuff that Dustin is doing here to the webber and bloggie. He’s doing layouts and sliders and clickies and all of that technical shit that would drive me to drink if I was responsible for them. Fact is the thinking about it has caused me to crack open the first icy Carta Blanca of the day.

If I was one of those suicide intervention officers for the police, I would always carry a cooler filled with Carta Blanca beer on ice along with some fresh homegrown tomatoes. If the tomatoes are out of season, I’d substitute a bowl of fresh smashed guacamole, fiery-hot salsa and a bag of good corn chips- like the store branded ones from Sprouts.

Then when I perched myself on the window ledge with the potential leaper, I’d give him a thin slice of vine-ripened heirloom with just a touch too much salt and pepper. Let him sit with that for maybe two minutes and get his salivary glands into action. Then I would pull a Carta Blanca from the cooler and make a big deal out of stripping the ice and icy water from the bottle, and I’d wipe the moisture from my hand on my shorts.

Of course the police would require me to wear a uniform or slacks, but they will work as a coaster as well as shorts. Then I’d say to the guy, I’d say, “Man this is thirsty work.” I’d make another big production out of opening the bottle.

Grampa, that would be my Gram’s long suffering and glad to be dead husband, gave me my first bottle key when I turned eighteen. Made of thick stainless steel, it bears the deep, obviously hand-stamped logo and catch phrase of my Grampa’s second favorite beer.

“Hamms- From The Land Of Sky Blue Waters, Hamms The Beer Refreshes!” are the words and the picture logo is of a happy, dancing bear. The sharp end used for punching the nifty triangular-shaped hole to the top of a metal beer can has long since seen use for its original purpose, but the flip top cap popper end is still going strong after thousands of uses.

The etchings show the polished and worn evidence of my many uses, and all of my pants have small worn spots or even holes to prove that I carry this treasure with me at all times.

So, after letting my charge sit with a mouth-full of over-salted tomato slobber, I would fumble with the antique church key and miss opening the bottle on the first few tries. Then, when I do get the cap pried off, I’ll let it flip off and over the side of the building.

“Holy shit,” I’d tell my jumper. “That’s a long way down!”

Then, I’d raise the bottle to my lips, but stop just short of my mouth and say, “Oh man, have I got terrible manners. Would you like to have this one?”

Of course he would and he reaches for the frosty bottle. I’d let him enjoy that first amazing swallow and when he shuts his eyes in pleasure, I’d zap him with the stun gun I have hidden in the waist band of my shorts and pull him backward into the building to safety. I’d sit on his chest and finish his beer while waiting for backup.

Maybe I should trademark this move and sell it to the police. I would do training seminars and get the police to volunteer to play the part of the jumper. I’d get to taze their shaggy asses and get them to pay me to do it. Major win/win kinda dealie.

As for my I-net improvements, Dustin hopes to have some stuff to look at soon. And I need to give him a plug because anyone who can work with me and my ADHD and still provide quality output needs to be plugged. You can get Dustin at www.dustin.net

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Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Home Grown Tomatoes, Humor, Sprouts Farmers Market | No 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.

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Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Humor, Religion, Sprouts Farmers Market | 7 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.

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

Adult ADD and ADHD; Using Tasers and Stun Guns as Foreplay

Friday, April 9th, 2010

Enough already with the Oprah Winfrey feedback. I mean give me a break already. What part of “I, Butcher Einstein Mooner Johnson, like Oprah Winfrey” is so difficult for you to understand. The fact is that I like Oprah, admire Oprah and even envy Oprah. Maybe it should be the “facts are” that I like, admire and envy.

Hell, I have this recurring dream about Oprah. See, Oprah is over to the ranch watching TV and we’re sitting on the couch right up close to each other, holding hands and smoocherating a little. We’ve made all of these proposition bets on the Super Bowl game, which is what we’re watching on TV. You know, prop bets- like who wins the coin toss, which player scores first, first penalty or first broken bone. Those kinds of bets.

For payment, if I win, Oprah owes me sexual favors. If she wins, I owe her sexual favors. All of the favors include sex paired with either wine, tequila or food and sometimes all three. Its a high-scoring game, so by halftime, the couch is littered with food scraps, empty booze bottles, leather straps and used condoms. But this is a major ADHD digression.

So look. Oprah is a person that I like, more than just somewhat, or a little. I like Oprah a lot.

But that has nothing to do with the very simple fact that Oprah Winfrey almost ruined my life! She did it, it is on record- video-taped as a matter of fact, it is verified and bona-fucking-fied. It is true that she almost ruined my life.

I didn’t blame her. I didn’t get mad at her or sue her for the near destruction of my total wellbeing she precipitated. I have never said a harsh word about Oprah and, in fact, have only promoted her.

So pull your collective heads out of your asses and your feet from my ass and listen here. While I cannot tell you the story, because little missy-pissy Editorator lady will get me re-institutionalized to the Bin if I confide here to the blog what’s in the book, just trust me when I say that Oprah had this week-long series of interconnected shows that set up a series of events that almost ruined my fucking life.

OK? I have proof. And I’m getting riled-up and punching at this shitty little keyboard to my new laptop like I’m playing Whack-A-Mole down to the Chuckie Cheezers joint. My fingertips are bleeding from hitting all these O’s.

Ever play Whack-A-Mole with a snoot-full of mushroom juice and about a dozen Carta Blanca beers under your belt?

Wait. The “Bin” is short for “loonie bin”. Which is short for the Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, Austin, Texas.

There was this one time when Streaker Jones and I took my kids to the original Chuckie Cheezers they had out to US 183. It was big time hoo-ha shit for Austin when it opened. He and I had just closed a big business deal and the kids were clamoring to go to the new place in town, so we loaded the crew into the recreational vehicle and headed out.

Why, you might ask, did we take the reckie for a quick stop to dinner to a place that was fifteen minutes drive from the ranch. Inquiring minds, right?

Ever try to drive with a snoot-full of mushroom juice and a twelve pack of icy cold Carta Blanca beer smoothing their way through your system?

I’m not driving. Fact is, none of us do any driving whilst intoxerated. Don’t mind writing stuff to post on my bloggie with a little influence, but drive- never. So, we took the reckie, this big Greyhound bus we converted into a road wagon. It had all the amenities of home with most of the amity.

After the kids wore themselves to total exhaustion whacking moles and rolling those little balls up a ramp and all that fun stuff, and Streaker Jones and myself had downed a case of beer, we all settled in for the night in the bus, which I had parked at the bank next door. The lot was full to Chuckie’s place and since the bank was closed, I figured, “Who gives a shit,” and parked at the bank.

However, as I discovered early the next morning, bankers lack both a forgiveness in their hearts as well as humor in their souls. Woke up at like 7:30 am when the bus jolted and rocked as this giant tow truck was lifting it by the ass-end for hauling it away. We’re all waving out the window to stop the presses and the tow driver sees us and stopped. I gave him a couple hundred and he unhooked us and drove away. I was warming-up the engine to take us home when the bank manager, followed by his “security” guard, came out yelling at me. We had a discussion, at first friendly, that somehow managed to escalate into something less friendly.

When the security guard reached to pull his weapon, Streaker Jones came from out of nowhere and in like half-a-second, the guard was unconscious, mostly undressed and hogtied with his own clothes, and the bank manager had the guard’s pistol stuck in his ear- hammer cocked.

Streaker Jones says to the banker, he said, “Go ahead, make my day,” so that tells you this was likely mid 1970′s or so. The tightly-bound security guard looked more like a badly-trussed poorly-plucked Christmas goose than he did a manly enforcer of security.

Can you “enforce” security or would you “secure” it? Need to ask the Department of Redundancy Department. Any of you guys know Fire Sign Theater or am I wasting good literary references here?

Anyway, that was the second time I got arrested in front of the kids and the first time I experienced the effects on the central nervous system of a new law enforcement technology called the “Taser”. Nowadays, I look forward to a little dose of the taser from SAC Ellen. It’s part of our pre-sex foreplay.

In fact, the last time I had the Oprah dream, she got to taser me if she won. Then, after she witnessed the effects a good jolt of Direct Current had on my pecker, she wanted me to take a dose even if I won.

I think that would make a good theme for one of Oprah’s TV shows. If you think so go to www.oprah.com/ownshow/plug_form.html?plug_=505 and tell them.

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Posted in Humor, Oprah Winfrey, Psychotherapy | 5 Comments »