Saturday, April 14, 2012

TQ Presents... @MoonerJohnson

I generally try to put out three blog posts per week, but from time-to-time, I get caught up with other things: The Mrs., work, football, etc. So, I figured, why not solicit some of my favorite bloggers to take up the slack for me. Yeah, that's right, I can facilitate my blogging duties to others! How lazy wonderful is that? Over the next week or so, you'll see guest posts from some of my favorite people!

I've asked my ol' buddy, Mooner Johnson, to liven up my site with his randomness! Mooner, the only blogger buddy that I've ever met in person, is not just a blogger. He's also an author of an extremely funny book. Prepare to be appalled and entertained at the same time!

Well, I'm going to let Mooner do his thing. After you read this and enjoy his work, then cruise on over to and subscribe to his blog. It's good stuff. It wouldn't be on my page if it weren't. Take it away, Mooner.
So. When my buddy Quincy asked me to hold his stead while he takes a well-deserved vacation, I was quick with an instant “Of course” and a “No problem” as well. When I asked him about rules and guidelines and stuff, Q told me, “No reservations, Mooner. It's your forum for a day.”

It isn't often that sane people turn me loose without any reservations because without rules and guidelines, I tend to go way off the reservation. While I'm but one-sixteenth American Indian/Native American, that small part of me dominates all reservational conditions. Said another way, if I don't have something to hold me back—if there are no dumass conditions or stupid rules to tether my actions—then I have trouble getting untethered.

Another issue lying herein is that Quincy is all about having common sense, and then using it. I've got no common sense—an admitted fact—and many say I have no sense at all. My own mother tells everyone at her church, she'll say. “Oh, you just need to ignore all of those heretical things Mooner writes about. My son doesn't have the good sense God gave a grape.”

I do, on the other hand, sense that you readers of this bloggie, Quincy's bloggie, have enough going for you to pick through the bullshit and find the meat of matters. Which reminds me. How about that pink slime, huh?

I know that you are already saying to yourself, you're saying, “Holy shit, Grandma, but this Texas boy is confusing the ever-loving bejesus right out of me.”

Welcome to my world.

As a life-long sufferer of the dreaded ADHD and its tamer little brother, ADD, the obfuscations already contained herein are but the standard contusions of daily life as manifested through the distractions of life, as said life is lived by me. Again said with a slightly different twist, my ADHD is highly contagious and the first symptom is when you shake your head and reread sentences.

Having said all of that, since Quincy always asks a question with his postings, I'm going to present you with one of my dilemmas and see if you can assist me with its solving. OK, stop. Do you solve a dilemma or does it just go away when its causes subside? Are dilemmas like hemorrhoids and need to be removed for a permanent cure, or are they more akin to poison ivy, wherein you stop scratching and it just goes away?

I got poison ivy this one time when I was a teenager. A neighbor cleared some land and burned the cleared vegetation. I breathed and walked through poison ivy smoke that resulted from the burn. Got that shit in my nose and sinuses, my eyes and throat, in my ears and all over my pecker and balls. If memory serves me, the pecker and balls eruptions were secondary afflictions. Since poison ivy's rash spreads from contact and I was a teenage boy, I managed to spread my secondary eruptions over most of my body not already covered.

I spent about six-weeks covered head-to-toe with calamine lotion. Gram called me “The Pepto Bismol Man” and made me a white hat shaped like a bottle cap to keep the sun off my blistered scalp. Sunshine makes the rash itch even more and seems to promote fatter blisters, and my Gram can be seriously funny.

Anyway, the dilemma-of-the-month is this. My adopted 350-pound African ostrich, Rick Perry, wants to get breast augmentations so that he can better please his gay lover. Said lover, the 550-pounds of domesticated pig named Rush Limbaugh, is a breast man as it turns out, and Rick Perry wants to be able to fill-out a wedding dress for Rush's benefit. I'll not go into the wedding dress aspects here as we don't have time. Quincy told me he likes to keep things short here to his place, so just know that the big bird has sound reasons for getting giant rubber titties—some logical reasoning and some purely emotional in nature.

Personally, I feel that Rick Perry has a way-plenty ample breast for any man. Have you guys ever seen a full grown African ostrich up close? There has to be a hundred pounds of brassiere meat on a mature male ostrich. But love and vanity are distant relatives to common sense, and he wants this in the worst way.

I'm pretty liberal about all things Love, so my reticence is all from the practical perspectives. The bird is already so top heavy he can't fly, and I'm concerned that the additional high-front ballast will make him walk funny and maybe hurt his back.

Then there will be that whole nipple and aureole dealie. Rush Limbaugh is a piggish fellow and he has already asked me to get him nipple clamps for his birthday. I went shopping for them last week and brought home replacement ends for truck jumper cables. I had Gram make purple velvet pads for the clamps. I hope they'll be big enough.

But where will the doctor get the skin and flesh to form nipples from? Other than his breast, the only meat on the silly bird is perched on his tight little ass. Maybe he can use those spurs on the back of Rick Perry's feet. Nipples made from the spurs would always be hard and I know that would take a lot of the fun out of playing with them. At least they'd never get sore.

As his father, it is my responsibility to advise him and insure that I only give him my best advice. He's a grown man and I won't tell him what to do, but let's face the facts here folks, Rick Perry is not all that smart. He's got a very pretty head but it's mostly thick skull and just a tiny little brain. Rick Perry isn't smart enough to know just how stupid he is.

Which reminds me. My ostrich's namesake, the pompous dickhead Governor of Texas, just made a big speech about pink slime and how people need to just shut up and eat it. He made this speech because most of the pink slime is made by the big agricultural conglomerates in their plants up to the Texas Panhandle. Don't know if you noticed, but Rick “the Prick” Perry didn't eat a plateful of that shit at the news conference.

Help me here, guys. What advice would you give your son if you were me? Do I suggest he see a psycho therapist or should I just buy the damned things as a wedding present? I must admit that I bought a pair once before as a birthday gift for one of my ex-wives, and I must also admit that I liked them. Still do. Ingrid owns Ingrid's Hot Wax Emporium and, well...

OK stop, as I've left the tracks in the altogether. Ingrid is an incredible woman but has nothing to do with what I need from you guys. What I need is some serious insight from people with common sense. I need a common sense solution for an uncommon problem.

So, help a brother here. What would you do if your child wanted breast implants?

Go here for a follow-up on this blog.


  1. Oh... my... God. Quincy, what have you done?

    For those of you who don't regularly follow Mooner Einstein Johnson's blog, all I can do is offer you this much in the way of an explanation: the guy is much more sane in person. In fact, when Mooner came through middle Tennessee on his Blobber Tour after stopping in to meet Quincy, we didn't really know what to expect. After all, reading the guy's posts was like watching "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" only in Albanian. Without subtitles.
    But he turned out to be just a regular guy, more or less, who happens to write about anything that comes to his mind. And his gay ostrich and pig come to his mind a lot. Trust me.

    Quincy, you sir, have a set. I'd no sooner turn Mooner loose on my blog site than hand a hammer to a three year old in a showroom full of Masserati's.

    Can't wait to hear what your regular followers are thinking after this one!

    1. LOL! "In Albanian without subtitles?" Very good comparison. Well, Squat, you know that I discuss a variety of things on my blog and the topic of a "gay ostrich" had yet to be broached, so...

  2. I just tried to make a flow chart showing the subject matter of this blog, and I think I sprained my wrist.

    But I will say this: When weighing your ostrich breast implant options, go ahead and plop down the extra cash for the good stuff. There was a guy who got arrested in my neighborhood a couple years back because poor transgender folks were paying him to shoot hydraulic fluid into their chests. As it turns out, they should have just saved up for the silicone of whatever it is they use now.

    And speaking of human bodies rotting, I have found a great replacement in my diet for the pink slime thing. IT's called soylent green, and while I don't know what the hell is in this stuff, Rick Perry and a young Charlton Heston completely endorse it for consumption by the masses, for the masses, and of the masses.

    That is all.

    1. "It's people!" LOL! You're lucky that all you sprained was a wrist, but at least you were able to provide a solution for ol' Mooner. I'm sure he and Rick will be happy about it. Thanks for commenting!

  3. Squatie. You, of all people, should not be calling the Alnbanian's pot crazy. I've been to middle Tennessee to visit the People of the Hills, and if I feel compelled to say anything about your breed--I think I might should keep it to myself.

    As for your hammer-and-Masserati comment--glass houses, glass houses.

    Katy. You are, and remain so, one of my favorite people on the face of the earth. I have this feeling deep in the pit of my stomach that I am your father. That is quite an unsettling sensation as I find you quite attracrive in the biblical sensations.

    Having said that, thank you for the idea, and please--don't ever eat anything that you squeeze from a tube. Just saying.

    Q. Your patience is a work of art.

    The Rest of You. Come on, tell me what you think. Don't pretend that you are better parents than am I. At least I place common sense at the top of my list.

    PS- Maybe I shouldn't post comments after a day's worth of Carta Blanca beers, six hours of smoking Streaker Jones' newest harvest, and a heavy dosing of Gram's latest magic mushroom potion she calls "Who gives a shit, Mooner, yer panties is in a wad, and yer son wants rubber titties."

    My cat is in heat, I can't feel my feet, and I think I'd like to have sex with Michele Bachmann. Life can't get much better.

    1. Michelle Bachmann fantasies? Mooner, stop drinking, man.

  4. *walks into the room in a huff* Q, I'm the one who's being lazy this month and posting guest posts!!Copy cat! :P

    1. Hey, I have to do what the other successful bloggers do, right? Imitation is the highest form of flattery! :)

  5. I say go ahead and get the poor guy some boobies, what harm can a nice set really cause?

    1. Thanks for the input, Chris! I'm sure that Mooner will heed your advice and get it done! LOL!


Search This Blog

Share Me!

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...
Pin It button on image hover