How much trouble can I create for myself or anyone else by simply breathing? Think about that. How near the looney farm are any of us? Much closer than we think?

Can carbohydrate addiction be a set up for murder? Can I awaken my third eye by pouring warm oil over my forehead? How many more people would be mass shooters if they could just find some camo pants they look good in? Where exactly are you on Karpman’s triangle? You need to know. Do you shift around, or always play the victim?

At the University of Caye Caulker’s Seahorse Ranch, ongoing research on Seahorse psychology has revealed role playing exists among Seahorses. Seahorse bully, Seahorse victim, seahorse savior. Karpman’s triangle.

Noticeable inconsistencies in research findings have been explained away by Dr. Riggin A. Doobier , M.D. as “The Bob Marley Factor.”
Doobier runs a home for wayward women on the island and therefore can’t be trusted.

I’m gonna have to get me a seahorse ranch and do some research myself! If my hunch about the ninth cranial nerve is correct, I’ll make billions!

If needed I’ll be sitting outside eating fried rice over at Aunties until four pm in 2029, at the three pm hookielau. Send a post card if you get work or run into the newly disaffected Cockwirk Scourge. He needs to call Noops Bogan. I’m not making that up.

I remember dropping off at Shakey Ray’s Cook Shack for the last time.
It was near the end of Ray’s life. By that time he had stopped shooting eight balls and smoking crack.

Ray had an interesting story that is worth telling. My complete biography of Shakey Ray will be published on Kindle in the spring of 2019. I’ll cover a few highlights.

Ray started off as a chicken sexer in southern Arkansas, then had a sudden epiphany at age 17 and drove himself to the Culinary Institute of America up in Hyde Park, New York, where he graduated in 1971.

Instead of telling me stories about his chef training, on my last visit, he preferred to talk about his drive to New York that year. He recalled taking the back roads on the way up and hitting all of the road side mailboxes he encountered with a baseball bat. They were putting off a magnetic pulse, he said. He was pretty sure he had gotten every one of them.

After chef school he was seized with an undercurrent of depravity and for a few years hooked up with a guy named Bob. Bad Bob, he called him. Not Dirty Bad Bob, the Mexican, but the original Bad Bob. They commenced to stealing cars, after which they would run them out of gas and then set them on fire. Ray’s memory was that when the cars were engulfed in flames Bob would throw down a prayer rug and pray this prayer: “May the divine Vishnu whose momentum none can stop, bless us for all of our well-being.” Apparently Bob was bad but he wasn’t all bad.

Ray had a habit of wearing sunglasses twenty-four seven. One day I asked him if he could see anything at night while wearing them and he explained, “the big show is going on inside of my head.” No doubt his artistry was wrought from the lunacy.

Later on in life there was a subsequent bout with bad chemicals which led him into his self described “constructive anguish” period. He emerged from this phase first as a window licker and then moved on to a job as a fire watcher. By that time Ray’s co-hort Bad Bob had turned good but had gotten a job committing suicide.

Anyway, Ray went on the invent the steptronic transmission for Ferrari and the Bogan Diode before he invented Stormy Night Frog Leg Pate’ which launched him back into the food shack realm of cheffing and made him eternally famous.

One night while wrestling an alligator turtle in the river Ray got sucked into a whirlpool. His son, Schmetterling, a vegan jogger who had invented byaldi vegetables and the Hilary Clinton Nut Cracker, jumped in after him. They both perished.

Noops Bogan, Ray’s second cousin, an anemic, well dressed musician and chef who is a former member of Kinky Friedman’s band, “The Texas Jew Boys,” took over the cook shack following Ray’s death.

Most people are unaware that Noops wrote Kinky’s hit song, “They Don’t Make Jews Like Jesus Anymore.”

The Noopster rocked the culinary world recently when he originated a new pig snout scrapple that happens to be featured in this month’s issue of Food and Wine magazine. Check it out.

Mojotoo.net

My Grandmother Was A Butthole

My grandmother was a butthole. Well, at least it could be said that she was evolving into a butthole. She had tendencies. Certainly—-she presented us with a number of intensely powerful butthole moments .

Although, in consulting with Dr. D. Moseley, Chairwoman of the Department of Animosity at Whatsa Mata University, who has dedicated her entire career to the study of a sect(we won’t say a religious one) she deemed Buttholists, it would have appeared grandma’s moments were random and episodic occurrences, no body of evidence of her belief, or of her faith in, or of actually being, a practicing Buttholist.

Dr Moseley claims there is no concentrated population of this sect anywhere.(Well, maybe Texas, I mean really, think about those Texans for a minute.)

The exact word Dr Moseley used was “ubiquitous.” “They’re everywhere!” In a quest for solid proven science I asked Dr. Moseley if it’s possible to “know one when you see one?” Her eyes got real big and she said, (now this is pure science) “OH YEAH!”

Notice: Dr. Moseley doesn’t want you to know who she is or where she lives or that she helped Pud Rutledge smuggle Pixie Bob cats in from Nicaragua last year. They’re $10,000 a piece. It explains everything.

The road to becoming a butthole, before that “ist” thing is added or the state of having nearly become a butthole: I need the correct term;

Should I go with buttholedom, buttholiness. Or maybe buttholalonian, like Thessalonians.

eg; my grandmother was a——Buttholalonian?

Does buttholiness sound too Christian? Are butt and holy a contradiction, a forbidden combination? I need answers. Today. And I’m not shitting you. The Anna Nicole Smith trial is being re-run tonight. No way in hell I’m missing that!

An average family, worldwide, even rare Nicaraguan jungle tribes(who raise the even more rare Pixie Bob cats—(strange coincidence)—-according to Dr. Moseley, has in it at least one butthole. The simplest(Occam’s Razor) solution to putting a name on the butthole in a family is family consensus. We all know who it is!

If you aren’t sure who it is, then the proven science answer is, and I mean it is EVERY time, it’s YOU! Even more telling is that if you are laughing right now, guess what, YOU have been caught in the butthole trap! Yeah! More tricky Moseley science!

We are packing a serious load of buttholes in my family. The simplest solution to managing this potentially nuclear circumstance is to alternate being the butthole. But there are so many of us that it becomes necessary to be in a continuous survey of a family butthole who is beginning to vibrate. Pay attention now. This is critical. We know—-when to back down.

In fact, just yesterday, our family’s most well-spoken and articulate butthole(the most dangerous kind)began to vibrate when ordering apple pie at a local restaurant. We have no rational explanation. Everything seemed to be going well, then—-it was served. Improperly. We all gave each other the glance, which is tantamount to surrender. Recognizing my position at number two butthole sitting at this table, I glanced first. Vitally important.

We’re REALLY good at this. We’ve witnessed two and three simultaneous butthole meltdowns. We’re hardened veterans.

Let me leave you with this thought; no matter how badly buttholes in public can behave, there is a butthole right there in your house that cause you more anguish. The bitterness of the family butthole is unrivaled in any other setting.

I’m at home today. Just Katherine and me. Everybody in my family knows that one of us is THE butthole. The one that actually received the gift of a belt with the words “The Butthole” on it. And it ain’t Katherine.

Sid Richardson was a wealthy Texas oil man, perhaps one of the most wealthy and influential men in American history. At one point in Sid’s life he disappeared from the pages of history for about ten years. I’m fascinated by that fact.

I am definitely no Sid Richardson, but I recently disappeared from the landscape. No, I’m not in prison. Well, not since that thing back in 2012. It was a close one. But I was never indicted! (No laughing Kristi Chapman)

I had a total shoulder replacement 5 weeks ago. In the process I found out that I am allergic to Dwarf Australian Barking Deer. It’s a long story that involves Pud Rutledge some Honduran male tabby cat smugglers. I don’t have the time or energy to go into the story, but trust me, it was ugly. Do you know Pud? He is also the prime suspect in the theft of that tortilla making machine at Posado’s. If the Mexicans find out about this, there is going to be a lynch mob after Pud! I volunteer to put the noose around his neck!

I’ve been reading a lot. Just started book number eight. At the end of number seven I realized that I had gained eight pounds.

I found out about the extra pounds today. I was back in my doctors office for the fourth time, attempting to get my axe murderer prevention medication adjusted. Weight gain, according to my doctor, comes from laying around on your ass reading books. Who knew that?

Now—murdering people with an axe burns a lot of calories. I figure about four hundred calories each. Any other guesses? I could burn some serious calories if I would just quit taking my medications.

But then I recalled the story told to me by a good friend who is a cancer survivor. In the story he explained that he had experienced severe weight loss during treatment. Following treatment and recovery he gained all of his weight back. “Being skinny is overrated,” he said.

So there! It’s anecdotal and only one case—- but convincing! I stopped off at Sam’s Club and bought a giant bag of chips, some of those stuffed peanut butter pretzels and a dozen Greek Gyros. I feel so much better now. Is there a Lane Bryant for men?

Other than all of that ridiculousness I shucked off my shoulder immobilizer last week. Sleeping with that thing strapped around you neck is miserable and it was beginning to smell like tepid hot dog water. The shoulder is improving right on schedule.

Today I had the idea that I might get started writing some vague, apocryphal account of my life, making up a bunch of stuff to make me look better and more thoughtful and intelligent than I really am, as opposed to the circus of vulgarity and bad judgements it has been. Nobody will read it but it would be fun to do.

We are headed to the beach soon to watch the fat people on the beach, you know, the ones that show up from Illinois in October. I’ll write about that. Did you know that they steal the Splenda off the tables in our restaurants down there? I’ll fit right in! I’m taking a few more books. I figure about an extra pound for each book.

What have I learned this week? Milk your nightmares. There might be something useful in there. Swallow those damned those pills. They’re good for you! And hand over that axe!

On any given day my friend Lane Pittard’s mind is more full of sh*t than a port-a-potty at the end of little league baseball season. This is not to lodge a complaint in any form or fashion—it’s some brilliant sh*t! He harbors some deeply felt beliefs.

However there is now one particular belief of his that I am now prepared to contest. In case you are unaware, he is a Baconist—bacon worshiper.

It all came to pass(sounds kinda biblical doesn’t it) last night at Cotton’s in Minden, Louisiana. Pittard is the one who sent me out there so I could argue that this is all his fault.

Cotton’s is a rather rough looking fried chicken joint. Not as rough as Gary Busey looks after a week long bender—-but fairly rough.

When we approached the place on hwy 79 what we witnessed could only be described as a frenzy. I haven’t seen that much craziness since we came up short on banana pudding at the Methodist church back in 1995! We ended up having to send the pastor to a three month Banana Pudding Addiction Recovery program. I hear he relapsed down in Lake Charles years later. Banana pudding is pure dope to a Methodist.

But back to Cotton’s.

The one place left to park in the pot-holed, dimly lit parking lot at Cotton’s was more narrow than Maxine Water’s mind. But we managed to squeeze in there.

There is a walk up order window on the outside, and an order window on the inside. A third window is badly needed.

Once seated across from a very large photograph of an old man(must be, or have been, Cotton) we waited. His photograph portrayed a man who appeared to have known many chickens. Yes, you can tell by looking.

At last our order arrived. Then—————then, I bit into that first drumstick. I passed into what can only be described as a dream state!
The holy fried chicken spirit came upon me! I would need a certified Pentecostal to adequately describe how I felt. Methodists like me never have such experiences. But I knew in that moment that I had reached out and touched the beak of the holy god of fried chicken! Who knew such food existed?

Later, as I drove away, I began to ponder Pittard’s bacon worship. I’ve heard he has an underground bacon bunker where he stores bacon in case of some unforeseen apocalyptic event.

As a matter of full disclosure I will reluctantly admit that I attended one of his late night meetings wherein he built a large bon fire, fashioned hats out of bacon and danced a weird pagan looking dance around the fire. It looked sort of like Elaine’s dancing on Seinfeld. Then we all ate bacon until we passed out. The next morning when I woke up the fire was continuing to smolder and I looked around to see that the still sleeping attendants, including myself, were all wearing Arkansas Razorback hats. Weird.

I’m going to go out on a limb here. I’m going to say that Cotton’s fried chicken
is, dare I say it, better than bacon!

Now——as many of you know, I am in fact, a baconaholic myself. I just can’t quit. Hell, I had a half a pound of bacon for breakfast this morning!
I’ve struggled. I’ve been to the twelve step meetings. I even had a sponsor(Susan Prestidge)who quit bacon many years ago and now drinks Vienna sausage juice, which is basically like methadone for bacon addicts.

Lord help me! I can’t get that chicken out of my head. I wonder if there are any crumbs in the bottom of my trash can from last night? It’s out on the curb. I could dig those out! Would that be wrong? Is this just trading one addiction for another? Maybe I should call Susan.

OH MY GOD! I HEAR THE GARBAGE TRUCK COMING! SH*T! I GOTTA GO!

Katherine and I had our evening meal at an Italian restaurant today (I won’t mention the name, but the word garden is part of it.) The experience is never boring. Never! Incidentally, I highly recommend the blackberry pineapple tea. I don’t drink alcohol but the sugar content was high enough that I am flying right now. YING!!

Tonight’s entertaining distraction was a server(we’ll call him Adam Baum).

It became impossible not to stare at him. I tried desperately not to look. While she was looking at him, Katherine looked back at me and said, “stop looking at him!” Ha! In small print on the back of his t-shirt was the phrase “Who Would Jesus Bomb?” I’ve wondered that myself.

Adam is obviously a trainee, a trainee none to thrilled to be there. He could have taken some lessons in enthusiasm from a former server at blankety blank garden (we still miss him) named Stormy.

Stormy was a delightful man. I mean really delightful! When he commanded your table it was an event. His choice of fine colognes, both men’s AND women’s were always a treat!

But back to Adam. Adam had spent a considerable amount of time on his look. Frosted hair, Bruno Magli shoes, shirt by Pierre Cardin. But somehow, some way he had unintentionally achieved what I could only imagine in my own twisted mind as the wood pecker look. Maybe it was the spiked hair. Up until tonight I had only seen the woodpecker look on women. You men know what I’m talking about.

His look was paired with a sullen expression ——-thus, a sullen woodpecker.

I started thinking that if we could collect a group of similar individuals and put them all in one restaurant—well, we might be on to something. The angry donut whore, the butthole barista, pre-menstrual Mary, the meth head hostess, the Waffle House washout, the Vicodin valet, the sullen woodpecker.

Adam(the sweet one) could train them and do a hell of a job and
they could all stay in character! And with Adam around they would all smell great! We could call it:

HERE’S YOUR BLANKETY BLANK—FOOD.

By the time I had escaped the Gulag back in 2012 I had met a diverse cast of scoundrels and miscreants. There had been a time when I thought that the cultural sociopathy of the Willis-Knighton system was tough. You can’t be a pussy and live through that. But trust me, there are worse places. At the ripe old age of 68 I’m still standing.

Still in practice for over four decades I can’t imagine leaving it behind. I was enraptured by Anesthesia as a teenager. I love it just as much today, perhaps more.
There are elements of the subculture of surgery and anesthesia that are impossible to understand unless you live it. I will make no attempts to describe it here.

When I am away from bad hospital coffee and hospital cafeteria food for more than two weeks I begin failing to thrive. My body needs it. I’m sure that most all vegan joggers will live longer than me, but they will never have experienced hospital cafeteria chili at 2:30 in the morning. Lethal to harmful pathogens, that middle of the night chili will kill them all.

All elements of society show up in medical practice. It has always fascinated me. From trash to nobility, they are all there. But the best and most heroic people in health care never receive proper recognition.

Doctors and nurses in places like Claiborne Medical Center don’t have the luxury of a specialty when heart attacks and trauma come through their doors. No medical specialist would survive a single day in their shoes. These nurses and doctors live and thrive on the true front lines of medicine. They are the best and the brightest. It has been a truly wonderful place to spend the remainder of my Anesthesia practice.

I have collected an eclectic group of brilliant and eccentric friends along my life’s journey. From rednecks to royalty, from outlaws to judges, from gentlemen to rogues. I lost one this year. It’s hard to know that he is gone. Between him and my older brother it’s a miracle we lived this long. My brother and I laughed so hard and so loud at his funeral that the nice people in church stared at us. It was because they didn’t really know Jim or who the three of us were when we were together. Being in his presence was somewhere between terror and exhilaration. From machine guns to explosives, from whiskey to hard living, I wouldn’t believe the stories myself. We should have all gone to federal prison at least once. His funeral was a great celebration of what a wonderful, boorish, larger than life rogue he really was. Jim really never left the Marine Corp. Wherever he is now, he is still a Marine.

Now at 68 I am a proud and studious cuisine whore, shitty bassist, lover of Stan Getz and Oscar Peterson, John Coltrane and Vivaldi. Don’t hug me unless you are a woman or somebody close to you died. I hate camping, love fine hotels, our beach home and being on houseboats or anywhere else with my amazing family who have tolerated all of my ridiculous bullshit for all these years. They stuck with me and we are a finer, closer bunch than ever before.

I did however tell AJ that I would sell him to two Mexican guys for $5. I was just kidding. But he still owes me two dollars. See you this weekend you little butthole! And you better have my two dollars!

Not many of you realize that tomorrow is the first day of hunting season. I know how ridiculous that sounds to a bunch of metrosexuals who actually sip latte’, wear funny underwear, hug trees, love endangered toad frogs and whale fetuses, wear designer jeans and keep up with the Kardashians. But for the rest of Southern men who still enjoy black coffee, keeping a chainsaw in our truck, adjusting ourselves, wearing Levi’s, peeing outdoors and drinking the juice out of a can of Vienna sausage——getting real serious about the 2018 hunting season is about to get real serious! I mean seriously!

For example; I have been working on the new winch I installed on the back of my Mule all day today. That’s right—— I now have front AND rear winches. That’s called keeping it real! I’ve never actually needed two winches but, well, I think it’s what Jesus would do.

Now this winch thing is not to be confused with “wenches”. Wenches can be located at shopping malls, tanning salons, fitness clubs, Starbucks and these strange new places called Ulta, or something like that.
A wench on the front and back of your ATV—-not good. They don’t typically enjoy black coffee, peeing outside or drinking Vienna sausage juice. There are rare exceptions. You know who you are Susan.

The advanced purchasing of proper hunting couture begins tomorrow as well. We’re not talking haute couture here. Show up wearing an ascot, a cape and playing jazz music, you might just get your ass kicked. But we all know, all of us real men, that you become completely invisible to all wildlife if your camo matches. It must match! Even if you have a closet full of awesome camo—-go get some more. I hear there are camo pants that have built in urinals this year. Only $375! How savvy is that! Drink all the juice and black coffee you want and your wench won’t have to endure your roadside stops.

More next month.

Survival and dominance are the two words that occurred to me a couple of weeks ago when I began to ponder the fact that my nephew will be the only ancestor to carry on our family name. The rest of us male siblings have only daughters. Don’t get me wrong, daughters are awesome, but it would be somewhat pleasing to know that our family name would survive. Even more pleasing would be to have the family banner carried on by efficient, independent survivalists. Or, to put it another way, gun-toting, meat-eating, woman loving, ball scratchers.

I believe that my nephew will find that the family “man” gene pool has quite a lot to offer and will serve him well. Its hallmark of course—the incomprehensible perseverance. But he may have figured that one out already. The magic will really begin to take hold when his “primitive tendencies” genes begin to surface, sort of like bubbling paint on a wooden surface just before the flames break through.

Loud intolerable barbaric laughter, crudeness, innate awareness that you never go anywhere without a knife, a gun and a reasonable supply of butt wipe are but a sampling of our cherished assets. It all comes natural, just instinct! For example, that stupid ass “Naked and Afraid” would be a three-week vacation for us. We already know to throw stuff at those monkeys so that they will throw fruit back at us! Duh!

I must confess that my greatest fear is that he will become enamored with a skinny, frail, allergy ridden, confused little vegan girl, instead of a hot-blooded, chicken frying, big game hunting, well endowed, heterosexual female. If this were to happen it would be necessary for me to go into the defcon 1 mode and institute the interview and recover plan.

The primary target of the plan, necessary to investigate and evaluate dominant dog lineage, would be the squirrely little vegan’s father. The lifestyle and behavior of her father, the paternal role model, would give insight into whether or not we were dealing with a tree hugging, bunny humping, scared little girly man. His influence on ancestral outcome would be incalculable.

With the target secured and transported to a local eatery, the following twenty questions would be asked:

1. How many guns do you own?
2. Do you find it absolutely essential to always wear underwear?
3. Do you have butt wipe, a gun and a knife in your car right now?
4. What brand of knives do you prefer to kill with?
5. Do you end sentences with prepositions?
6. Does your mother know how to fry a chicken?
8. Do you enjoy pissing for distance?
9. Are you capable of putting an article in manuscript form?
10. At what age did you master arm farts?
11. Are you worried that chickens have feeling and emotions that are overlooked during their short, very short, lives?
12. Do you understand the expression,”buck fever?”
13. Did you notice that question number 7 is not there?
14. Do you understand that if you throw stuff at monkeys, they will throw fruit back at you?
15. Are you aware that tabasco sauce is the only item needed for survival? Even tree bark will taste good!
16. Do you wear designer jeans?
17. Do you enjoy Quiche?
18. Have you ever been spotted at Starbucks enjoying a latte’?
19. Have you ever watched even a single episode of “Keeping Up With The Kardashians”?
20. Do you enjoy and savor the smell of your own farts?

This line of questioning would be helpful in determining alpha male lineage. He wouldn’t need my help in determining the most favorable answers.

Then, as a follow-up, I would leave him with this bit of advice from Baron Manfred Von Richthofen:
“Fight on and fly on, to the last drop of blood, the last drop of fuel, to the last beat of the heart.”

And then one from my dad:
“All I have is two hands and a stinking butthole and by God that’s all I need!”

These two poignant and timeless and manly quotes should be all he needs to get him through such a critical moment in his life. The genes should take care of the rest.

Okay, is it just me or are there others of you out there in the blogosphere that have difficulty understanding the media obsession with this “famous for absolutely nothing’s” rear end? Seriously. That most recent mag cover was bordering on, well, just nasty. Whatever happened to the admiration for a cute little manageable hiney, one you can easily find trousers for? Aren’t there sort of unspoken parameters governing “a little too big, just about right, a little too small, no assatall?” What brand of evolution was it that brought us to this point? Does anybody understand that without Robert Kardashian and a pornographic movie, none of us would ever have heard of this shameless media “whore?” Guess what—the media thrives by feeding the monster. This, apparently, is what the public wants. Are we, as a society, really that shallow? Lets be optomistic and hope that there is a contageous pandemic disease causing vision problems. I’m not running a fever. Are you?

Michelle Obama has a giant hiney. Clearly it is huge. Why can’t we say that? Nobody talks about it. Her successful efforts to mandate unappealing food for our children in public schools is not influencing her own choices in healthy food consumption. Only twinkies will get you such a substantial double orb caboose. Brocolli won’t get you there. Keeping a pooter like that requires fuel and maintenance. The White House chef must have a stash of HoHo’s. I can just see the secret service sneaking them in after midnight.

Do you realize that women can now buy underwear that has stuffing to make their butts look bigger? The ad popped up on my Yahoo the other day. The “Booty Pop Panties.” After centuries of attempts to pare down big butts, here we are–giving in?

Does Jennifer Aniston really use Aveeno? Lets have a show of hands. If she does, lets hope she doesn’t feel the need to blather it all over her butt and bare it on a magazine cover.

Maybe, as society trends toward acceptance of our physical shortcomings, big guts will come back in for guys. What a relief that would be. “Belly Pop?” Now you’re talking. Stuff that wife beater and go on with yo bad self.