The Summer of Love and Joy Is Upon Us


Yes, Dear Hearts, another summer of “love and joy” is approaching. It usually starts the day after Memorial Day, but it’s early this year, of course, it is, and why wouldn’t it be? There is so much to do that it can’t wait another minute. I always loved the way our treasured southern comedian, Brother Dave Gardner addressed everyone with that old south greeting; “Dear Hearts.” It brings to mind fried chicken, tater salad, and the smell of cooking cornbread. Deadly sweet iced tea with a shot of Jim Beam to ward off the skeeters.

A deranged young white man goes into a supermarket in Buffalo, New York, and shoots ten shoppers dead. All black Americans there to buy groceries for their families. The local cops knew of this guy; he had been institutionalized for mental problems, yet his parents let him procure a firearm. It’s not known as of yet if it was legal or a “ghost gun.” He was on social media and is known as an avowed racist. There are plenty of them out there folks, and they come in all colors. You don’t have to be from Texas to be a lunatic, although we have more than our share and could ship you some if needed.

A church in California was shot up, members were wounded, and one died. The shooter is a 68-year-old Asian man, but the national news skipped over all that. Wrong race, not the correct narrative. I guess the Asian guy is also a racist? Here in Texas, I would say many worshipers in church congregations are packing a piece. If it’s a Cowboy Church, they all have a sidearm.

And now our cognitively destroyed president and his (not a doctor) wife will go to Buffalo to mend America. He will make a screaming demented speech against white people, racists, and Trump, and lecture us on who knows what vile crap will spew from his mouth. He will stand at a podium and scream at the imaginary demons that float in the sky above and follow him like a beloved pack of devil dogs. Jill will have to lead him away before he says something racially insensitive. He and his ilk will turn this tragedy into a George Floyd moment and use it as a summer blockbuster trailer for the upcoming mid-term elections. Never let a good disaster or a mass killing go to waste. Right?

Over last weekend, in the once-respected city of Chicago, 77 black Americans were shot; sixteen of them died from bullets. The shooters were all young, and black. So does that make them racist against their own citizens? Mayor Beetleguise says this summer will be the most celebrated “summer of joy” the city has ever known. Yet she is afraid to go to McDonald’s without bodyguards or an armored vehicle. On the national news broadcast, Old Lester, Metroman David, and that green-eyed devil, Norah won’t mention this on their newscast. Ukraine might be safer than Chicago.

I might be wrong, and more than a bit nostalgic, but we could sure use a good “1969 Woodstock” concert right now.

More Wise-Ass News from the Cactus Patch


Old fart and extreme liberal has-been actor James Cromwell, best known for his role in the heartwarming farm movie “Babe,” has superglued himself to the serving counter at his favorite Starbucks. His reason for this stunt is to protest the cost and treatment of plants to obtain their vegan plant-based creamer.

“Power to the plants!”

” How dare they put those poor plants through the milking process, squeezing their poor little leaves while they scream in pain,” he yelled. There was no mention of what part of his body was glued, but let us hope it was his dried-up old bare ass. Also, most folks that saw the movie agreed the pig was a much better actor than Cromwell. “That’ll do, Pig.”

Mentally deficient Pelosi and her gang of diaper-wearing Grey Goose guzzling outlaws have passed a bill to send an additional 40 Billion dollars of our money to Ukraine. Hunter Biden will personally deliver the bag of cash. Also, attached to the bill written on a post-it-note, they approved a 21 percent pay raise for congressional staffers. These are the little shits that do nothing but run errands for our elite politicians.

” Oh Spalding my good boy, could you run to the liquor store and buy me a single malt 100 year-old case of scotch?”

Millions of illegal Mexicans are invading our country, bankrupting our social services and healthcare system while getting everything they could imagine for free. Our streets in liberal-run cities are full of homeless, drug-addicted people, many of them veterans and families. Throw away souls living in tents and crapping on our sidewalks. The US citizens get the shaft, the illegal river-wading criminals get the payday, and Ukraine gets 40 Billion in party-hearty money. Hunter will make sure there is 10 percent for the “Big Guy.”

” Don’t forget my ten percent. Is that Old Spice you’re wearing?”

We have a baby formula shortage because it’s being shipped to the south American countries instead of our supermarkets. So I look for the Cartels to start smuggling Similac instead of Fentanyl.

” What the Hell! Where is my Similac?”

Since the Biden administration agrees that it’s acceptable to publish the addresses of our Supreme Court judges so they can be harassed and threatened, how about old Mitch McConnell or one of his staffers, publish the addresses of all the Democratic leaders starting with Pelosi and Schumer. Let’s see how many young conservatives show up at their homes. Of course, our Republican leaders are too spineless for such chicanery; a bunch of pussies.

Pick The Hill You’re Going To Die On


Our democracy is under siege from the most radical movements since the Weathermen, The KKK, SDS, and The Black Panthers; they are called the Democratic Party, and by crook, hook, and techno-magic, they own the top of the hill with their handmade banners flapping in the wind and weapons trained on us conservative Americans that gather at the bottom of the slope, scanning the horizon and turning every stone, searching for our General Washington to lead us into victory.

We want to think of them as a ragtag bunch of college-educated losers with green hair and piercings that march on with minimal leadership and with no purpose but to disrupt our lives and further their warped agendas.

The unspoken and ignored truth is that they are well organized, backed, and wholly protected by Biden’s minions and our corrupt media.

These are people that want conservatives and Christians dead. That means you, your family, and your dog.

If a priest on the steps of St. John’s Cathedral was set on fire, they wouldn’t piss on him to extinguish the flames, so don’t expect sympathy, logic, or reasoning from them. They are Godless people with no remorse or accountability. They are a tribal mass of evil that will be wailing the loudest when the gates of Hell welcome them home.

Roe vs. Wade is their holy grail, another divine distraction from the disaster that is our president and his declining government.

The blackest and most evil part of this news week is the leak from within our nation’s Supreme Court; the judges appointed to uphold our constitution and laws. The bedrock of our country. Not a word from the liberal judges condemning this breach of trust, so it appears the martyr is most likely a clerk for one of them.

Faint whispers in the tidal wind say a birdie from Sotomayor, the wise Latina. Unfortunately, Roberts doesn’t possess the balls to see the investigation through, so America may never know the truth unless the ignorant fool exposes herself on social media, which will likely happen soon. It’s just too damn good to keep it a secret. Perhaps a Nobel Prize awaits or a cabinet position in the Whitehouse.

Threats against the conservative judges have been made, and some are in hiding, afraid for their family’s safety, and still, the DOJ and the demented man in the nation’s nursing home say nothing. Instead, they condone the anarchy of their people.

Our laws of the land and the sacred paper they are written on have become no more than toilet paper. The radicals have assumed rule, and the nation is on the verge of ruin.

The Republicans are useless. Emasculated wandering gypsies searching for their next country club meal and drinks at the 19th hole. They have their full pay retirement, so the rest of their voters can fuck-off and eat dog food or shit sandwiches. Storming the castle with pitchforks and torches comes to mind.

Don’t speak of the second coming of Christ set for next Tuesday at 3 PM or lofty sermons and fiery speeches calling for divine intervention to save our nation. God will not lift a finger to stop this insidious destruction. Instead, it will play out as the Bible intended it to be. There will be no victor and the land will lay in ruin. We will reap what was planted.

The Revolutionary War, The Civil War, World War II, and Vietnam all had hills to be defended or taken. The good guys won some, and the enemy took a few. There was no divine or government intervention to determine the outcome. The battles were bloody and murderous affairs, killing fields that knew no mercy or remorse. The result was won by the side that killed the most men of the enemy. It was often futile with nothing gained.

The radical Democrats, Antifa, Black Lives Matter, Ruth Sent Us, and more fringe anarchists have chosen their hill and are well equipped to hold it at all costs. The ruin of America is but a by-product of the slaughter.

Conservatives and Christians now know the hill they must choose to die on, but, do we have the guts to take it back?

Which Came First? The Writer or the Author?


A while back, an obnoxious blogger that fancied herself a serious author said that writers are not authors, and real authors are those that have been published and cut their teeth in academia, meaning a teacher or a professor of sorts. The rest of the poor souls plodded on through pages of typos and third-rate editing. I hope Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Capote don’t become too riled over her observation. I know in my heart, those men could give a flying shit.

Being the smart-ass that my mother raised well, I challenged the blogger on her assessment of the current literary scene and its “wink-wink” secret membership.

I knew she was a teacher right away because the following lecture and browbeating reminded me of high school. Much high-handed rhetoric and pontification without explaining anything. Sound familiar?

My measured response was that you must first be a writer to become an author. A writer is anyone that puts to paper a story of fact or fiction. It matters not if anyone ever reads your effort; it’s done and sealed. If your writing makes it to a publishing house or a website, you may call yourself an author, but you are still a writer. Nothing changes but a definition and perhaps a fat check.

My first writing was around ten years old and was on a Big Chief tablet. I was working my way to being the second coming of my beloved Mark Twain.

My uplifting teacher at the time had no problem telling me I would likely become a writer. Of what, I asked? She said maybe a book or a novel or a newspaperman; she thought I had a knack for the genre. She did encourage me to learn typing, which I did on a 1930s-era Underwood that occupied my parent’s dining room table. I was the only kid in our neighborhood that knew typing. My friends were google-eyed envious as if I had broken the enigma code or figured out the Orphan Annie decoder ring. I did gloat a bit, but not too much.

So, at 72 years old, I consider myself a writer; A hundred-plus short stories and interviews later speak of my efforts.

I have, over the years, been published a few times; Interviews about the rock scene in the 60s and early country music, so even though I received little to no money, I could, if I wished to, call myself an author. But it’s all a wordplay around egos. So, until I can come up with something as serious as Thomas Wolfe, Harper Lee, Truman Capote, or my beloved Mark Twain, I will remain a humble writer.

The Transformation of Giblet


Photo by Diane Arbus

I ran into my old friend Mooch at Whataburger a few days back. Many a fine friendship is based on the breaking of bread, ours is no different.

Standing in line to order, from the corner of my left eye, there he was, sitting in his usual booth by the window; head down, hands splayed on the table, palms prostrate as if he has lost his best hog.

Something was off. His bucket hat, the overalls, and the ever-present mustard stains on his denim shirt rang Mooch. Then, I noticed the absence of his everywhere buddy, little Giblet, the crusty Chiuaua that usually rides in a front mount baby sling, drawn tightly to his chest. I feared the worst, old Giblet is no more.

I took the opposite seat, clearing my throat to alert Mooch of my presence. Without looking up, Mooch muttered through clenched teeth, “Those rotten little bastards down in Austin, they ruined my Giblet.”

” Man, I’m so sorry Mooch, I had no idea Giblet had entered the realm,” being as conciliatory as possible.

He looked up, ” Giblet ain’t dead you moron, he ain’t Giblet no more, he’s now, Gabrielle, thanks to those little woke shits at that animal psycho place.” I’m thinking this will be one of his best stories yet, I need more.

Mooch took a swig from his Dr Pepper and began a lengthy explanation.

” A month ago, Gib started acting weird; wouldn’t eat his Wolf Brand Chili or watch his shows on Animal Planet. He stared out the window all day and paced the floor all night. Doc Barker over at the vet says Giblet has suffered a nervous breakdown, so we take him to this fancy clinic down in Austin. This doctor lady with green hair and a fishing tackle face says he needs to stay a few weeks for therapy and convalesce. We can check in on him via a remote camera in his suite, or do a “face call.” The first time we log on, he is laying on his Sterns and Foster bed watching Animal Planet, that’s a good sign. the next day, there is a Calico cat snuggled up to him and they’re watching “The View.” By the end of the week, he is watching the Food Network, CNN, MSNBC and now has a bunny rabbit and the cat hanging out in his suite. Mrs. Mooch and I jump in our truck and hi-tail it to Austin. I demand that they cough up my dog. After paying the stupifying bill, they bring old Gib out. He is wearing a wig and has pink toenails and false eyelashes. The doc says that Giblet has always felt to be a girl and has transitioned over to Gabrielle. He still has his junk, but that can be removed when he is ready. Mrs. Mooch has to restrain me from killing that sum-bitch doctor until the doc says the Government will give Gabrielle a check for 3 grand every month to help with expenses. What could I do? I bought Gabrielle a new Ford Pick up so she can ride around town in style.”

Holiday Road To Washington


Photo by Ken Kesey

That fun-loving scallywag, Texas Governor Greg Abbott has kicked off his new tour line from the South Texas/Mexico border to Washington DC. ” Texas Dust Devil Tours” boasts 900 luxury diesel guzzling buses, with a non-stop direct trip to “Old Screaming Joe’s” neighborhood. The cost to each rider is zero, nada, free, no peso, etc.

The inaugural bus was met by the Catholic Charities, DPS, Federal folks in polo shirts, representatives from MS-13, and Ronald McDonald.

As each maskless passenger de-bussed, they received a hearty handshake, a hug, and a cute gift bag full of goodies. Inside, they found a map to the White House and Nancy Pelosi’s personal residence in Georgetown. Also included were coupons from Mcdonald’s, Motel 6, Waffle House, and Walmart. A crisp $100.00 bill was tucked inside a nice little card that read, ” Don’t Come Back To Texas,” Love, Gregg.

Madame Speaker’s limo happened to drive by the arrival. ” Oh Spalding, who are those dreadful little brown people coming out of the tacky bus?”

Her driver responded,” That would be the illeagle invaders from the Texas border Ms Pelosi. I hear there will be around 900 more bus loads.”

Pelosi grabs her cell phone and calls Joe, ” Joe, you friggin moron, we are being invaded, call the National Guard, now.”

Madame Speakers’ limo was spotted at “Liquor Land” a few minutes later. Her driver was carrying a case of Grey Goose to the car.

It’s going to be an exciting summer in DC folks. Forget Disneyland; pack up the old station wagon and go to Washington.

“The Cactus Patch Is On The Road Again”


Photo from Texas Monthly

Since last Sunday, we have been in the high-altitude lovely village of Ruidoso, New Mexico. If it weren’t for visiting Texans, like us, this town wouldn’t exist. Every business owner seems to be an expatriate.

As of April 1st, New Mexico allows recreational sales and use of Marijuana. The evil weed is now legal for anyone 21 years and older. Up until the 1st, it was by medical card only, which could be purchased online for a small price. I had no idea the folks in New Mexico were such potheads. Then I was reminded that everyone that comes to Ruidoso is from Texas, so I guess that makes us cowboys the potheads.

So MoMo, my wife, and I are thinking maybe a gummy or two to help us sleep. Why not? We’ve earned the right by being old and living with constant pain. We stop at one of the five Pot Stores in Ruidoso.

A nice period adobe building hidden among the pines is painted a garish Weed green. Nothing like curb appeal to draw customers in.

The perky little “Pot-arista” led us, through a secret triple bolted door into the main shop where all the goodies are displayed in well-lit sterile display cases. I feel better already knowing that all health regulations are met.

We are the oldest folks in the shop and feel out of place and on the verge of embarrassment. The employees are in their twenties and seem unusually happy. My wife asks our Potarista about a gummy specifically for sleep and relaxation.

“Oh, it all makes you chill and sleep like a baby” she replies. “I take a bit in the morning, then some at noon, then more in the evening, and then a toke around bedtime,” she says.

It’s obvious the girl is stoned all damn day and this is the only job that she can perform while high.

I tell her we are from Texas, we’re old as if she didn’t notice, and we want a gummy to help us with the pain and sleepy time. She brightens up and exclaims, “we have a new gummy, just in from Austin, it’s called Willie Nelsons Head, you’re gonna love it. Willie has the best stuff you know.”

She brings us a small box printed like the Texas flag. Inside are a dozen little gummies shaped like Willie Nelson’s head. The realism is uncanny. The skin tone on the wrinkly face, the pig-tails, and that scallywag glint in the tiny eyes. It’s also a bit creepy. It comes with a CD of his greatest hits, so I’m all in.

Once in the car, I pop in the cd, and ” On The Road Again” plays. We each eat a Willie gummy, put the car in gear, adjust our sunglasses, and head for who knows where.

“Scatter Shooting from The Cactus Patch”


Today, Hollywood’s own little Fresh Prince Baby Jesus, Will Smith, resigned from the Acadamy. Did he give back his participation Oscar statue? Most likely not. A second, almost third-rate actor reaches the pinnacle of movie success and believes his own bull-shit. And folks, that is wrong with this shit-show country. We focus on the wrong.

Now that NBC, CBS, and ABC have been cornered and forced to say “Hunter Biden,” the other 85 million Americans can’t wait to see where they go from here. So Lester may be out of a gig.

Now that Biden is a sure bet to be put out to pasture, on or before 2024, Butterboy is next in line for the Demorectic nominee. Two men french kissing while standing at the presidential podium, taking turns nursing their twins on tits with no milk. Yep, that’s the sign of a strong America. Putin is laughing his KGB ass off. AOC is tweeting, ” Hey, I can do all of that and don’t even need a husband.”

Proof that God does indeed have a slick sense of humor. Sitting around the clouds one day, he looks at Archangel Michael and says, ” you know that ugly Cabbage Patch Doll from the 90s? How about I make someone have a real one down there on Earth? And now, we have Amy Schumer.

How hard can it be for Nancy Pelosi to not have a stroke? Please, someone in the medical community, figure this out. Spiked Vodka or ice cream is a good start. Ask a Russian; they are experts at this sort of thing.

How is it that a president of the United States lets invading hordes from South America invade our sovereign country with no challenge? Put a bunch of Texans, “since we are all hunters,” on the border wearing camouflage, hiding in the scrub brush, and give them high-powered rifles, and this shit would be over in about 45 minutes. Governor Abbott is an imbecile, and Cruz is no better.

So the people of Ukraine are fleeing their war-torn country for the United States. They show up on our southern border asking for asylum. Good, educated folks that pray to one day be American citizens. They have something to offer our country. Old Poopy Pants Joe says, “wait a minute here. We still have millions of uneducated, unskilled, American hating, gang member, murdering, blood-sucking illegals we have to let in first. ” Talk about a screwed-up government. All my friends who voted for this POS, you got what you deserve, and you still have to pay the same prices as I do.

This entire mess with Congress and the House, along with Biden’s apocalyptic attack on our country, would have been dead on arrival if the Republicans would have ran better-qualified candidates in Georgia for the last election. Instead, the guy, who knows his name, was a footnote with a slick haircut. The gal, Malibu Barbie, tossed her long hair around like a supermodel and looked really cute. This is a state that is mostly black Americans, and the Repubs run these two? How about Hershal Walker or any one of the other qualified candidates. McConnell needs to be tar, feathered, and dumped in the tidal basin for crab food.

Saturday In The Cactus Patch


Photo by Ansel Adams

Back in the 60s and 70s, a popular country singer known as “Whispering Bill Anderson” had a string of hits. He didn’t actually whisper but used a low, breathy voice to punctuate parts of his mourning love ballads, thus the name.

Now we have “Whispering Joe” stealing “Whispering Bills” schtick. Joe needs to stick to his demented yelling and barking and leave the vocal techniques to “Whispering Bill” and “Whispering Garrison Keillor,” of the now-defunct NPR Radio program, “A Prarie Home Companion.” Keillor was the master of the “whispering orator.” He pulled you into his fictional world of Lake Wobegon using his low, “woe is me down-home small-town boy” vocalizations. You had to pay attention or miss the show. It was a great program, and too bad it’s longer with us.

“Whispering Bill,” and “Whispering Garrison Keillor” should sue “Whispering Joe” for stealing their acts. I found out today that A.O.C., the social media love child of Castro, is now whispering to her followers on Tik-Tok and Twitter. First, “Whispering A.O.C.,” and next will be “Whispering Nancy.” Soon, everyone in Washington will be whispering, which is not a bad thing considering we won’t be able to hear their B.S.

Bless their hearts.

” The Eve of Destruction”


Barry telling it like it is!

Europe again hears the drums of war. ” Bet they didn’t see this one coming?” Putin is now the anointed Baby Joseph Stalin, and Biden behaves much like Franklin Roosevelt.

“The Eastern world, it is explodin’.
Violence flarin’, bullets loadin’
You’re old enough to kill but not for votin’.
You don’t believe in war, but what’s that gun you’re totin’?
And even the Jordan River has bodies floatin’.”

“But you tell me over and over and over again, my friend
Ah, you don’t believe we’re on the eve of destruction.”

In his hit song back in the sixties, Barry McGuire warns, “we’re on the eve of destruction.” We can imagine he was referring to Vietnam or perhaps the Arab-Israeli conflict in 1968.

Either one, those lyrics are more relevant today than they were 50 years ago. Our American news media, Old Lester Holt, and the other two networks, the young pansexual dude and the snarky woman, are getting a lot of mileage out of the Ukraine war. Wars and conflicts are lotteries for ratings.

Imagine the biggest news story since Watergate, the Clinton organization and her cronies spying on a president, breaks, which the media completely ignores, and then Russia invades Ukraine. What a blessing from below (Hell) for our media and folks in Washington. Again, Biden and the Clinton gang are off the hook, most likely for eternity.

Our young people can be comforted to know that the Kardashians are still in the news throughout this apocalypse.

Swimming With Jesus In A Cement Pond


With the world in hellish turmoil, with no credible end of the torture in sight, a Christian person would think that this would be a perfect time for the Lord God to make an appearance, or at the least, throw us a bone. I would be satisfied with a fireworks display or something on television, but God doesn’t work that way; it appears he likes to keep us on the hook. Again, it’s a biblical thing.

My first remembered experience with religion was in my sixth year. A Fort Worth boy, dragged to the Poly Baptist Church to witness the near-drowning of my young father while being Baptized by a zealous preacher named Reverand Toby.

Someone in my family, an aunt or a cousin or all members thereof, thought that father’s soul needed saving, or at the least, a near-drowning to ensure his path to Heaven would be an honest one. I suspect it was his mother. She was a championship sinner with no way to redemption, so sacrificing her only son to Baptism might also gain her entry to God’s domain as a parental guest. Quite inventive she was. I also suspect that the bottles of hooch and the 38 special in her traveling suitcase would also be overlooked as she accompanied him through the pearly gates.

The Sunday of the Baptism was as hot as I can remember. The small church, a wooden frame affair, was surrounded by trees, so no breeze entered. Religion and suffering are one and the same. July in Texas is considered the perfect month for all the above. It’s a preview of Hell to come. Something to remember the next time one thinks about committing many deadly sins.

There I sat next to my mother, my less than a year old sister on her lap. My clothing was sweat-soaked, and I could have wet myself and not have known it. The summer heat radiated from the floor to the bottom of the wooden pew. Hell was just below us, just in case we wained from the word being preached, and for a moment lost our grip on believing; Satan could reach up and drag us down. It was all very convenient. I had no concept of sin or what it took to reach the depths of Hell. Of course, kids don’t bother with such nonsense.

An hour of Preacher Toby pacing the floor from wall to wall. The chorus of big-haired women behind him, punctuating his performance with Amen’s and Haliluahs at the appropriate times. The pulpit held the preachers’ Bible; it rested there, of no use to him. He didn’t need no leather-bound Bible; he knew everything required to scare the liver out of everyone in that church.

The sermon concluded, and the Baptismal commenced. Father was the last on the list.

Mother had dressed him in a new white shirt and black tie. He resembled the television star Steve Allen. The shirt was starched to the point of cardboard, allowing him minimal movement. One would think if a person was to be dunked in a tank of water, a swimming suit or at the least, a robe would be appropriate wear. But, nope, Baptist like it real; fully dressed in your best clothes, shoes, watch, and wallet included.

Father’s name was called. Entering the pulpit from behind a velvet curtain, he climbed into the Baptising tank. I found it odd that a church would have a small swimming pool at the alter. A waist-deep concrete tub full of unpurified water. How would one know that the occupants didn’t release a stream of pee into the sacred water in their moment of personal repentance? It’s a natural response akin to pissing in a swimming pool or a lake. Father stood in the holy waters awaiting his deliverance. He carried the look of a trapped man; no escape route was available, so his fate was sealed.

Preacher Toby wasted no time. He asked Father if he was ready to accept Jesus and be bathed in the Holy waters. Father mumbled a few words, and the preacher pushed him back into the waters of the sacred Jordan. Minuets passed along with lovely words and passages, and still, Father was immersed in the Holy waters. A hand, then an arm, then two reached up, flailing about. Finally, a leg broke the surface, and a shoe flew off. Still, Preacher Toby continued his blessing.

Looking back, it was common knowledge that father was a country musician and made his living playing in the beer joints along Jacksboro Highway. Preacher Toby figured since my father was a fully certified sinner, an extra dose of saving was needed.

With no assistance from Preacher Toby, my father made it to the surface with seconds to spare. Sputtering and coughing, on the verge of death, he rolled over the side of the cement pond and lurched toward the side door of the church. Holding my baby sister, my mother grabbed me by my bony arm, and we made a hasty beeline to the car. Father was there waiting. Dripping wet and defeated, he looked like death on a china plate. Mother drove us home.

I’m not sure what this recount has to do with the current state of our world, but I felt the need to share it.

Religion is a slippery slope for most folks. You either believe, or you don’t; there is no maybe or middle ground. But, the forces of good are believed to be greater than those of evil; it’s written in the book. So, we need an intervention or a sign from God that one evil man will not dictate the end. But, if that is the plan, let it be quickly done and with a gracious smile.

Another Friday At The Grocery Store And Beach Boy Gas


My wife had a small grocery list of a few things we forgot last week. So I accompanied her to our local Texas H.E.B. superstore here in Granbury, Texas, the “Best Historic Small Town” in the United States for the third straight year. Hell yeah! We bad-ass.

1883 filmed here for a week, and then around the countryside along the beautiful Brazos River and close to my house at the base of Comanche Peak. I could hear the gunfire and Indians whooping it up from my patio. I will never forgive Taylor Sheridan for killing off Elsa and Shea. Who does that kind of shit? I may never recover or be the same.

The shopping excursion was fruitful. Twenty-minuets of checking the list and dropping items into our “small basket.” The prices were up from last week, no doubt because of the cost of diesel fuel. I notice a few older folks buying dog food and powdered milk. Tears ran down their cheeks as they passed up the favorite foods and the Shiner beer. A young woman dressed in workout clothes looking like a Kardashian breezed by with a cart full of expensive meats and a case or two of wine. She paused to take a selfie in front of the flower aisle.

We arrive at the checkout. I’m thinking the few items in the basket might add up to 30 bucks, maybe a few more. Nothing special, just some veggies, milk, bread, a piece of meat.

Our effervescent checker scans everything with a smile. She is a teenager in high school with no real grasp of the reality of our world. She works and makes $15.00 bucks an hour. Good for her; at least she is working instead of mooching and bitching. I watch the screen, blah..blah…blah… it all adds up. Total bill; $ 74.00. The booty fills two cloth bags. I ask her to please check again. She does. The same amount flashes on the screen.

My wife says this is a good deal. I think we are now living in the Twilight Zone. Thirty minutes earlier, I paid $ 4.09. ( Beach Boy gas ) for regular fuel, and now this. I know the poor folks in Ukraine have it worse than we can ever imagine, but shit-fire folks. Did we move into an alternate universe when I was sleeping? I could be experiencing a continuing 1960s L.S.D. Flashback.

A year ago, before the “thing from the swamp” was sworn in, a large basket full of groceries could be had for $125 smackers.

The hunched-over old lady behind us is digging through her small change purse, hoping she has enough to cover the few items she has purchased.

What went wrong?

“Be Careful, What You Eat May Cause Something Else To Kill You”


Two nights ago, my wife ate spicy food for supper. I noticed she tossed more than usual during our 8-hour sleep and yelped a few times. Likely a nightmare.

Over our morning cup of coffee, she says that in her dreams, she was attacked by thousands of small snakes that had found their way into our home.

I told her it was likely the spicy food nightmare syndrome. I had heard this explanation on Dr. Phil, or maybe it was Dr. Oz, or perhaps in the checkout line at the grocery, but it was from specialists that tend to know these things. She thanked me for my observation and threw away the Salsa and the leftover packed in Tupperware.

Her dream jogged my memory, which at this age, is welcomed. I am fortunate to have a street-rat-crazy family on my father’s side, so many stories are waiting to be recounted.

Back in the mid-fifties, my late father’s late cousin, Woody, and his late wife, Zennia, lived at the end of a gravel road named “Jungle Lane.” The street was a perfect fit for Zennia, a prolific collector of tropical plants, resulting in her house looking more of a Tarzan movie set than a home. She was also a Tarot card madam, an amateur Botanist, and an aromatherapist. Woody worked as a plumber and mowed the yard.

Zennia orders a rare and deadly plant from her favorite magazine, “Plants Have Feelings Too.” It’s shipped from Burma by boat and will arrive in Fort Worth in June.

The plant arrives via delivery truck on June 15th. Lush and green with large leaves drooping to the floor, the plant is a monster standing at 7 ft and weighing in at 100 pounds. Two men and a dolly struggled to place the beast in Zennia’s living room.

Zennia, being quite the chef, prepares a Burmese dish of Pork Chunks on a bamboo Stick with wafting brown rice and grilled organic vegetables to celebrate the new arrival. She made good use of the sacred Burmese Eden’s Wort, a rare jungle spice made from the powdered bark of the even more rare Eden tree. Woody hates spicy foods and eats a Bologna sandwich and a beer.

Full of Pearl beer, Bologna and Pork Chunks, the two retired early.

Woody, always the early riser, makes his way to the kitchen around 5:30 am, brews a pot of coffee, and returns to the bedroom with a cup for Zennia. Then, switching on the bedside lamp, he screams and drops both cups of coffee, breaking Zennia’s favorite Howdy Doody cup and scalding both feet.

Zennia lay peacefully on her back, hair rolled in Spoolies, wearing her favorite flannel jammies. The once lovely face is swollen and blueish. A large green snake is coiled around her neck, flicking its forked tongue and hissing at Woody.

Zennia is a goner. Woody can do nothing for her, so he contacts the police and asked them to please bring an ambulance and someone from the Zoo; his wife was murdered by a large snake. He thought about shooting the snake with his 12 gauge, but then it would have made a mess of poor Zennia’s face, and then the relatives would have a shit-fit at her funeral because she was messed up. So he decided to let the police and the zoo folks take care of the reptile. He thought Zennia might be pulling a stunt so he poked her leg. The reptile tried to bite him. No stunt. She’s dead. He notices the snake has blue eyes.

Four police officers, two ambulance attendants, a Herpitoligist from the Fort Worth Zoo, and the coroner with a ride-along priest show up thirty minutes later. The few neighbors on the block stand watching the show.

The policemen and the coroner confirms that Zennia died from acute strangulation caused by the constricting movements of the murderous snake. The Herpitoligist said it’s a Burmese Python, but not just any regular one. This is the rare ten-banded, articulating, shape-shifting, smooth-skinned, blue-eyed deadly poisonous “Garden of Eden Python,” a direct descendent of the evil viper that tempted Adam and Eve. Only three are believed to be left alive, and the reptiles can live up to 800 years, and of course, they are endangered and carry a high fine of 10 grand if the serpent is harmed or upset. The priest says that since Adam and Eve are involved and the Bible, the Holy Father in Rome should know of this discovery. It is now gone Biblical.

The Herpatoligist says the snake was likely hiding in the plant when it shipped from Burma and was appraising its new habitat when he found poor sleeping Zennia. Most likely, it was attracted to the odor of the Burmese spices used during supper. The Burmese Eden Tree is the preferred habitat of the deadly reptile, so the spice made it feel right at home. Having not eaten in a while, Zennia was the perfect meal, already seasoned to perfection.

Woody doesn’t give one shit about all this, his wife is dead, and the snake won’t budge. The snake boy says he can’t remove the reptile here but will need to transport the body and the snake to the Zoo.

Desperate, Woody agrees. The convoy loads Zennia and the accompanying snake in the ambulance, and they depart.

Three days later, the snake won’t budge an inch, Zennia is getting ripe and Woody needs to have her funeral and internment. The best he can do is have the service in the snake house at the zoo. Friends and family observe the service from behind a glass window. The zoo choir sings the theme song from the movie “Doctari.” Zennia is buried between the Gorilla enclosure and the Zebra exhibit. The snake is still alive and has its own special exhibit.

My wife stares at me like there is a third eye on my forehead. She thinks the story is bullshit, but I tell her it’s all quite true, and then I explain the moral of the story. “Be careful what you eat because it might cause something else to kill you.”

” Is 2022 the New 1939 ?”


Adolf Putin

Just when we thought the world (except the middle east) had reached a civilized status, Russia’s “Thug For Life,” Putin, pulls a full-blown Hitler and invades the sovereign nation of Ukraine. So, in many ways, Europe in 2022 looks much like it did in 1939.

Biden stands behind his podium, stares at the camera with his best beady-eyed squint, and tells his countrymen that his sanctions will make Putin pay dearly. Yep, he continues to buy oil from Russia instead of opening a few pipelines in America. How about them sanctions, Joe? No more Wisconsin cheese and Napa wine for old Pooty Poot.

“Ras-Putin The Crazed” sits in his golden chair and tells the world if we interfere with his plans, we will “suffer his wrath like the world has never seen before.” Putin means business. Why? Because the man has an Xbox controller tied into thousands of Nukes and has lost his shit, and no one in Russia has the balls to lock him in the basement. That steely-eyed look on Biden’s face was likely caused by a massive Mexican food poopy diaper or Kamala crouching under the podium adjusting his catheter.

Where in the world is NATO? Half of those countries, over decades, have experienced the Communist boot on their throat. One can imagine they are sitting in front of their televisions texting each other, “Whew..glad it’s them and not us.” Another coterie of gutless men. Ukraine is going down in flames, and the only thing missing is the internment camps and boxcars.

Those dearly beloved hearts in Hollywood are pitching in and doing their part; haven’t they always been there for the world in times of crisis? They send Sean Penn, “the has-been third rate actor,” to Ukraine. He’s going to have a meaningful conversation with Putin, if he can get to Moscow, alive. They should have sent Denzel Washington; at least he would take a few dozen Commies with him as he went down. Old Dirty Harry himself, Clint Eastwood, is sitting on his patio, polishing his 44 Magnum and mumbling, ” let me at the Putin pussy prick, I’ll kick his Russki ass.” Yep, I believe Clint would.

All kidding and smart-assed comments aside, we need to pray that Ukraine and its good people survive this onslaught of evil. I can’t put the finger on precisely what we citizens can do, but someone needs to grab his crotch, tap the dirt off of the spikes and step up to the plate.

Things That Make You Wonder, WTH?


Is it just me, or have you noticed how old Bill Clinton looks these days, and he’s younger than Donald Trump? Could it be the baggage he is married to? Just saying he looks like he has died and been dug up a few times.

I have a feeling that AOC’s mother may have had a one-night stand with Fidel Castro on one of those girls’ only weekends.

This new bombshell regarding the DNC and Hillary spying on a presidential candidate and then president goes deeper than Watergate. Yet, our national news media is crickets and lightning bugs on the crime of the century. Where are Bernstein and Woodward? Those two guys won an Oscar and the Nobel Prize for destroying Nixon, so why are they so quiet now? I think Forest Gump did a better job.

After the half-time show at the Super football thang, I now consider American music completely dead. Rap is not music, and no one can pinpoint what it actually is, not even the rapper dudes. The decline of civilization comes to mind.

Vlad Putin will take Ukraine, and there is nothing anyone can do about it. The US is weak, Europe is weaker, and NATO has outlived its usefulness and purpose. Ole Puttie Poot is about as evil as Hitler and Stalin combined but wears better suits.

The young track star from Texas gets booted from the summer Olympics because of weed. Okay, there are rules; she broke them and paid the price. The 15-year-old Russian skater accidentally ingests handfuls of her Grandpa’s heart meds, tests positive for banned substances, and yet gets to compete because the committee doesn’t want to traumatize the delicate flower. Lots of commie love from the Olympic folks. No one really cares. Gas is up to $3.50 a gallon, and food costs 30 percent more than it did a year ago. That’s what Americans care about.

Baby Trudeau may be the biggest wuss to ever lead a country. A pretty boy with perfect hair and well-fitted suits doesn’t make you a leader. However, the US would be wise to learn from what is happening in Canada because it’s coming to a neighborhood near you. Who knew that a convoy of truckers could shut down a government and be considered a terrorist organization? The Taliban is watching the evening news and saying WTF?

Looks like Spotify is going to lose all their classic rock artists. Who cares? No one. They weren’t that good anyway. If you want to hear them, go buy some vinyl or a CD.

Only In America!


Designer of the year

This is only a rumor, based on the truth, but that’s how these things start.

The old coot in the expensive nursing home is going to allot 30 million smackers for crack pipes, needles, and other paraphernalia for drug abusers; all in the name of equity. Equity for who? Brown, White or Black Americans who already are locked in a losing war with inner-city and suburban drug abuse and drug dealing? Is this what he means? This is supposed to bring equality wrapped in a warm blanket?

Specially designed ” hosting rooms” will welcome the drug abusers with a nice hotel room setting including cable, wifi, a Stearn and Foster queen bed, and a stocked fridge full of cheeses and spirits. And of course, it’s all free of charge. We pay for it. Ain’t Joe nice, bless his failing little heart.

Word on the street is; Hunter Biden will design the crack pipes; hosting an array of multi-colored blown glass ergonomic units. All ” hosting rooms” will be decorated with his artwork and a free signed copy of his latest bestseller.

America, what a country.

The Tarnished Olympic Rings


What a show it was, the opening ceremony of the Winter Olympics. There are choirs of little children singing, cute little kids on snowboards, and skates dressed up in puffy snowsuits looking like the Pillsbury Doughboy. Hundreds of pretty Chinese females run around the main floor holding snowflakes that fly. And then there are the lights. LEDs in all colors and configurations, passing around like alien starships. It reminded me of Spielberg’s movies.

When the Chinese athletes come marching in, the stadium goes crazy. “Cheer or die,” or at best, one of your family members is sent to a re-education resort. Everyone is smiling to the point of fainting, no breathing, just fake smiles. Life isn’t worth much in China.

The NBC folks are gushing about the ceremony. ” Oh, how beautiful, what a wonderful country.” Bullshit to this. Murdering millions of their own citizens, about to invade Taiwan, and in the process of the genocide of Muslim Chinese Uyghurs. No one talks about these things or the virus they released on the world’s population.

Nancy Pelosi, a good friend and benefactor to the CCP tells the United States Olympic team to keep quiet about the regime. Don’t say anything to upset them, as it might get you thrown into prison. Biden has to stay silent, as they own his family and soul. Also, don’t beat the Chinese athletes if you can help it.

The U.S. athletes know the score. They know what has and is being done. The look on their faces, or should I say, “in their eyes” since we can’t see their mouths because of a mask, says it all.

Baseball, Balloon Tires and Cap Pistols


I first met Billy Roy on a Monday morning in September of 1957 when Mrs. Edwards, our third-grade teacher, introduced him to our class. He stood next to her, arms crossed with a sour-ball look on his face.

I knew this kid was trouble. He hadn’t done a thing to anyone yet, but he had that weaselly look about him; beady eyes, no chin, and partially bucked front teeth and a bad haircut, giving him the appearance of a hillbilly.

Our teacher says he is from Hamburg, Germany, and his father is an officer out at Carswell Air Force Base. Billy Roy, she says, is a German and an American citizen but doesn’t speak good English quite yet. So then, what is he, an American boy or a Nazi transplant? We kids knew all about those guys, having watched World War II movies on channel 11 and playing war with our BB guns. We always whopped the Nazis and the Jap’s. We took care of the Mexicans too when we defended the Alamo.

As luck would have it, Billy Roy now lives in my neighborhood, three houses down from my best buddy, Skipper, so after school, the gang calls an emergency meeting to figure out how to deal with this infiltrator.

It’s decided to give the “new kid” a chance to prove his salt; he would be allowed to hang with us until deemed worthy or fell flat on his face.

Our parents got word of our secret plan and told us, “we had better be nice to Billy Roy, or we would wind up at the “Dope Farm.” Someone ratted us out; most likely, it was Georgie; he’s afraid of everything and can’t keep a secret. He is also a known titty-baby.

“The Dope Farm” is a juvenile detention institution that our parents use as a threat when we act up. It keeps us in line. The stories about the place give us nightmares; it’s Sing-Sing for children. One of my older cousins spent some time there and later when he was supposedly rehabilitated, he robbed a Piggly Wiggly at gunpoint dressed as a woman.

Saturday came, our day to ride our bikes to Forest Park diamonds for pick-up baseball games. Our group of eight depart from Skipper’s house at 8:30 am. Billy Roy is standing on the sidewalk as we approach his house.

Skipper stops and asks Billy Roy if he has a bike and a glove; in broken English, he states he has neither of those items.

Georgie, the titty-baby, then says in a snarky tone, “if you don’t have a bike and don’t play baseball, you can’t be part of our gang.” The word’s spoken, the gauntlet laid. It looks as if Billy Roy might be out. Everyone gives him “the look” as they ride by. I feel a little bad for the kid.

Billy Roy keeps to himself during the next school week, eating his sack lunch alone and staying inside during recess. We can care less. He can’t tote his salt.

Saturday morning, 8:30 am, the same scenario. We leave Skippers’ house on bikes, heading for the ball diamonds. As we approach Billy Roys’s house, he comes flying out of his garage on a brand-spanking-new Schwinn Hornet bike. A chrome headlight and tail-light adorn the bright red and white bike—the sun’s reflection off the chrome fenders that cover the white sidewall balloon tires is blinding. Hanging on the handlebars is a new double-stitched  “Plug Redman” Rawlings baseball glove, and sitting on his little head is a genuine New York Yankees ball cap.

Skipper skids to a stop and the rest of our bunch almost wreck our bikes trying to miss him. What is going on here?

The gang is in awe and more than a tad envious. This kids’ been here two weeks, doesn’t play baseball, can’t speak English, is likely a German spy, and here he is riding the Caddillac of bikes and now sports new ball equipment. Some snot-nose in our neighborhood is as rich as King Faruk, and it isn’t us.

Skipper, the wise leader of our bunch, surveys the scene, then tells Billy Roy that he can come along with us to the baseball diamonds since he now has the required items. So he rides at the end of our pack and struggles to control his expensive bike. He crashes a few times but catches up. Unfortunately for our intern, things don’t go well at the ballpark.

After educating Billy Roy on holding and swinging a bat, he’s bonked square in the forehead with a 40 mile per hour hardball. He’s out like a corpse.

The umpire, some kid’s father, drags him over to the bleachers and pours a cup of cold water on his head. Billy Roy wakes up, staggers about for a minute, and acts as nothing happened. We are impressed, he’s tougher than we thought.

Around the fourth inning, Billy Roy tells us that he is going home. He’s a bit dizzy and wobbly after his bonk and can’t participate in the rest of the game. We get it. He departs, driving his fancy bike from curb to curb like a blind drunk.

After the game, which we won, we gather our stuff left in the dugout.

Stevie says he can’t find his Cub Scout knife. Freckled Face Bean can’t find his Roy Rogers watch, and Skippers’ decoder ring is missing. My almost new pack of Juicy Fruit is also gone. Good Lord! there’s a thief amongst us. Georgie, the titty-baby, is the likely culprit; but he says he can’t find his dental retainer, so he’s cleared. That makes Billy “the Nazi” Roy the perpetrator. There is an ass-whoopin’ brewing. With retribution in our hearts, we haul-ass to Billy’s house.

Mrs. Roy answers their door. We demand to see Billy, so she brings him to face us. He stands behind the screen door for protection. But, of course, he denies it all until Skipper tells him to step onto the porch so he can whoop him. Billy steps onto the porch, but before Skipper can get a lick in, Billy pulls a switchblade knife from his pocket. He pops the blade and waves it at Skipper. Yikes! Not only is the little Nazi a thief, but he’s also a West Side Story hoodlum. We leave the porch and the guilty Billy Roy to his young life of crime.

After the incident, Billy Roy, to us kids, is a fart in the wind.

Having ruined his reputation in our neighborhood, he starts hanging with some older hoodlum boys from across the railroad tracks; we call them “the hard guys.” We are sure they will wind up at “The Dope Farm” sooner or later, and now young Billy will join them.

A few days before Christmas vacation, Billy Roy is missing from school for almost a week. We figure he has the bird flu or polio.

The next day, a rumor around the neighborhood, and now our school is that Billy Roy and two of the “hard guys” were pinched for holding up our small neighborhood grocery store with a Mattel Fanner 50 cap pistol.

We all agreed, that the bonk from the baseball injured his kid brain and turned him into a criminal. Last we heard, Billy and the two “hard guys” were off to the “Dope Farm.”

“Spotify Don’t Need Him Around Anyhow”


“Hope Neil Young will remember, a southern man don’t need him around anyhow.” Lynard Skinnard had it right, and neither does the eastern or the western man. Sliding into rock and roll obscurity is a pitiful state. Joni Mitchell, one of my favorite singers from ” back in the day,” has joined the “has-been” wagon supporting old Neil. She’s been on that trip for a while now. Together, she and Neil can enjoy swooshing downward until they hit the pile of crap at the bottom of the celebrity slide. Eventually, everyone in rock music gets to ride it.

Old Neil was never one of my favorites. He can’t sing for squat and possesses a thirteen-year-old valley girl’s whiney, tinny voice. So, it’s puzzling why Crosby, Stills, and Nash asked him to be in their supergroup. Those three guys could sing like hashed out angels, so Young must have been there for his guitar chops and fancy fringed leather jackets.

Joe Rogan is the new big deal in town. A new age sheriff with lots of tats and a six-gun on each hip. He’s as cool as Clint Eastwood and has the literacy jive of Jack Kerouac. He calls it as it is and doesn’t coat anything with honey.

So, Joe Rogan is the guy that Neil Young and Joni Mitchell always protested against way back in their hippie-dippy days, and Biden, who is the personification of “the man holding them down,” with his kings’ scroll of mandates, is their new golden calf. Go figure that crazy town crap out. They canceled themselves.

Sneaky Little “Stealth” Bug Coming to Your Neighborhood Soon


The Stealth A-Rona

Just when we are getting used to the everyday antics of the Omicron, another virus has arrived from that fun city in China, Wuhan. This one is so secret squirrel sneaky that it’s named “The Stealth” A-Rona.

It is believed it can penetrate all man-made masks, brick walls, steel doors, plexiglass shields at food markets, everything at Walmart and Target, NFL Games, human eyes, ears, anal orifices, and even clothing. Biden’s and Pelosi’s diapers won’t save them from this one.

The only way to detect the “wiley bug” is to have your dead body or bodily fluids sent to the Los Alamos Labs in New Mexico for extensive testing by the Oppenheimer A-Bomb Team.

Yesterday, we received word here in Texas that the “Stealth A-Rona” has arrived. But unfortunately, the CDC won’t say which city for fear of setting off riots and runs on the grocery stores.

I’m not sure, but it most likely is somewhere in deep south Texas near the border, from what I have read. It makes perfect sense. Illegal criminals stealthily sneak into our country under cover of darkness, are put on buses, then taken to clandestine airfields, put on black ops jets, and in the wee hours, are flown to cities in the northeast and then released into the general population carrying a government-issued Platinum Visa Card, stipends for food, clothing, and housing, a firearm of their choice, and a wad of cash. All ankle monitors are removed upon landing. So, the intelligent and stealthy virus catches a ride on the evil invaders. Makes perfect sense. It’s coming to your neighborhood soon, and there is nothing you can do about it.

For The Dallas Cowboys…The Parties Over


Don Merideth as a Dallas Cowboy

Don Merideth used to sing the famous country song ” Turn Out The Lights, The Parties Over,” a Willie Nelson staple, when, at the end of Monday Night Football, the losing team was shellacked and had no way to come back. Too bad he wasn’t here to sing this past Sunday evening.

Dandy Don was the quarterback for the Cowboys back when they were a man’s football team and had the best coach in the NFL, Tom Landry. How things change in 50 years. Now they have Jabba The Hut as a coach, and the team is a bunch of woke, “where’s my trophy” pansy-asses.

An Arkansas hillbilly strikes it rich with oil and gas. I guess he was out “shoot’n at some food and up through the ground came a bubbl’n crude.”

He moves the family, not to Beverly Hills, but to Highland Park, Dallas’s equivalent. He then buys the team for a song and ruins the shining silver star of Texas. Just because he played football in college doesn’t make him a coach or an expert, of which he sees himself. Jimmy Johnson was the best thing to happen to the team since Tom Landry, and Jones, in the true style of “Dogpatch,” runs him off with a double-barrel shotgun and rabid hound dogs. Moma Yokum would be proud.

I was a fan since the 60s, then dropped off the cowboy wagon for a decade or so, then back on when my son bought 2 seats at the stadium, and I attended games with him. So I had hope that this season, after 26 years of disappointment, the “boys” would win the playoffs and go to the “big show.” Well, they did put on quite a show Sunday, but it was a “shit-show,” and once again, they will be watching the Super Bowl from their media rooms.

Jerry Jones has made a fortune from building a colossal stadium to house a mediocre team and trick the fans into filling the seats and buying his silver and blue made-in-China crap. In the 1800s, he would have been called a “huckster” or a “traveling medicine show,” and likely ran out of town.

“Little Moses” of Texas


Pictured here is my grandfather on the left and his friend Hymie Rothstein with his horse Miss Golda. Hymie was, or possibly is, the only Jewish cowboy in Texas.

Hymie left the “old country” (New York) in 1910 with a burning determination to become a cattle rancher. With a grubstake from his uncle, he bought 500 acres of prime ranchland between Weatherford and Mineral Wells and stocked the spread with 500 head of Hereford cattle. He named the ranch “The Flying Menorah,” his mothers idea.

His mothers’ cousin in New York owned several restaurants and made a deal with Hymie to furnish him with Kosher meat for his patrons. Hymie, a bit of a slacker in his faith, had no idea how to raise Kosher cattle.

He required his ranch hands to wear Yamakas and grow a long beard. Then, on Friday’s before sundown, he would drive a wagon through the herd with a Rabi from the synagogue in Fort Worth, standing in the bed, blessed the cattle and the land. He assumed that if the cattle were somewhat converted, all would be Kosher. The Rabi was paid twenty-five dollars for the blessing, so he kept his opinion on the cow’s religious transformation to himself.

Hymie purchased a 3500 lb Hereford bull from a neighboring ranch to keep the cows happy and grow the herd. The bull, a massive beast with Hyde-like steel, would walk through any barb wire fence and wander off for days at a time. He named the bull “Little Moses” because of the bovines’ wanderlust.

In early December, a blue norther blew in and dropped eight inches of snow on the ranch. It was two days before the ranch hands could tend to the cattle, and when they didn’t find the herd, they checked the fencelines. At the back of the 500 acres was a section of broken fence. Thousands of cattle tracks led through the opening and onto the vast prairie. ” Little Moses” had escaped again, and the herd was following his lead.

The cowboys tracked the cattle for miles but lost their trail in the rocky hills. Hymie was frantic and called his local Sherriff, JD Ramses, for help. The Weatherford police put out a “missing cattle” alert. A poster showing a group of smiling cows was tacked on telephone poles in town. Calls from West Texas reported a large contingent of cattle crossing Route 66 a few days ago.

Hymie and the boys found the crossing and followed the herd. The cattle had been missing for 39 days and nights without hay or feed, surviving on clumps of prairie grasses and creek water.

On the 40th day, the cowboys located the herd resting at the edge of Palo Duro Canyon. All 500 cows were accounted for, but “Little Moses” was missing.

One of the cowboys spotted a snow-white bull lumbering and stumbling out of the canyon at sundown. It was “Little Moses.” His cow fur had turned completely white. His eyes were bright blue and glowed like fiery coals.

The bull lay down near the campfire. The herd moved in and surrounded the cowboys and the bull. The cows seemed to be saying goodbye to their leader. Hymie fed him some bread and a few sips of Kosher wine, and then ” Little Moses” expired. It was a good way to go. Laying by the warm campfire and surrounded by his minions.

A crack of thunder and lightning bolts hit a grove of trees nearby. Usually, that would spook the cattle, but not a one moved. Instead, there was a sound of trumpets from somewhere above. The herd looked skyward as if they were being summoned.

Two “Heavenly Holstein” cows with angel wings descended from the sky into the camp. They each carried a golden trumpet in their left hooves. The angel cows stood on either side of “Little Moses,” and together, the trio ascended into the clouds, starting their journey to Bovine Heaven.

Hymie and the cowboys were gobsmacked by what they had witnessed. They tempered their shock with a bottle of red-eye whiskey and roll-your-own cigarettes. The conversation around the campfire was sparse.

The herd dispersed into the grove of trees next to the camp. Hymie and the other hands hobbled their horses and bedded down next to the fire.

When dawn broke, the cowboys found a snow-white bull calf with fiery blue eyes standing with the cows. The calf led his herd and the cowboys back to the Flying Menorah.

More WTH News From The Cactus Patch


I have since given up smoking in my last portrait and had an ear reduction.

I can’t bring myself to watch our faux president give a speech. So, I didn’t. Instead, I watched the 4th episode of 1883. But I did catch bits of it on Youtube after the fact, and even then, I cringed and felt a tad oily. I realized that I, at 72 years old, am a domestic terrorist, right up there with the Antifa, BLM, and those crazy boys, the Taliban.

According to that pod person in the white house and Pelosi, I meet all the criteria; a Christian..yep, a gun owner..yep, a white man..yep ( although I am mostly Cherokee American Indian), an American patriot..yep, so I am a terrorist, and also a white supremacist, and a racist. I had no idea I was so damn evil. So it’s better to know now before I pass on.

I vowed after January 1st, I would limit my exposure to such political theater and nonsense in an attempt to lower my blood pressure and perhaps live a bit longer on this planet, which is doomed because most of Europe and about one half of the United States thinks a 16-year-old Swedish screaming savant is an expert on all things weather, climate change and the second coming of Baby Jesus. Sweden gave us ABBA, most of the folks in Minnesota, and Swedish Meatballs, and that’s about it. I’m really sorry that the cow flatulence from Texas ruined the ozone layer above Sweden and robbed her of her childhood.

If Jesus is coming down to kick our sinful butt’s, the ass whooping will likely start in Washington DC and then move on to the west coast, leaving most of America’s heartland alone, except for maybe Austin.

My late father’s late uncle, Harvey, was Biden’s doppelganger of a sort; although he more resembled Ernie Kovaks than Biden, He had the same temperament. I remember him as a demented screaming hot-mess in his twenties, and he lived to be eighty-five or so, perfecting his behavior into an act that the family immensely enjoyed during get-togethers on holidays. Hours of yelling and ranting about nothing, in particular, gave us children an excellent performance, which we much preferred to afternoon cartoons. He did take a piss in the gas floor heater one Christmas during our holiday luncheon, which cleared the house for a few hours, and he tried to roast his cat on a charcoal grill. Still, other than those few incidents, he was everyone’s favorite crazy uncle living in the basement. Today, with the proper handlers, he could have been president.

Uncle Harvey, during one of his classic dementia, inspired performances

Poor Ronnie Spector, she passed away “being no one’s baby.” Maybe she’ll send a selfie taken with Clarence, the angel, to Phil Spector, who is most likely roasting in Hell.

Betty White won the contest. She lived to 99 and was a few days short of 100. She outlived everyone she ever worked with or knew. Bad assed gal. Maybe she and Paul Lynde can get an act going and headline at “Sonny’s” Bar and Grill, located right off the main paved in gold highway next door to “Angels Wing Cleaning Service.”

After further and exhausting genealogy research, I found that I may indeed be related to Will Rogers, Chief Quanah Parker, Belle Star, and Butch Cassidy, but not the Sundance Kid. A decade ago, a fellow with the Sons Of The Alamo lodge, a dedicated member of whom did a run on our family tree, and these folks showed up. Queen Elizabeth is in there somewhere on down the tree and Odin the Viking king. I mentioned my family tree to my buddy Mooch, and he said, ” I got ya beat Lil’ buddy. I’m related to Golda Mier, Goldy Hawn, Old Yeller, Golden Earing, Wyatt Erp, King Faruk, Annie Oakley, The Hulk and Batman.” So yeah, I guess he does have one up on me.

Breaking News from The Front Lines of Rural America


CDC Smokestack

White smoke was spotted coming from the CDC smoke stack today, signaling the naming of the newest virus that will be killing us all within weeks. Vaccinated or not, it’s gonna get us.

” Flurona” the new rockstar variant of 2022 has been spotted in Los Angeles and the affluent suburbs looking every bit a Hollywood-inspired virus. It’s so contagious that the smash and grab gangs are taking a break from their criminal activities, giving Rodeo Drive merchants time to replace their smashed windows and replenish the supply of outrageously priced goods.

Maya Sharona, field reporter for NPR caught up with business human unit Libby Caucus in her Rodeo Drive shop. Ms. Caucus stated, “Like it’s been soooo crazy dangerous here on the drive that even the Kardashians have been staying away.”

Kamala (not a real black woman) Harris, this morning on national television compared the January 6th, riot to the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and the terrorist attack on New York, aka, 911.

2,500 servicemen died in the attack on Pearl Harbor, so how dare this faux human compare the two. It takes a special kind of brain-damaged moron to issue such an insult to the families of those that died in those attacks. Worse than 911, who in the hell told her to say that? This woman has less brain function than Joe Bee. That reminds me, who has taken more balls to the chin than Mickey Mantel and Roger Marris? Kamala Harris.

“2022, The Year Of Reading Dangerously”


I’m an old-school reader. An Amazon tablet rests in my desk drawer but has gone untouched for four years. Electronic devices don’t allow me the same experience as holding a book made from cardboard and ink printed on recycled paper. Technology is fine, for some, but for the written word. No.

It starts with the jacket. Most nowadays are in color, printed on shiny paper with the author’s name as large as the title, a nice photo or drawing, and a few lines of publisher praise to capture your attention and to make you feel the $30 plus dollars you paid wasn’t in vain. It’s a dance of sorts, but our money has been collected, so it’s best to continue the waltz.

Then comes the preface or the dedication to loved ones, friends, or contributors. Some are short, sweet, and curt and fail to credit the deserved; others ramble on until I lose interest.

Truman Capote snubbing Harper Lee’s dedicated research with “In Cold Blood” comes to mind. A few excluded words of thanks ruined a lifelong friendship. He wasn’t the first, but his pettiness was unforgivable.

I notice the typeset and spacing information, the font, the Library of Congress notes, the printing dates, and then the first paragraph that sets the tone for the next few hundred or more pages.

Ernest Hemingway said a book should begin with ‘one true sentence.’ He knew it was a waste of the authors and their readers’ time if it didn’t. His advice has taught me well.

My wife, a Registered Nurse, retired last August. Soon after, she underwent major back surgery, and during her recuperation, she re-discovered her love of reading. So now, in place of watching television until the late hours, we both retire early, prop ourselves on our bed pillows, and read our books late into the night.

I recently revisited ” In Cold Blood,” Capote’s masterpiece that so affected his life that he never fully recovered to write another novel. I enjoyed it more this time around than thirty years ago. It was a butt whooping to the end. Every chapter contained a piece of his soul.

Anthony Doerr’s two newest novels are commanding reads. My wife and I have read both, and she is on the verge of starting his third. I am reading Amor Towels and find his storytelling to be in the style of Steinbeck and Hemingway. I was once a James Elroy fan, but his last two books were an effort from start to completion. He is on my rest list for now.

Besides ” Fun With Dick and Jane,” the first real books I read were Mark Twain’s ” The Adventures of Tom Sawyer” and then his follow-up “The AdventureHuckleberryberry Finn.”

I come from a family of non-readers, so my love for books comes from somewhere, possibly my elementary school librarian or my father’s sister, Norma. She was a voracious reader that leaned toward romance schlock, Cormac McCarthy, and Micky Spillane noir. I am thankful to both for their influence and guidance. It was aunt Norma that, introduced me to Thomas Wolf. I returned the favor with Joseph Heller and Kurt Vonnegut.

My wife and I are relieved that the year 2020 is behind us. It won’t be missed. No tears from this household, only two middle fingers pointed skyward. Our ages allow us to forget what we wish to and remember the best. I believe 2022 will be our year of reading dangerously. We may, holding hands and a frosty cocktail, step out onto that literary ledge and take the leap; attempt to leave our comfort zone and take a chance or three. Time is of the essence, my eyesight is on the fritz, I have a blister on my thumb, and the books keep coming.

Committing Myself To New Years Resolutions


As a child growing up in 1950s Texas, I never understood the need to put myself behind an eight-ball with proclamation’s I had no way of keeping. New Year resolutions were the worst of them all.

My parents made them by the dozens and broke them without batting an eye.

My mother was the worst of the family bunch. Every year, on the eve of midnight, she would make a grandiose announcement to the family, usually after a few glasses of sparkling Cold Duck wine or too many Old Crow eggnogs. She made many resolutions in her day, but her yearly favorite was “kicking the ciggies.” She smoked like Bogart, one in each hand with a third, lit and waiting in the ashtray. My father, a lesser smoker, was a rank beginner compared to his bride. As a result, our household had more ashtrays than dishes. My sister and I also enjoyed the mild smoke from the ever-present Chesterfield cloud that hung in every room. Mother finally kept her favorite resolution at the age of 74, with some help from emphysema.

So, here I am at 72, and for the first time, I am considering making a New Year resolution or two.

I’ve been kicking around the less painful ones, easy things like giving up red meat or sugar. But then, Ovaltine contains sugar, and there is no way I can sleep without my hot Ovaltine, usually taken between 1 and 2 am, which is also my writing hours so that one is out. But, on the other hand, red meat can give me gastronomical grief, and I like fish more so that one is still doable.

Abstaining from distilled spirits? Now that’s tough, but it seems to be the national favorite.

It’s immensely satisfying to hold a crystal snifter of Jamesons or Tullamore Dew while sitting on my patio admiring the beauty of our local mountain, Comanche Peak. Good Irish whiskey settles my nerves and fuels my literary creativity. Jack Kerouac and Truman Capote will attest to that. Reaching old age without dying is hard work, and suitable rewards are in order. So unless I plan to stop writing and live out my final days as a nervous wreck, that one is kaput.

Attending a non-denominational house of worship with my bride. I can do this one with a few exceptions. Firstly, how does the word “none” go with denominational? There are hundreds of organized religions out there, just pick one and go with it.

Secondly, I’m old school church. I need to hear “the word of God,” not some big-haired pastor with an expensive haircut using the bible as a Cliff Notes report. I don’t dance hip hop in the isles, or clap, or sing songs projected on a screen, or enjoy hearing a choir of off-key screeching women whining about their personal tradgadys to the accompaniment of a Led Zepplin tribute band. I need that old-time religion to soothe my soul. The bubble-haired lady playing that Hammond B3 organ; that old rugged cross hanging on the wall next to the velvet Last Supper painting. A yelling red-faced slobbering preacher that points to me and says I’m going to Hell in a used Honda if I don’t change my sinful ways, and then expects money for admonishing me in front of strangers. Uncomfortable seating is a must. I can’t be a Baptist again, that would require me to give up my Irish whiskey, so it’s best to move on to another resolution or consider becoming a Catholic.

Improving my health. Maybe the easiest one of all, except for the sugar Ovaltine thing and the Irish whiskey thing. I possibly can do this one and make it stick. I beat the snot out of Cancer, so what’s left that could get me?

My doctor is young and hip. He wears one of those Apple watches that keep you alive and listens to TED talks in his wireless earbuds and drives a Tesla. He recommends, walking, hiking, biking, going to the gym, meditating, using fewer medications, and eating less of everything that tastes like food.

I reminded him that I need a knee replacement and major back surgery, so the walking, biking, hiking, and gym are out. Using fewer meds? He’s the idiot that put me on them. Sorry doc, I am not eating bagged weeds, Kale, plant-based meats, or gluten-free anything. Lactose-free milk is as woke as I get. I could only achieve a meditated state after a pipe full of Maui Wowie and Cat Stevens on the stereo.

By writing my resolutions down, I realize that nothing has changed since I was a kid. I’m not standing behind that eight-ball at this age.

“RESPECTIVUS” “For the Rest of Us” A New Holiday Coming Soon


In 1966, Maulana Kereuga, a member of the Black Panther Party (the one that Forest Gump messed with), invented a holiday to celebrate African culture in the United States, but not Africa. “Kwanzaa” became the alternate secular Christmas for some black Americans, but not all bought into it. The citizens of Africa think Kwanzaa is a made-up hot-mess of a holiday and had never heard of it until the late 60s. They celebrate Christmas, like most of the world. I’m betting Forest and Jenny didn’t know about Kwanzaa.

“Festivus.” A Sienfield made-up holiday to bring attention to the over-commercialism of Christmas. Held on December 23rd, it celebrates no giving of gifts, feats of strength, airing of grievances, and questionable miracles, as well as a fine meal of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. In place of a traditional tree, there is an aluminum pole carried by the family elder. Frank and George Castanza convinced Jerry, Elaine, and Kramer that Festivus is a viable and authentic holiday. It makes more sense than Kwanzaa, and at times, Christmas.

Festivus

So if anyone can make up a holiday, get it printed on a calendar and plastered on television, why can’t I? Well, just hide and watch.

I propose a new holiday that celebrates the elders of our families, the old and almost forgotten, except when birthdays and Christmas roll around and their children expect them to dish out wads of cash on useless gifts for their grand kids.

Poor old used-up Parents.

I’m talking about the senior parents and grandparents. They have toiled in the corporate salt mines, served in the military, died in wars, slaved in the factories and retail stores, walked those miles of isles in Walmart, changed those thousands of bedpans, paved the roadways, built the buildings and houses, and worked the land that provides the food that all our children and grandchildren enjoy. If it wasn’t for Grandma working in that computer chip factory for thirty years, little Johnny and Chelsea wouldn’t have that expensive video game or smart-ass phone that cost a cool grand.

As of today, December 28th, 2021, I proclaim the period between Christmas and New Year’s Eve the holiday of “Respectivus.”

Six humbling days of showing respect and gratefulness to parents and grandparents for all they have made possible for their loving family. Shower them with expensive gifts and fine wines. Send them on all-inclusive cruises to warm climates, and maybe pay off the mortgage that they borrowed against to pay for their children’s college education.

Sure, there will be a few million or more that will send their parents a gift card from Walgreens or maybe a jelly of the month membership or a new sleeve of tennis balls for their walker. Those would be the cheapskate brats that threw a conniption fit when they didn’t get a trophy and a pizza after they lost every game, and now their kids do the same when they don’t get the latest techno-gadget under the.. good God, it’s hard to even write it… “Holiday Tree.”

Implementing this hew holiday won’t be easy. It will take a banding together of old folks to make it happen. Marching in the streets carrying signs, some saying hooray for our side, protesting at the post office and in front of city hall, burning our driver’s license at the polling prescient, riding our personal mobility scooters like a biker gang on the freeway’s, and chaining ourselves to the columns of the White House. The old guy in there should get it; he’s older than we are. Us’un old ones have to stick together like we did in the 60s. So put Steppenwolf on the 8 track, and let’s roll.

I am excited about the tennis balls I might be receiving.

“Another Sunday Night In The Twilight Zone Between Christmas and New Years”


Photo by Captain Kirk

I feel like I’m living in a black and white telecast of the Twilight Zone. The ghost of Rod Serling is sitting in my den telling me stories and smoking Camels. That “dead zone” between Christmas and New Year has arrived.

Christmas can be such a damp squib to one’s spirits. Yet, throughout December, we anticipate the evening of the 24th and the 25th. Plans are made, food and wine are consumed with friends and family, phone calls made, presents exchanged, all in a whirlwind of excitement and frivolity. The world is at peace, life is good, we are all out of debt, and the family members we disliked a week ago now sit in our den spilling beer on our new carpet and double dipping the queso.

Then December 26th arrives, the tire goes flat, the cake goes stale, and the wine is soured. A whole week of angst lies ahead. I stock up on Valium and Tullamore Dew to fortify my journey.

I sit in my cushy recliner, slack jaw, drooling, staring at the ladybug on my ceiling. Pat Sajak is droning in the background, and Vanna is marching across the stage, turning those damn letters. The poor lady loses the car over a pause of 2.5 seconds. Sajak is an asshole. The lady goes home, her predicament goes viral on the net, Audie gives her a car, and Wheel of Fortune comes off looking like the dipshits they are. Why doe’s Vanna White even have a job?

My wife and I have doctor’s appointments this week. She, physical therapy, and me for a sinus invasion. We talk of going to the mountains, the ocean, or anywhere, there is no cedar. Christmas kicked our senior butts. We are as broke as 1930s sharecroppers. So I’m searching for old reruns of the Twilight Zone for insight and inspiration.

The coming Friday evening will bring a welcomed end to the year from Hell. According to the newscast, we will be walled into our homes within a few weeks and most likely deceased by February because of the Omicron bug. New Year’s Eve brings revelers blowing their little paper horns, drinking champagne, groping each other’s butts, and making drunken fools of themselves, but come morning, nothing has changed, and no one gets a pass to start all over. So put on your face diaper and shut up.

I think Rod Serling had it right. “Live every day like you’re in The Twilight Zone;” come to think of it, we are.

Is Christmas Over Yet?


My great great great something, Belle Starr.

Christmas Eve 2021 is upon us, and there is no escaping it.

I’m aware that my advanced age drives many of my phobias and fits of melancholia. Still, with our country going to complete crap in a Crate and Barrel wooden box, it’s impossible to fool me into becoming a smiling Father Christmas sitting around the fire drinking hot chocolate while reading “The Night Before Christmas” to our wokie grandkids. But, of course, they wouldn’t understand why someone would write such a fairytale. They are much too smart for their young age, thanks to Google and iPhones.

Yeah, I’m an old school guy with old school thoughts, when I can remember them. My wife says she is worried about me; I don’t remember things she says she told me ten minutes earlier. I tell her, “well maybe you didn’t tell me but thought you did.” It goes both ways. Then I find my car keys in the refrigerator, next to my reading glasses and wallet.

I used to laugh when my father asked me what day is it? Now, I am my father and my son laughs at me. Aging is not for pussy’s. It takes a real man to survive it.

That’s why I write short stories and blog, it keeps my mind sharp, and my wit acrid. The brain is a muscle that craves stimulation. I would think the number of medications I take would do that job, but creating fictional characters and predicaments based on my street rat crazy family makes me a whole person.

Who needs genealogy? I don’t. My grandmother, mother, aunts, uncles, and other relatives tell my sister and me that we are related to the famous female outlaw; Belle Starr. Also to Chief Quanah Parker and Will Rogers. Of course, they have no written proof, only hearsay delivered around a campfire or a supper table. I sent some spit to a genealogy outfit and they sent me a report. It wasn’t what I expected.

Northern European, Russian, English, Scottish, Irish, Welsh, and Neanderthal; not one molecule of American Indian, even though my Granny was born and raised on a reservation in Oklahoma and lived in a teepee. I called them up. The nice lady said the American Indigenous tribes are secretive and don’t give out information. She assured me I was probably a Cherokee and could go on acting like one if it made me feel better. Stupid ass lady. I do feel better.

Chief Quannah Parker; I inherited his hair

Have a Merry Christmas and may you live in the land of good water, bountiful game, and cold beer.

“A Fort Worth, Texas Kind of Christmas”


A personal recount of my childhood Christmas memories.

Photo by: Elf -O-Mat Studios

Riding a ceiling-mounted “Rocket Train” to nowhere around the basement of a department store doesn’t seem like a Christmas thing, but that’s what thousands of other Texas kids and I did every year in the 1950s.

Leonard Brothers Department Store occupied two square blocks of downtown Fort Worth real estate and was known as the Southwest’s Macy’s. They offered everything the big shot stores in the East carried, and then, hundreds of items no retailer in their right mind would consider.

If you had a mind to, one could purchase a full-length mink coat with optional mink mittens, the latest women’s high-fashion clothing line from Paris France, an Italian cut-crystal vile of Elizabeth Taylors spit, James Dean’s signature hair tonic, Rock Hudson’s autographed wedding photos, a housebroken Llama, an aluminum fishing boat and motor, a new car, a pole barn, a nice two-story craftsman home “build it yourself kit” delivered to your lot, chickens, barb wire, hay, horses and cows, a 30-30 Winchester rifle, a 40 caliber autographed General George Custer Colt pistol, a bottle of good hootch and a Ford tractor. That’s about as Texas as it gets.

The Christmas season in downtown Fort Worth was internationally recognized for its innovative and wonderous decorations. The righteous city fathers figured the best way to out-do Dallas, a full-time effort, was to line every building with white lights from top to bottom and install large glowing decorations on every lamp pole, street light, and building façade available. If that didn’t make you “ooooh and ahhhh,” then you needed to go home and hide in a closet.

A week, or so, after Thanksgiving, my parents would take my sister and me downtown to see the decorations and visit the Leonard Brothers Department Store. Santa just happened to be in their basement taking advanced verbal orders from every crumb cruncher that could climb the stairs and plop on his lap.

My sister, in between screams and crying fits, always asked for the latest doll. She was scared senseless of “HO-HO,” but she somehow managed to spit out her order. Like clockwork, every year, I asked for a Daisy BB Gun with a year’s supply of stainless silver ammo ( for killing werewolves), a full-size Elliot Ness operable Thompson Sub Machine Gun, or an Army surplus Bazooka with real rockets and a long, razor-sharp Bowie knife encased in a fringed leather holster. It was a 1950s boy thing; weapons were what we longed for. How else could we defeat Santa Anna at the Alamo or win World War II, again? Our neighborhood may have sported the best-supplied “kid army” on the planet, and jolly old Santa was our secret arms dealer; parents non-the wiser. I finally got the BB Gun, but Santy was wise enough to not bring the other request.

Walking down the stairs to the store’s basement was the thrill I waited for all year. There, hanging above my head, was the beautiful red and silver tinseled sign, “Toy Land,” kid nirvana, and the Holy Grail all in one room. The smell of burned popcorn and stale chocolate candy wafted up the stairs, and I could hear the cheesy Christmas choir music and the sound the Rocket Train made as it glided along the ceiling-mounted rails. I almost pissed my jeans.

Hundreds, if not thousands of parents jostled down isles of toys, pushing, grabbing, snarling like a pack of wild dogs fighting for that last toy; the holiday spirit and common courtesy was alive and well. The queue of kids for the Rocket Train snaked through the basement like a soup line.

There, sitting on his mini-mountain top perch, sat old red-suited Santa Claus and his elfin apprentices, herding kids to his lap at break-neck speed. Each child got about fifteen-seconds, a black and white photograph, and then it was off the lap and down the steps. Kids were fast in those days; we memorized and practiced our list weeks before our visit for maximum impact. “Ho-Ho” had better be writing this stuff down. Kids don’t forget, squat.

Two Santa visits, four Rocket Train rides, and three popcorn bags later, our family unit departed Leonard’s for the new and improved “Leonard’s Christmas Tree Land,” located across the street from the main building. Thanks to the demolition of several winos infested abandoned buildings, the new lot was now the size of Rhode Island and held enough trees for every person and their dog in Texas.

Thousands, if not millions of fresh-cut trees awaited our choosing. Father, always the cheapskate, chose a sensible tree; not too big, not too small, yet full and fluffy with a lovely piney aroma. My sister and I pointed and danced like fools for the “pink flocked” tree in the tent, that cost the equivalent of a week’s salary. My parents enjoyed our cute antics. The sensible tree was secured to the top of our Nash Rambler station wagon, and we are homeward bound.

Pulling into our driveway, it was impossible to miss our neighbors extravagant holiday display. We had been away from home for 6 hours and returned to a full-blown holiday extravaganza that made our modest home look like a tobacco road share-croppers shack.

Our next-door neighbors, Mr. Mister and Mrs. Mister were the neighborhood gossip fodder. The couple moved from Southern California for his job. He, an aircraft-design engineer, and she, a former gopher girl at Paramount Studios. The Misters reeked new-found money and didn’t mind flaunting it. They drove tiny Italian sports cars and hired a guy to mow their lawn. His wife, Mrs. Mister, always had a Pall Mall ciggie in one hand and a frosty cocktail in the other. Father said she looked like a pretty Hollywood lady named Jane Mansfield, but Mother said she resembled a “gimlet-assed dime-store chippy.” I got the impression that the Misters were quite popular in the neighborhood.

Their Christmas display was pure Cecil B. DeMille. A life-size plywood sleigh, with Santa and his reindeer, covered the Mister’s roof, and 20 or more automated Elves and various holiday characters greeted passersby. Twinkling lights covered every bush and plant in the yard, and a large machine spat out thousands of bubbles that floated through the neighborhood. This was far more than Fort Worth was ready for.

The kill-shot was their enormous picture window that showcased a ceiling-high blue flocked tree bathed in color-changing lights. There, framed in the glow of their yuletide decor, sat Mr. and Mrs. Mister with their two poodles, Fred and Ginger, perched on their expensive modern sofa, sipping vermouth martinis like Hollywood royalty. This display of pompacious decadence didn’t go unnoticed by my parents.

Father hauled our puny tree into the living room and began unpacking lights for the decorating that would happen tomorrow evening. Mother hurried my sister and me off to bed. Visions of spying Elves, sugar plum pudding, and dangerous weapons danced in my head; Christmas was upon us.

Sometime after 10 PM, Father got hungry. Searching for sandwich fixings in the kitchen, he found a bottle of Jim Beam bourbon. Then he found a fresh half gallon of Egg-Nog, which of course, he enjoyed with the bourbon. While searching for bread to make the ham sandwich, he found two “Lux Laundry Soap Flake” boxes, with a dish-towel in each one. Then by chance, he discovered the food coloring. This gave him an idea for our sad little tree.

I awoke in a start. The sun was shining in my face, which meant I was late for school. I ran into the living room and was stopped in my tracks.

Our formally green tree was now flocked in thick pink snow, as were the curtains, the fireplace mantel, two chairs, the coffee table, and my father, who lay on the couch, passed out, with a half-eaten ham sandwich on his chest. My Mother sat a few feet away, sipping her coffee and smoking a Winston; my Louisville slugger lay on her lap. I was reluctant to approach her, but I had to know.

I timidly put my hand on her shoulder and asked, “Mom, is Dad going to be alright?” She took a sip of coffee and a drag from her ciggie and said, “well, for right now, he will be, but after he wakes up, who knows.”

What Is Christmas Without Charlie Brown?


Since I don’t subscribe to expensive cable television anymore, and my wimpy HD antenna receives only when it feels like it, I missed the annual telecast of Charlie Browns Christmas show.

Actually, there are only two parts I like; when they are dancing to ” Linus and Lucy” by Vince Guaraldi and when Linus recites his Christmas speech under the spotlight. The rest is also fun, but those two scenes make the show. Now I’m bummed because I missed it, and the networks along with Disney, who owns the rights, so they show it once a year and don’t let anyone know when, until the last minute. Sort of like Cong-television. Pop-up entertainment.

“Things That Keep Me Awake On A Sunday Night, But I Forgot To Write About Until Monday Night”


Jeez-al-mighty, the radicals have kicked Joe Bee to the curb. He is officially a useless old man that has outlived his pecker. Willie Nelson said it first, and he should know; he’s much older than JB and has access to better weed.

With Joe Bee soon to be in the memory care home, that cute dancing Latino congress girl from New York is now free to roam the hallowed halls of Congress and possibly the White House acting like Castro’s daughter while bossing everyone around. But, of course, Jill ( not a doctor) Biden doesn’t give a street rat’s ass if she does; she got Joe Bee to sign everything over to her, even Hunter’s laptop and collection of ancient Mayan crack pipes.

Since a handful of NFL games were canceled, ratings are up!

My wife and I thought we had the Omicron. Watery eyes, coughing, tearing up, a snotty nose, then we realized we were watching The Sound of Music. I’m better today.

Senator Manchin just bitch slapped the radical Democratic party. He saved the country, the economy, and every God-fearing citizen that lives here. Hats off to Mr. Manchin. The only thing that would be sweeter would be for him to sucker punch Pelosi while she’s drinking her Gin and Tonic ice cream float.

I visited our local on the square bookstore today; I purchased a Christmas gift for my wife. It’s a hometown place with a great assortment of the latest books, hot tea and biscuits, and friendly folks. The business was great, and the place was packed to the walls, and not one person was looking at their phone. Imagine that.

“It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Last Christmas”


Cub Scout Den BR549 from Queens has had enough of the shutdown and demands Santa does his job.

New York City is shuttering Broadway for a second year. The Rockett’s were sent home with a fruit basket and a frozen Turkey, and Saturday Night Live is going on with its infamous Christmas show minus a live audience and limited cast and crew, which would improve the performance. So instead, Omicron has arrived in grand style with the highest ratings yet for a virus.

Why was there no “Omicron” balloon in Macy’s parade? An ” Omicron” dressed as Santa sitting in his sleigh would have made the kiddies squeal with delight. DeBlasio knew it was in his city, waiting patiently to make a late but well-timed entrance, descending a gold lame’ staircase like one of Truman Capote’s society Swans. The pesky bug is full of itself, flexing its Christmas muscle and looking every bit, the superstar that it is.

Maya Sharona, head correspondent humanoid for NPR, caught up with a few typical New Yorkers in Times Square that voiced their displeasure with the new shut down and mandates.

Mustafa De’ San Angelo, a well-known homeless beggar, and famous Times Square criminal, told Ms. Sharona that his business is down by Eighty percent since last weekend, so he will have to start robbing other beggers or resume mugging the elderly. Ms. Sharona offered him a twenty-dollar bill, but he punched her in the face and snatched her Gucci purse. A nearby cop promptly wrote her a ticket for bleeding on the sidewalk and crying in public.

The New York Post of the Salvation Army, in its attempt to make the organization more white and less racist, sent all-white employees home without pay for the rest of the year. When asked if the Army would be hosting the annual feed the homeless Christmas dinner at Madison Square Garden, their spokesperson said, ” we don’t have anyone left to work, and they took all their food home with them.” They put in a call to Joe and Jill Biden about donating some grub, but they are not returning calls.

This Christmas may be better than last year. Right?

God Help Us All….Biden Say’s We Are Going To Die This Winter!


After hearing president Devo’s dire prediction today, “It’s going to be a cold winter of severe illness and painful deaths.” Taking his prediction to heart, my wife and I are making our final arrangements. Well, not really, but maybe. The drama around the country is so thick you would think the Kardashian’s are writing sniffy’s teleprompter speeches. So our little statement is a wokie stab at black humor. Can I say ” black humor?” Is that too racist? Am I canceled?

It’s not every day our government, meaning head elf Fauci and president Poopy Pants, tells us we are doomed and will likely expire within a few months due to the Omicron BR549 Virus. The vile little bug, engineered to be quite intelligent and talkative, says it doesn’t matter if we are jabbed, the vax is a juvenile joke, and it farts in our general direction. Such a cheeky little bugger.

Our rotting, and recently retired carcasses will be found in our fancy new leather recliners, a melted cocktail still clutched in our skeletal fingers, and Netflix running on the television.

Come to think of it, I don’t believe any American president has given such a grim forewarning to our country. His wife ( not a doctor ), Jill Biden, is busy fielding angry emails on Hunter’s new laptop while making sure Ole’ Joe has plenty of diapers. Prince Charles’s wife ( never will be queen ) Camilla sent JoeBee a Costco UK membership and a coupon for a year’s worth of free Lavender scented adult diapers. For a commoner, she has such a royal sense of humor.

To save money and lessen the grief of our family and friends, when we do expire from the Omicron, after Christmas, we are holding a wake and celebration of life for ourselves. Of course, we won’t be dead quite yet, but this way we can hear the nice things folks say about us and be able to enjoy the excellent food, booze, and lovely gifts. We hope to see you at the gathering.

“What In The Hell Is Going On with The Salvation Army?”


Photo by Santa Claus

The Salvation Army, the one outfit I have relied on for the past 50 years to do the right thing, is now going full-blown BLM, Biden-loving butt-kissing wokie bullcrap. Those red kettle bell ringers outside of Walmart and Hobby Lobby can count on nothing from me and most likely a few hundred million other Americans. I regret that this Christmas season, I have already given around fifty dollars to these beggars, and there is no way to get it back. The holidays tend to bring the soured cream to the top of the milk fat. It’s a sad day.

The news is that the Salvation Army hates white people. Well, guess what Salvation Army, it’s the middle-class white folks that give to the organization that allows you to exist and to help others.

Have a Merry Christmas and kiss my non-donating rear.

Maybe Santa can fill your red kettle. Well, maybe the Dallas Cowboys can send a few wokie bucks your way. Morons.

Did I say too much?

“Hey Hey I’m A Monkee”


It appears that Mike Nesmith, formerly of the Monkees, made a more significant impact on our culture than anyone imagined. It’s said that he invented the music video format and country-rock, two massive contributions to our video and audiophile obsessed society. He was a fellow Texan, so he gets a 10 in my book for that alone. Mickey Dolenz, the remaining Monkee, will most likely hang it up and enjoy the renewed interest in his former band and maybe make a few bucks. God Bless ole’ Mike Nesmith, and may he keep playing music in his heavenly venue.

I was a fan of the show; how could a teenager in 1966 not be? Rock music, comedy, and a groundbreaking video music format were the perfect show for that time. I played in a rock band, so I felt the show was made for us musicians. The public had no idea that the boys didn’t play their music. Super Beatle amplifiers, Gretsch guitars, and drums, a Vox Continental organ, top-of-the-line gear, and these guys were as famous as the Fabs or any of the English bands.

I don’t recall when I discovered the band was not a real band, but only four funny guys. It wasn’t a devastating blow, but it pissed me off that the television producers had put one over on young people. Don Kirshner likely leaked the truth when he was fired from the show as a music producer. Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart wrote the tunes, and the famous Wrecking Crew provided great music. We were duped, but it was a good duping.

My younger sister was a huge fan, so she and I attended a Monkees live show in 1967. They were playing their own instruments and were rumored to be quite good by then. The show was at Memorial Auditorium in Dallas, Texas, the best venue for a large crowd but terrible acoustics for music. The crowd was teenage or younger boys and girls, their mothers, and guys like me bringing a sibling too young to drive.

The warm-up act, a local band, Kenny And the Kasuals, put on a solid show. The promoters and the Monkees were likely afraid of being outplayed. As it turns out, they were, but the crowd was there to see the Monkees, not a local act, so it went unnoticed.

When the Monkees took the stage, the screaming began. I could hardly hear their first two songs. Mike Nesmith was playing a 12 string Gretsch guitar and couldn’t keep the beast in tune, so like any good musician, he proceeded to tune up for ten minutes. All music stopped. The crowd grew restless, and folks started to leave. No music and three Monkees standing around smiling and waving at the attendees did not make a good show. He got his instrument tuned, and the music proceeded, but the excitement in the room was gone. The band did an encore, performing “Last Train To Clarksville,” and the show ended. It wasn’t the Beatles, but my sister saw the Monkees live, so it was a good night.

A Chicken And 88 Keys


Photo by; Colonel Sanders

Marjorie Mae has a dozen chickens living on her small farm on the outskirts of San Angelo, Texas. Normal Texas folks don’t think much of chickens except when they eat their eggs or have a piece of it fried or baked. Marjorie Mae is different; she treats her chickens like real folks; all of her fowl have first names and are somewhat educated.

Gilda, Ruby, Tootie, Francis, Lucille, Ethel, Jessie, Rea, Poochie, Piddle, Bebe, and Poteet. Call any one of them by their given name, and they come running like a spotted pup. She rather prides herself on being the keeper of educated farm fowl. She isn’t sure about the depth of their education, but they seem smarter than most run-of-the-mill barnyard chickens.

One day, walking by her barn on the way to the chicken coops to gather eggs, she hears piano music. She instantly recognizes the out-of-tune sound of her ancient broken-down upright piano that’s been stored there for ten years. Unfortunately, her husband Wilfred doesn’t play, so she figures a hobo or possibly an escaped felon from the prison farm must be hiding in her barn, twinkling the ivories. She grabs a 20 gauge from the house and marches off to confront the interloper.

As she gets closer, she realizes this is not some rube pecking around on her piano, but an educated musician, like herself, that knows their way around the 88 keys. So she slows her advance to a near stop to listen a bit more. She can’t be sure, but that sounds like Mozart’s Concerto No. 3 in B minor, but the piano is old and out of tune, so it could be anything short of a barn cat walking on the keyboard.

When she reaches the barn door, the music stops, then starts again. The beautiful haunting notes of Moon River float from within the dark depths. Whoever this trespasser is, she wants to meet them and have a bite of lunch at her kitchen table; hobo or felon, she opens the sliding door and enters the barn.

Thirty steps to the center of the barn, behind the frozen-up Ford tractor, is her dust-covered piano. The tarp cover is haphazardly thrown to one side. In the low light of the barn, she can’t see anyone, yet the playing continues. Finally, the culprit is discovered when she gets within five feet of the piano.

Her Sussex Speckled Hen, Rea, is standing on the keyboard, pecking the keys with her beak and both feet. Not the corny huckster trick pecking you see the chicken at the county fair playing on the toy piano for a quarter, but calculated and coordinated movements that are producing beautiful music. The first thing that comes to her mind is, “I’m going to be rich.”

I’m into the second week of my month-long summer visit to my grandparent’s farm in Santa Anna, Texas. It’s a hot night, and everyone is sitting on the covered front porch drinking sweet iced tea and Pearl beer. My two uncles, Jay and Bill, are visiting for a few days from Fort Worth and are putting the finishing touches on a case of beer they bought this morning at the Dino station. July is beer drinking season around here. It’s considered a main food group but must be served iced-cold to gain the nutritional value from the barley and hops.

Bill gets up from his chair and reaches into the Coleman cooler, extracting another Pearl; he uses his feed store church key and a pen knife to pop the cap. Then, looking out over the Santa Anna mountain, he says to no one in particular, ” I heard this morning there’s a piano-playing chicken over by San Angelo.” Uncle Jay, his brother, immediately replies, ” bull-shit, there ain’t no such thing as a piano-playing chicken. I bet you twenty dollars it’s a can of crap.”

The two brothers are the biggest storytellers and liars in Southwest Texas and will bet on anything. The more far-fetched and unbelievable, the better. Uncle Bill says we are leaving for San Angelo in the morning. I’m excited about this one.

After getting directions from the feed store and a man standing on a street corner, we head towards the farm of Miss Marjorie Mae. She is already a local celebrity and is the gossip fodder of the town. We arrive at her farm around 10 AM.

Marjorie answers her screen door, and uncle Jay states that we are here to see the piano-playing chicken. She says, ” it’s ten bucks a carload and I can’t promise you she will be a play’in if there are eggs to lay, she will most likely be doing that first; she’s a chicken you know.”

We are led to the barn, the door is opened, and there, glistening in the sunlight is a hand-polished upright piano. A silver candelabra and swirled glass vase of fresh flowers rest on top. Marjorie collects the ten bucks from uncle Bill. Jay pokes him in the ribs and whispers, “this is all bull-shit so you might as well pay me now. ”

Marjorie emerges from the barn carrying a fat Sussex Speckled Hen. This chicken is downright gorgeous for a barnyard critter. Its feathers are fluffed up into a fuzzball, and its toenails are painted bright red. A gold nametag hangs around the fowl’s neck. I can tell my uncles are duly impressed, as I am.

The hen is placed on the keyboard and immediately launches into a jive-inspired rendition of Glen Miller’s” In The Mood.” Finishing that tune, she plays a classical number and then goes right into ” Moon River, ” closing with the theme from ” A Summer Place.” My uncles are tapping their feet and laughing like deranged mental patients. Finally, the hen hops down from the keyboard and struts back into the barn; the show is over.

Uncle Bill thanks the lady for her hospitality. As we leave, he asks her name. She replies, “Marjorie Mae Mancini.” Bill inquires if the chicken has a name. She says, “oh yes, that’s Hen-Rea Mancini.” I kid you not.

Scatter Shooting While Wondering About Things I Can’t Change


I miss Blackie Sherrod and Dan Jenkins; two of the greatest sportswriters and humorists of our time. Authors, comedians, and good old boys that drank martini’s with the rich folk at Colonial Country Club and then afterward got a dice game going with the black caddies behind the superintendent’s shack.

Against my wishes and my common sense that told me not to, I did get the vaccine; both shots, in my left arm. Unfortunately, the second jab left me sick for 36 hours.

I lay on my sweat-soaked deathbed dreaming of cold ice water with a lemon wedge and banana pudding topped with vanilla wafers. The CVS lady that jabbed me the second time said I might have vivid dreams with a high fever, but she never mentioned food cravings.

I don’t plan on a third or fourth, or fifth shot. I’m done. It’s clear the vaccine does not work as intended, at least not in most countries. I will stay home, avoid crowds and all that BS from last year, but no more jabs for this old guy. I have Netflix, Amazon Prime, a jail-broke Firestick, good Irish Whiskey, and Becker wines, so I’m good.

I have an uneasy feeling that the government may have inserted super-duper-micro-tracking devices and Alexa-inspired listening bugs into the vaccine. I can’t prove it, but it’s a premonition that came to me in a nightmare a few weeks back. My wife had the same dream, so either we are spending too much time together, or some Twilight Zone stuff happening here.

My sister and her husband flew to Frankfurt Germany, to see their incredible Christmas Markets a few days ago. WTH? We have lovely markets here with plenty of lights and decorations, and you don’t risk getting killed by a terrorist. They said the risk is worth it since they got a sweet deal on plane tickets last year; buy one get one free. My brother-in-law is partial to warm German beer, and my sister likes strudel. She asked if I wanted a souvenir; I said bring me an autographed picture of Adolf.

They are fully vaxed, with punched cards, tattoos, baby pictures and all that, and reams of medical records offering more proof than anyone would require, so hopefully, they will make it back to Texas before Germany shuts down. I did advise her to find a friendly Bavarian family to live with if they can’t return home anytime soon.

I learned this afternoon that another caravan of 9,000 well-equipped and well-fed Haitians is on its way to the Mexico/Texas border. Apple has an 18 wheel tech truck traveling with the invaders if their $1500 iPhones or IPads break down. Add that to the other caravan that is a few days away, and you have enough folks to populate a Texas border town.

President Demento is thinking about re-instating the Trump law to stay in Mexico. The Mexican El Presidente’ is panicking. No crossings mean no payoffs from the Cartels and no economy. It’s either that scenario, or the Texas Rangers Cutting Horse Team, the Texas National Guard, and The Sons of The Alamo will be waiting for the invading hordes as they gather on the banks of the Rio Grande. I may go down to watch the battle and wave the 1824 Texas flag. We can open carry firearms with no license here in Texas, so you never know what might happen if some gun-slinging Bubba says “hold my beer and watch this.” It happens all the time.

Biden is now touting that he and the Pope have been good friends for decades. Joe B says he liked all the Pope’s routines when he was on Saturday Night Live. Father Guido Sarducci couldn’t be reached for comment.

The newest rage in urban America is flash mobs breaking into department stores and cleaning out their expensive merchandise. Of course, the cops yawn and have another donut. Not my job, man; I’m defunded. After cleaning out a Gucci Store in Beverly Hills, one mob did a choreographed dance routine to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” and streamed it live on Facebook.

Upon Becoming Mark Twain


Photo by: Ansel Adams

When I was young and started to read books, real books, not the comics my friends read and I had no interest in, I discovered Mark Twain. I thank my elementary school librarian for that. She gently guided me into a world of imagination through a masterful author.

After reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.

I was going to be Mark Twain. It didn’t matter to me that almost a hundred years earlier, he had already been Mark Twain; I was set on becoming him, through me, a ten-year-old with limited writing ability. However, I did have a colorful imagination, so that was a good start.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t write, I did write exceptionally well for my age, but I didn’t possess the mind of Mr. Twain. I hadn’t known Tom Sawyer, or Jim, or Huckleberry, or lived on the banks of the mighty Mississippi River. I was a kid stuck in Fort Worth, Texas, with a Big Chief Tablet and a handful of No. 2 pencils.

I read other authors as well, but they weren’t Mr. Twain. Jack London was too scary, and too many wild animals. John Steinbeck was a masterful storyteller, and I did make it through most of The Grapes of Wrath, which mirrored what my grandparents and father had lived through. I continued to write on my tablet. I didn’t knowingly plagiarize any author, but they did give me good ideas and taught me to group words into a story.

The day my class let out for Christmas vacation, my teacher asked the class to share what we wanted to be when we grew up. It wasn’t a serious exercise, only one to kill the last 30 minutes of the school day.

The usual from our age group was a doctor, a fireman, a policeman, and some of the girls who wanted to be teachers or nurses. When my turn came, I stood up and announced, with all seriousness, that I want to be Mark Twain. Mrs. Badger, my teacher, promptly informed me that there already was a Mark Twain, and he had been dead for a while now.

I answered, ” yes, I know, but, his spirit requires that I continue on with his writings, and witt. So I will be the new Mark Twain.” I was in the principal’s office within a few minutes.

I never became Mark Twain, except in my daydreams or nightmares, but I did learn to appreciate good writing and stories.

The Christmas I Discovered Santa Was A Fake


Photo by: Head Elf No. 1

The hundreds of hours I wasted thinking about Santa Claus; where he lived, was he happy, did Mrs. Claus make him hot cocoa and cookies, do his deer have a lovely barn, how do they fly, did he get my letter, was I on the nice or naughty list, are his Elves watching me?

My life was consumed by Santa from 4 years old until I turned 9. I was a true believer, a young pilgrim to the point of becoming a child Santa Evangelist. Anyone says something terrible about Santa, it was put up your dukes time or a come to Santa prayer meeting. My younger sister was also a firm believer, but then, she was brainwashed by me, and I was programmed by my parents, grandparents, and the rest of the fam damnly.

On Thanksgiving Day, the trickery commenced around our household. First, my mother, the master of deceit, would warn us about the naughty list and what would happen if we were on it. Then it was, ” the Elves are watching you through the windows to see if you’re good.” That’s the one that got to me the most. I had a plan to catch them.

After lights out, I slinked out of bed under cover of my darkened room. Crawling on my belly like a soldier, I made my way to the nearest window. Back against the wall, I slid up and moved the blinds in a flash, hoping to catch the little guys. I never saw one spying on me, but I knew they were there and faster on the draw. Santa and his gang were tricky.

The annual Christmas visit to Leonard Brothers Department Store in downtown Fort Worth was the ultimate Santa experience. Toyland was akin to holiday Nirvana for us kids. A rocket ship monorail glided around the basement ceiling, kids packed in like sardines on a rocket train to nowhere. Parents rush to purchase presents while the kids are busy, hiding them under their coats or in bags and lying to their innocent children with straight parental faces.

Santa held his court in the middle of Toyland. His throne was 10 ft. off the ground, with stairs leading up and then down. A majestic sight if there ever was one. Sitting in a velvet chair fit for a king while his Elfin helpers lifted the crumb crunchers on and off of his lap, it was pure excellence. A line of snot-nosed kids snaked around the room, waiting for their chance to place their order, up the stairs, on the lap for 15 seconds, then off the lap, and down the stairs. The visit was over before you knew what had happened. It was the same routine for years, and I loved it. I could spit out my order in under 10 seconds. Santa and his helpers were impressed.

I asked Santa for a bicycle when I was 9 years old. A red and white machine with side mirrors, streamers, a headlight, and white-side-wall balloon tires. I also asked for a new BB Gun, a larger Cub Scout knife, and a Fanner 50 cap pistol with green stick-um caps. My sister asked him for a doll that was larger than she was and a dollhouse.

Christmas Eve arrived, bedtime rolled around, and we hit the sack. Hot Ovaltine and cookies put me out like a light. Then, sometime after midnight or later, I had to pee. I didn’t want to get up, but the Ovaltine was causing me some discomfort. Half asleep, shuffling down the hallway, I looked into the living room as I passed the doorway. With a Schlitz beer in his hand, my father was sitting by the tree, assembling a red bike like the one I was expecting. My mother was working on a cardboard dollhouse, and the giant doll my sister wanted was standing under the tree looking creepy.

I convinced myself that Santa must have run out of time and had recruited my parents to complete his work. The reality of the sight was not an option.

My father looked up and saw me standing there; our eyes met, and he smiled like a raccoon caught in a trash can. The jig was up. The big lie was exposed, and my childhood imploded right there in the hallway. Daddy was Santa, and mom was Mrs. Claus. I peed and made my way back to bed, not comprehending what I had witnessed.

I awakened at daybreak, our usual Christmas morning routine. I was thankful to be awake and away from the nightmare that had gripped me most of the night. I was relieved that it was all caused by the Ovaltine. The gifts were under the tree, and life was good. I loved the bike and the BB Gun, but my sister was afraid of the enormous lifelike doll.

After breakfast, I was lying under the Christmas tree building an army fort with my plastic soldiers. That’s when I found a Schlitz beer bottle, assembly instructions for a bike, and a few tools.

Singers From ABBA Join Nuns For Repentance


The two lead singers from the Swedish pop group ABBA have joined the Order of The Norwiegen Viking Sisterhood.

Maya Sharona, the Europen field reporter for NPR, spoke with the two singers in a Trollandia coffee shop recently.

Agatha Faltskog and Anni Frid Lyngstad, now in their 70s, said they couldn’t deal with the shame any longer because their band alone, was responsible for extending Disco music another 10 years when it should have died a natural death in 1975. They plan to stay at the nunnery for 3 years serving repentance for their sin. The two male members remarked that their former wives looked very hot in their new outfits.

Things That Keep Me Awake On A Sunday Night Wondering WTH Is Happening To This Country?


“The Great Christmas Light Battle.” Who dreamed this television show up? People spend thousands of dollars and half a lifetime building homemade Christmas decorations, plywood buildings, small cities, and full-size working trains. One family bragged they installed 10,800 lights on their home, yard, trees, fence, grass, bushes, animals, and anything that moved. I wasn’t impressed. Clarke Griswold did it better. The one house that I was convinced would be a winner was not. A family in Corpus Christi, Texas, built a full-size Nativity Scene in their front yard. A movie of the week couldn’t have done it better. I think they got the meaning of Christmas. ABC has no idea.

The old shuffling Coot and his ( not a doctor ) wife got back from Thanksgiving in La-La-Land, just in time for ‘Papa Elf Fauci’ to inform them he has to lock down the country again, and this time, Fauci wants to be in charge with an office in the white house and his own helicopter. I thought he already had all that and more? So the Old Coot asked his wife, “does this mean I have to live in the basement again?” Jill looks at him and says, ” shit-fire, Joe, carry your own damn diaper bag.”

The New York Post, a good paper getting better all the time, has more evidence on “first spawn Hunter.”The CCP gave him a big jewel and about 10 Million to gain special influence with his poopy pop. Maybe this time, the Post can get the news out before the MSM locks them in the social media gulag. Not holding my breath on this one.

Right on cue, ABC, NBC, and CBS have swept the Wisconsin SUV killer story right under their thick blue rug. They gave it a few days of coverage until the real truth started leaking out. A BLM career criminal and child killer don’t make for good TV. Lester Holt is the best at changing the subject while wearing a 3K suit. Nothing to see here folks. It’s a sure bet the Biden administration and the Squad will be mounting a defense fund for that deranged killer.

Some high-brow officials from the UN say that the world is coming down on Africa too hard. Banning travelers from those 8 countries from flying around and infecting the rest of the world is not friendly. Let’s see how the EU reacts to that. Australia is almost in civil war, Austria is closed for business until the end of eternity, and with the bug in the UK, France, Sweden, Italy, and Germany, it looks like a sad Christmas season for them. Wait until it gets here next week via the Texas Mexican border. Then, things might reach the rough and rowdy town on the Rio Grande.

White smoke was seen billowing from the smokestack at the Wuhan Virus lab, meaning the scientist have picked a suitable name for the newest Covid variant due out next week. But, unfortunately, they said “XI” was a little too close to home, and more than a few of them have already disappeared.

I tend to avoid TV commercials, finding most of them unwatchable. However, there is one about Mom’s spare ribs gaining popularity with the masses, and her son is worried they won’t taste the same once mass production takes over. It ends with Mom and her son at a kitchen table eating her special ribs, and there is a black Lab dog in the background that puts his paws on the kitchen counter and grabs something. I must know what the dog grabbed! Was it a rib, or a sandwich, or the house keys? I’m losing sleep over this. The one commercial I find entertaining, and I don’t know how it ends.

The Squad with AOC in the lead wants to change the name of America’s favorite holiday shopping extravaganza, “Black Friday.” Senorita Castro says the name is racist and demeaning to black Americans. So far, it hasn’t slowed anyone down from shopping. It will be interesting to hear what her alternative will be? It would help if she knew why the day is called Black Friday.

On television tonight; Lady Gaga and Tony Bennett. Who would guess that old Tony and the once crazy meat dress-wearing nut job would ever sing together. Well, they do pretty well as a duo. Gaga is a born jazz vocalist and a darn good entertainer, although her dancing is a little goofy because of her 12-inch heels. Old Tony brings out the best in her, and she in him. The man is 96 years old and still able to sing a few great songs through the haze of Alzheimer’s, and that is a feat to be applauded. Lady Gaga should drop the fake name, return to her natural hair color, and hit the road with a big band. Myself and a few million others would pay to see that.

“Uncle Rays’ Last Hurrah”


Uncle Ray

Growing up in Fort Worth, Texas in the 1950s was a great childhood experience. It made me what I am today. Winters were Blue Norther cold with ice storms and the summers were over 100 degrees, capable of turning the front fender of my father’s Nash Rambler station wagon into a griddle. The eggs I fried on said car, turned out perfect. The butt busting not so much.

As a family unit, we would take one vacation a summer. A few times to New Mexico or maybe Port Aransas for some saltwater fishing and beach time. Most summers if money was tight, and it usually was, the go-to trip was to my grandparent’s farm. It was free.

In the summer of 1956, my father purchased a new Nash Rambler station wagon with a factory air conditioner crammed under the massive metal, unpadded dash. In the 50s, an air-conditioned car was a rarity, and I had never seen or ridden in one.

The car was baboon butt ugly, and I wouldn’t have been caught dead inside the beast except for the A.C that gave me a reprieve from the hellish summer heat. If a night was blistering hot, we would sleep in the car with the engine and AC running. Our house was not air-conditioned, as were most in our neighborhood. Attic fans were about the best we could do.

That car air conditioner was so cold, it could be used as a backup refrigerator. Yes, sir, none of that Eco-friendly coolant we have now, this was the real stuff; ozone-earth-killing gas. Eisenhower was no wimpy-ass tree hugger; he and Mamie wanted everyone to be cool in the summer.

My sister and I agreed, the trip that year was going to be an event. Cruising down the highway with the windows up and freezing our toes off while inhaling thick deadly clouds of cigarette smoke from my parents constantly lit Pall Malls. We couldn’t wait.

My mother’s family had a farm a few miles outside the small country town of Santa Anna, Texas. My Grandfather would take his Ford tractor, and plow, then plant diligently for days. Johnsongrass and bull nettle sprouted where Maze should have. Those were the drought years in southwest Texas and growing any crop was a miracle. Granny tended the livestock and chickens, selling eggs to city folk to make ends meet. They had seen tougher times, but no one could remember when.

There wasn’t much to Santa Anna as far as a town goes. A few churches, a school, and the ever-present chickens that inhabited the downtown area. A Dino gas station that never changed their prices on their sign, a feed store, a Dairy Freeze, and a few ma and pa stores, necessary for sustaining a dwindling population. Most of the young folks left during the war to work in Fort Worth at the aircraft plants. Most never returned. It was a town of old people.

The central, vibrant hub of the town was The Biscuit Ranch, a cafe, domino parlor, and gossip emporium. My Grandfather and his farmer buddies spent more time there shuffling dominos than farming the bone dry land. No one had money, so they played for toothpicks.

At the cafe, every order came with a sizeable buttery biscuit flopped on the plate. If you ordered a hamburger with fries and a coke, it arrived with a biscuit crammed next to your burger. It didn’t seem right, but no one complained. In Texas, biscuits are one of our main food groups.

Grandfather usually ate my biscuit because the ones my Granny made were hard within a few hours. They may have been uneatable but darn good for chunking at things. Nothing fly’s like a rock-hard biscuit. Next to my Daisy BB Gun, they were my weapon of choice.

I once knocked a hen dead out with a well-chunked biscuit from my Granny’s breakfast table. The other chickens gathered around the addled hen, making me feel awful for whacking her. I was ready to confess the deed to my Granny when I realized they were not gathered to inquire about her well-being but to peck on the offending weapon. The hen hopped up and strutted away. There is no sisterhood of chickens once you get past the yellow peep-peep stage. They all know that the next stop could be the skillet, so it’s everyone for themselves. There is much to learn from farm-educated chickens.

Over the years, it’s been my observation that there is a favorite uncle, aunt, or cousin in most children’s immediate families that they look up to. It matters not whether the adulation is deserved, kids don’t get twisted up with social, criminal, or married life. All we want is a jovial role model that makes us laugh and gives us things our parents would never approve of. The more eccentric and crazy, the better.

My favorite offender was my Mothers brother, Ray. A hulking piece of humanity with a face as red as a Nehi strawberry pop. His jaw was home to an ever-present plug of Red Man tobacco.

He was a proud veteran of WWII, having served in the Navy. He told us many times that he had thoroughly enjoyed his job of shooting down Japanese planes from the deck of the U.S.S. Hornet. He said it was like shooting a dove in a maze field, leading them a bit, and then blasting them out of the sky. He claimed to have over 50 kills. His brother said that Ray didn’t like to brag, but it was more like 200 kills. He was a hoss.

Uncle Ray drove the obligatory rusted-up pickup truck, but his “Sunday come to visit” ride was a 1955 Chevy Bel Air convertible with genuine Mexican crafted, red and white roll and pleat seats. The body had pinstriping covering every inch, and the money shot was a full longhorn rack mounted on the front of the hood. The interior had little Mattel derringer cap pistols for the radio knobs and a big black and white ivory dice stick shift for esthetics. It was the hands-down most incredible car in the state. My cousin Jerry and I took a ride to town with him one Sunday in June, and it was the highlight of my summer visit.

We piled into the back seat between his two shotguns, a bowling ball, and a Coleman ice chest full of cokes and Pearl beer. Uncle Ray told us to drink all the cokes we wanted, but take the church key and start “popping him some Pearl.” I was struggling to keep up the demand for Pearl because Uncle Ray could drink one in a single gulp. I couldn’t get one sip of my coke down before he was calling for another beer. Those were the days when a real man could enjoy his favorite cold brew while driving a 3,500-pound tank down the highway at 70 miles per hour.

When we rolled into the city limits, the ice chest was void of beer, and Uncle Ray commenced singing. A person would expect a big old farm boy like Ray to sing country tunes or at least a few religious songs. Not this feller. He began belting out Judy Garland, Ethel Merman, and Patty Paige’s songs like nobody’s business. We had no idea he could sing so well or drink so much beer.

When he broke into Judy Garlands’ “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” he stopped the car, got out, and did a great show tune finish complete with hands held high in the air, hat off, and a bow at the end. Cousin Jerry and I clapped and gave him a bravo for the performance.

He was appreciative, but then turned to us, and in a hurtful voice, said, “my family has no use for the finer things in life such as music, broadway show tunes, and good booze, and, I love all those things, so they have no use for me either.” We didn’t know what in the hell he was talking about but just nodded in kinship agreement.

By then, I guess the beer had kicked in, along with the emotion of the singing performance and his long harbored hurt feelings, so he started bawling like a baby that had lost its bippy. All we could do was stare at the floorboard of the most incredible car in Texas.

After his embarrassing session of bawling and gagging, Ray pulled out a lovely hanky from the glove box and dabbed his tears away. 

In a low, growling voice, he told us that he would kick our little scrawny asses and feed us to the Mountain Boomers if we ever said anything about this. Naturally, we nodded in agreement not to say a thing.

Uncle Ray got his gas and more beer at the Dino station, then peeled out in front of the Dairy Freeze, and we headed back to the farm.

Later that afternoon, Jerry and I were sitting under the oak trees talking to my cousin Beverly, who was setting up her playhouse with her collection of 6-inch plastic “Dolly” dolls.

At the age of seven, Beverly was beginning to communicate with humans through her dolls. She was the nontalkative and strange one of the bunch, so no one thought much of it. “Just a kiddy phase,” my Aunt Charmaine would say, “she’ll outgrow it.” I found her behavior scary, but I rather enjoyed speaking to a six-inch plastic doll that talked back. All questions had to route to Beverly through the doll; answers were returned the same way. We were kids; it was fun.

I told the doll, in the strictest confidence, about the incident with Uncle Ray on the side of the road. The doll, in a squeaky mouse voice, said that “Beverly’s mommy thinks that uncle Ray is a big old fruit. I asked the doll what a big old fruit was? The doll said it was a boy that liked to blow kisses to other boys and painted his fingernails. I told the doll that uncle Ray didn’t blow kisses to us, but he sang Judy Garland songs. The doll said it was the same thing; it was a sign from above.

My mothers’ large family was never one to let a gathering of the sisters go to waste. It was agreed that because most of the Fort Worth family had missed Easter at Grandmothers that year, we would celebrate Easter while everyone was here, in June; the hottest part of summer.

Granny and a few cousins went to the chicken coops and gathered eggs for boiling and coloring. Then, Aunt Charmaine drove to Coleman and purchased chocolate to melt for the candy. She came back with a massive bag of Peeps, the little yellow marshmallow chicks that contained enough sugar to keep a kid humming like a top for days. Peeps were something new, and all of us kids thought they were the best candy there was. 

Everything was humming along fine until cousin Beverly saw our bag of Peeps. She turned pale, crossed herself, which was strange because she was Baptist, then grabbed her box of plastic dolls, and scooted off to the smokehouse, locking the door.

When we were enjoying the damp coolness of the storm cellar later that afternoon, Beverly, via her talking doll, filled us in on the real and true story of Peeps.

She said that the little marshmallow chicks were the “reincarnated souls” of all the eggs taken from the chickens, and the Peeps were going to get even. After explaining what reincarnated meant, it all made perfect kid sense to us. Peeps were going to kill the whole town. Beverly’s doll made us swear not to eat any Peeps, or they would come looking for us too. We agreed but kept our fingers crossed behind our backs.

Later that evening Jerry and I sneaked some Peeps, went behind the barn, and ate our fill. There was no scream as we bit the little squishy heads off, just the excellent taste of yummy Peeps melting in our greedy cavity-ridden mouths. We agreed that Beverly and her dolls were idiots, and she needed to go see preacher Wilson and get some special prayers. He said his momma took her there, but the preacher said he wouldn’t talk to a darn Dolly Doll, so that was the end of the healing days.

At supper, Granny informed everyone that uncle Ray would be joining us for the egg hunt and celebration the following day, Sunday, the usual day for Easter. It didn’t matter if it was June 15th, 1956; the festival was happening.

After supper, which consisted of buttermilk fried chicken and chunk-able biscuits, we kids retired to the screened-in porch to plan for tomorrow’s egg hunt and the looming Peep attack. Cousin Beverly’s doll, once again, warned us all not to eat Peeps or it would be horrible death for us all. We listened to her doomsday doll, then trudged off to get ready for bed.

Being summer and hot at night, all the cousins slept on the screened-in porch on pallets made from Granny’s quilts. It was a bit scary because being out in the country, there was no city light and that night, no moon, so we used candles to find our beds. The sounds of crickets and the breeze blowing through the Mesquite trees lulled us into la-la land.

Uncle Ray, knowing for once he was almost not in the dog house with his family, decided to drive to San Angelo and get a new suit for the Easter in June celebration. Maybe showing a cleaned-up side to his sisters would raise his respect-o-meter a few bars.

A shopping trip, a chicken fried steak at Woody’s Drive-In, and a visit to the Fishing Shack for a few beers made for a long day. It was around 2 AM when Ray headed back to Santa Anna. In his semi inebriated state, he thought it was morning and he wanted to be at the farm for breakfast, so he stopped on the side of Highway 84 and changed into his new, bright yellow sear-sucker suit. To top off the ensemble, Ray had purchased an orange feed store ball cap. Quite the dresser he was.

Ray parked his Chevy down the road from the farmhouse. Full of beer and looking like the grand marshal of a Mardi Gras parade. He was so tired he didn’t realize that everyone was still asleep because it was 4 AM. He quietly made his way around to the side of the house to the screened-in porch.

Uncle Ray had a devilish side to him that we all knew too well. He was always scaring us kids in some way, so why not now. A moonless night, sleeping kids, it all made perfect sense to him.

Earlier in the day, in San Angelo, he had come across some tiny plastic whistles he bought as an Easter gift for the kids. Thinking that he would scare the fool out of us, he put one to his lips and stepped through the screen door onto the porch where four sleeping kids lay in fitful semi-slumber.

The scene was right out of a movie. We all awoke at the exact same moment, hearing the squeak of the screen door; we froze in fear. The Peeps were coming to do their foul deed. I was so scared I started getting hot and itchy and could hear Jerry whining on the pallet next to mine. We all lay there, stiff as a plank with eyes closed, waiting for the end.

Uncle Ray, a former championship smoker with a prize-winning hack, chose that moment to expel a drunken cough, and when he did, he sucked the plastic whistle down his throat, where it lodged. He was gasping for air and trying to speak, but it came out as a “Peep-Peep-Peep.”

We all sat up at the same time, seeing a “Giant Yellow Peep” standing there with its wings flapping wildly and chirping. That was it. I dove through the screen-in porch into the flower bed, rolling twice then turning on the after-burner. Cousin Jerry and little Charmaine made their own hole in the screen and took off down the dirt driveway screaming. 

Cousin Beverly backed into a corner, held up her dolls in both hands, and commanded the big Peep to go back to hell from whilst it came. Ray, arms flailing, was attempting to get her attention for some help.

Seeing cousin Beverly about to get her head bitten off by the giant Peep, I cried out, “I should not have eaten those sweet little Peeps behind the barn I’m sorry Beverly.” I had to save her, so I grabbed a shovel from the flowerbed and ran onto the porch. I made a mighty swat right onto the back of the Big Peep, hoping to take it down in one whack. When I hit the peep, the whistle dislodged from uncle Ray’s throat, and he spits it out. He turned around, ready to kill the one who had whacked him. He then realized I had struck him and possibly saved his life, and he started laughing.

Beverly, too afraid to escape, passed out cold on her pallet.

I was so relieved to see it was Uncle Ray and not a “Giant Peep from Hell” that all I could do was give him a big hug. He was laughing so hard he was crying after realizing what he had done to us. 

The whole house was awake and on the porch. The aunties gave Ray Holy Hell for this antic and told him to get out now. He said he would, but first, he had to “clear the air” about some things. High noon was here.

First, he told my mother and her sisters that they all had corn-cobs up their butts and didn’t know “crap from fat meat” about the finer things in life. He then broke out into Ethel Merman’s version of “There’s No business Like Show Business,” followed by Judy Garland’s “Mister Sandman.” We kids sat and listened to some great vocals, and it didn’t matter if it was coming from a Giant Peep.

When Ray stopped singing, cousin Beverly walked up to him and held out her plastic Dolly Doll. Ray bent down on one knee and leaned in close to Beverly. The doll, in her squeaky mouse voice, asked uncle Ray if he was a big fruit? To which he replied, “I’m as fruity as Carmen Miranda’s hat.” Aunt Charmaine yelped, “see I told you so,” to the rest of the cast on the porch. Us kids didn’t care; Uncle Ray could sing his ass off and still had the most incredible car in Texas.

We had a good June Easter that Sunday. Uncle Ray asked that he be allowed to stay for one last celebration and his sisters agreed. He hunted eggs with us, sang show tunes all day long, and even took us behind the barn for a chew of Red Man and a few sips of Pearl. 

He drove off that afternoon, convertible top-down, waving and singing Doris Day’s big hit, “Que Sera Sera,” a perfect departure to end a perfect day. 

The family stood in the road listening to the fading song until the dust trail settled.

No one said anything; perhaps it was too much to talk about at that time. Supper was quiet that night. Beverly left the dolls in the smokehouse, and Grandmother made a buttermilk pie to comfort everyone. It wasn’t discussed, but everyone felt they wouldn’t see uncle Ray for a long spell. His way of life didn’t fit in Santa Anna, Texas, in those times.

We went back to Fort Worth the next day and didn’t hear much about uncle Ray for quite a few years.

When I was twelve, I received a Christmas package in the mail, which is quite a great thing for a kid. My mother watched as I ripped it open and lifted out a record album.

The cover picture showed an overweight woman wrapped in a towel. The title was “Let Me Tell You About My Operation.” This made no sense to me; who would send me this flaky album?

My mother gasped and said, “Oh my God, that’s uncle Ray.” I looked real close, and sure enough, it looked like him, but I still didn’t believe it. I opened the small card in the package and read, “To my favorite nephew Phil, I still have my cool car and like my Pearl. Enjoy the songs”, Auntie Rae. I listened to the album on the hi-fi and fondly remembered that crazy Easter in June of 1956.

The Covid Invasion Part 3.0. The Gods Have Sent Down Omicron BR549 To Teach Us A Final Lesson.


Photo by Marvel Comics

If I was of Greek descent, and I am not, I would be royally pissed that the WHO named another mutant virus from China via Africa after the beloved Gods of Greek mythology. Who are these simpletons that populate the WHO? Don’t they know that is a racist action against all old school Greeks?

Two days ago, in an online UK paper, I read that Africa was almost Covid free; natural immunity, they said. Now, 48 hours later, Africa is the new hotspot for the end of humanity. HIV Ebola Omicron-infected zombie visitors boarding passenger planes to Europe and our beloved USA, waiting to infect everyone at JFK and Heathrow upon arrival. What changed in 2 days? I know this mutant bug travels fast but damn Sam.

Mindless, Joe Biden is banning travel from Africa and is adding more countries to the list in the coming hours. That’s nice of him. (not a doctor ) Jill Biden is feverishly working on Hunter’s new laptop to come up with the list. Until Father Joe, The Grinch Xmas secures our damn borders, North and South, people from around the planet can walk in without being tested for disease, get an ” Everything is Free” card, an airline ticket to the city of their choice, and a bag of cash. All they have to do is pledge allegiance to the Democratic party when the sneaky bastards can figure out a way for the invaders to vote in their crooked elections. So, Joe, we don’t want to hear a word from your pie-hole about mandatory vaccinations and lockdowns until you stop your well-planned invasion.

Europe is shutting it down again; there go the Christmas Markets and their economy. Austria is already closed for business, Germany and France are next, and then the rest of the continent will follow. So how long until the US and Canada do a repeat of our lost year? The people in charge that should know; don’t know.

Did I say too much? Probably not enough.

The Cowboys Have Left the Building


What a disaster of a football game, on Thanksgiving day yet! Us-un’s in Texas collectively had a conniption fit right there in front of our big-screen televisions. The Cowboys snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.

Just a few days ago, Smiley Jones, the Arkansas hill-billy owner of the hapless Dallas Cowboys was speaking to a TV sports head saying,

” this is the year, I’m telling you, I’ve got a good feeling about that Super Bowl.” WTF! Has he changed brands of scotch or had a stroke? This man is delusional. Look at that face; watery rummy eyes staring at something no one else can see and spouting grandiose predictions like a lunatic king.

14 penalties with 4 on the same Cowboy defensive player for pass interference. Who coaches these thugs? The Raiders also racked up 14 penalties, so it was all even-steven; the refs wanted to keep it fair.

Yesterday’s fair-haired children couldn’t capitalize on one Raider mistake., then, to make matters worse, a brawl broke out on the sideline involving both teams, and a referee got smacked on the chin, drawing blood and a huge penalty.

I am my own worst influence. Not watching the Cowboys was my declaration for this year, and I broke it. The Jones family has ruined a once proud and respected team. Maybe Mark Cuban will make them an offer they can’t refuse.

” The Oprah Loves Adele for One Night Only”


Just two girls talking here

My wife and I managed to sit through the Oprah adores Adele show. Nice touch using the observatory as the backdrop. The smoggy sunset never looked more lovely. The beautiful lawless city of Angels twinkling in the valley below. I wonder, did they edit out the sounds of gunshots drifting up from the city proper? Most likely they couldn’t be heard because of Adele’s screeching. The Hollywood celebs attending are numb to such things. I did notice many of the stars were drinking to the point of sloshiness.

Chef Ramsey, the wonder boy of the food world, appeared nervous and looking for a way to exit, he had cooking to do. Many of the anointed ones were in disguise wearing baseball caps, and sunglasses, at night no less. I thought I spied John Lennon on the back row but then realized if he was to come back from the other side, it wouldn’t be for this show.

Did the Hollywood contingent pay a ridiculous amount for a seat, or were they free gratis from Queen Oprah? Was that Snoop Dog coordinating the valet parking?

At one point, when the screeching reached devastating levels, I expected to see the ghost of Pavarotti float onto the stage to give her Adele’ness a singing lesson or three.

The woman possesses a beautiful voice; so why does she feel the need to scream and wail to the point the lyric is lost? Every song is written in a minor key that gives it the feeling of a funeral dirge. Each song sounds the same; sad, sad, and then more sadness.

So she got herself divorced and lost 100 pounds and stopped drinking wine and eating real food while hiding out in one of her many mansions in an attempt to find herself. We’ve all been there. Right?

Is it worth an entire album to tell us about her daily routine, lack of control, and what a good mummy she is? Sounds like Adele is blowing smoke up her own proper British backside.

“The Legend of The Mountain Boomers of Santa Anna Texas”


My childhood vision of a Mountain Boomer

At seven years old, I learned of my first, but far from the last Texas legend. One of the best storytellers and liars I ever knew, my uncle Bill told my cousins and me about Santa Anna’s “Mountain Boomers.”

Supposedly, man-size lizards that ran on two legs came down from the Santa Anna mountain searching for food. Anything would do, but they were partial to goats, chickens, and tiny humans. If you were caught outside in the wee morning hours, it was a sure bet a Mountain Boomer would get you. Us kids were scared shitless of even going out after dark.

With no air conditioning in the farmhouse, we were forced to sleep with the windows open and would lay in our beds shaking all night, waiting for the monsters to break through the window screen and carry us away. Our Granny was no help; her standard goodnight to us was ” sleep tight and don’t let the Mountain Boomers bite.”

Summer evenings on the farm were made for sitting on my grandparent’s covered porch, watching lightning bugs dance, listening to the crickets chirp, and catching the far away howels of an occasional Coyote pack running the pastures.

The sky was black as pitch, the Milky Way as white as talcum powder, and heat lighting in the West added to the drama of the evening. We kids were ripe for a big one, and my uncles never disappointed. First, homemade ice cream was eaten, then the cooler of Pearl Beer came out, and the stories commenced.

Already that June, my cousin Jerry and me had been to see the hero pig and the three-legged chickens, so we needed a new adventure. But, unfortunately, the hobos had left the railroad bridge down the road, and our summer was losing air like a punctured tire.

“Did you kids see that over there in the trees? I think that might have been one of them Mountain Boomers,” says uncle Bill, in between swigs of Pearl. Then, of course, we strained our eyes to see what he said he saw, but nothing. Then a few moments later, ” there it goes again, I tell you kids, that was one of them sumbitches running on two legs carrying a goat.”

He had us hooked and scared. Then he starts in on the story.

Uncle Bill took a swig of Pearl and says, ” Right down this road here, about twenty-years ago, a families car broke down. The daddy, a man I knew well, walked into town to find some help. He left his wife and small son in the car. It was late at night, so he figured they would sleep until he returned. The little boy, got out of the car to pee along side the road. His Momma heard him scream and came out of the car in a hurry, there was a 7 foot Mountain Boomer standing there with the little kid in it’s mouth. The poor boy was almost chewed in half already. His guts were hanging out and dragging on the ground. The big lizard took off running with the Momma chasing it. Another of them Boomers was hiding in the scrub brush and got her too. A few days later, the sheriff found their bloody remains up on the mountain. They knew a Mountain Boomer had got em because they found their tracks. That’s why we never go outside after midnight around here.” Jerry and I were almost pissing our pants.

When we stayed at the farm, I don’t believe either of us ever slept well again after that night. But, even after we were adults, my Uncle Bill swore the legend and the story was true. I still dream of them.

“Real Cowboys Aren’t from Dallas”


Where shoud I start, or should I start at all? This is the Dallas Cowboy team we have been used to for the past 25 years. Off to a good start, players get hurt, the team goes to shit in a Christmas basket. The owner, Smiley Jones, doesn’t give a crap. As long as the fans keep coming to his temple and paying outrageous prices, he is making money, and that’s what matters. I will be very clear and upfront about the team I used to support. As long as the Jones family owns the Dallas Cowboys, they will remain mediocre to a terrible football team. Dak Prescott, Zeke Elliot, just two hot-shot players who make millions of bucks, can’t get their shit together to save their own asses.

The Dallas Cowboys are less than a mediocre team, they can’t beat a decent college team. Kansas City beat their ass handily, and the Cowboys couldn’t score a touchdown. When was the last time that happened? So kiss you’re smiling surgically enhanced gold card hillbilly smiling rummy watery-eyed alcoholic cheerleading groping ass goodbye Jerry Jones. May the ghost of Tom Landry haunt your Highland Park mansion forever, and your dick shrivels up and falls off.

Did I say too much? Please tell Mark Cuban to buy the team.

Things That Keep Me Awake At Night That I Can’t Do A Damn Thing About And Neither Can You


It would seem that after 72 years on this doomed and dying planet, I would have learned the lesson of letting crap go. It’s impossible for me to do. My wife tells me, ” chill out, let it go, calm down, you are too serious, too hateful.” Yep, all that and more.

Just today, I honked at a lady blocking the driving lane in front of my local HEB Grocery store. She drove a lavish Black SUV and was talking on a jewel-encrusted Apple iPhone but could have cared less that she was holding up a line of cars full of starving people, so she could snag the closest parking spot to the store. God forbid she had to walk ten extra feet. So I honked to reprimand and remind her that there is accountability in this world. Then my wife tells me that she was waiting for a handicap spot. Sum-bitch, now I will worry about that tonight.

If global, planetary or even local events are going to mentally cripple somebody, that dumb ass will be me. I take on the worries of the weary, the worries of the ones too stupid to worry, or those who don’t know their ass from fat meat. As the Bible says, “bring me your unwashed, your worried and the habitually stupid and I will heal them,” or something along those lines. Unfortunately, Bible verses tend to get mixed in with modern lingo. Sometimes it helps them make sense.

Gas prices, now that’s a great one to start with. To fill up my Honda CRV today cost $48.00. Last December, when the world was sane and bordering on rock damn solid, it took around $18.00, and I had enough change left over for a Whataburger and a Dr. Pepper.

Now President “Brian Fart” wants to launch an investigation into our oil boys, saying they are gigging us, while he is shutting down our energy production, and giving 12th-century child marrying oil zealots in the middle east an early Christmas present and free rein to charge us whatever they see fit. At the same time, their citizens roam the streets chanting ” Death To America” while burning effigies of Trump, and he’s been out of office for a year. That’s the useless stuff that you or I can do nothing about, and that’s what keeps my eyes focusing on my bedroom ceiling and taking copious amounts of physician-prescribed drugs in an attempt to capture sleep. Please tell me that God did not purposely make folks as stupid as we have in Washington. But, I know the answer before it is asked. Yes, he did. And he is in on the big joke.

Sleep tight and don’t let the Covid bugs bite.

“Weather Days and Weather Nights”


A few nights back, I was awakened by bright static flashes against my eyelids. Lightening from afar brings a storm.

I lay in my bed, eyes now open for most of an hour, cataloging the most intense flashes through the window curtains, waiting for the following thunder to announce the wind and rain. The anticipation of a storm is pure dope for a weather nerd. I’ve been addicted for most of my life.

The television weather folk had been hawking this storm for days prior. Warnings, interviews with people on the street, getting every drop of drama out of their forecast. The cute weatherwomen and stern weathermen called for Apocalyptic conditions favorable for tornadoes and various end times hi-jinx. This would be no more than a typical spring supercell thunderstorm. Texans take their weather as seriously as the Alamo, Willie Nelson, and BBQ.

It’s a well-known semi-historical fact that Colonel William Barrett Travis predicted the cold and rainy weather during the siege of the Alamo. General Santa Anna, relying on his hungover weathermen, expected spring break conditions in San Antonio, and didn’t dress accordingly.

My first solid memory of bad weather happened when my grandmother carried me into her storm cellar as a vicious thunderstorm attacked the family farm; I was four years old. Every summer after that, there were numerous trips to the safety of that dank dirt storm cellar. Two cots, a pile of quilts, and a kerosene lamp were enough to see us through a siege. Shelves of canned fruit and vegetables lined the walls. Winters food pantry for when the land is at rest and for us to dine if the storm lasted more than a day.

If you are a farmer in Texas, the weather “is your life.” It will make or break your crop season with no warnings or apologies.

My Grandfather was a typical old-school pioneer farmer that possessed an active and painful weather bone in his left leg and a working man’s knowledge of the stratosphere. My grandmother was equally blessed with a pinky toe that swelled when a storm was brewing. Together, not much got past the two.

Grandmother would stare at a tiny cloud in a pure blue sky and remark, ” it’s gonna come up a cloud tonight.” She was rarely wrong.

During my summer visits to the farm, against my young will, I was dragged by my Grandfather to the domino parlor daily and subjected to hours of bullshit and weather talk from the old farmers in Santa Anna, Texas.

Old men in straw hats, bib overalls, and a cheek full of Redman tobacco ruled the world in those times. It was all about the weather and when will it come, how bad will it be, and how much rain could be expected? I usually fell asleep with drool running down my cheek after an hour. Then, it was back to the farm while my grandmother limped around the house because her weather toe was swollen. Good Lord. The family was a meteorological wreck.

Thank God, the family gene skipped my sister and me, so we depend on our local televisions weather personalities.

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