A Monday Morning Rant From The Cactus Patch


Elon Musk admits to being on the high side of Autism. He also sees world situations in a way that 99 percent of us do not. So how is it that he is the wealthiest person on the planet? Not by accident or insider trading.

Yesterday, he remarked that the moronic Brittney Griner should serve her time in a Russian prison. She is known and praised as an American-hating, pot-smoking lesbian that makes millions playing basketball in Russia and owns a home on the outskirts of Moscow. She got her ass in a big crack, and now she wants Biden’s cavalry to ride in and whisk her home. Musk is right about one thing, if Biden makes the trade for some Russian criminal arms dealer to get her home, then every American locked up for the exact crime she committed should be released, and their charges dropped.

The likes of Fox News are hyping that the final and complete report on Hunter Biden’s salacious life as a traitor, drug abuser, con man, and pervert is due any minute. The blonde news girls, the ones with the dark stripe down the middle of their hairline, are standing by to give us the skinny on the corrupt first family. There will be nothing there. He will not be incriminated for fear that his father was knee-deep in the same muck his perv son was. The public will exhale and go on about their daily lives, just like we did in the 1950s when Rock Hudsons wedding pictures were plastered all over Hollywood news stands. Good ole Rock, what a man’s man he was; at least Doris Day thought so.

Governor Abbott’s Texas Express is dropping off illegals in New York faster than a shuttle bus at a Yankee’s game. The poor imbecilic mayor is begging Washington for intervention. “Send in the National Guard or the Marines,” we need help and some more Biden cash. Our homeless people have to share their cardboard boxes with these people from South Texas. The local criminals and BLM are up in arms because now the illegals are getting the free shit they’ve been getting. ” This ain’t fair, man, now we gotta start robbing more convenience stores, and I need a new iPhone and another Glock,” said one hoodlum to CBS news. he snatched the news girl’s purse and took off.

Chris Pratt, our favorite Velociraptor trainer, and T Rex killer, told Hollywood to buzz off regarding his new movie. He likes shooting large guns, killing terrorists and commies, and exposing the white underbelly of the CIA. Pratt has made a lot of dough from the Dino’s. It’s called “screw you” money. JK Rowling is another controversial and wealthier person than Pratt that has told the trans community to buzz off. But she has more money than Bubba Gump, so she uses more expletives. All that cash for writing children’s books, back when kids actually read real books printed on paper. She got in on the deal early on.

Now that the dorky Pete Davidson has escaped from Kim Kardashian, could he arrange for her and the entire Kardashian strain to be kidnapped and held on a hidden island for at least 30 years, so we don’t have to read about them or see their faces on television every day of our lives? He would be doing humanity a favor. He should probably include her ex-drug-dealing husband to join them in exile. With all this hoop-la about banning Pit Bulls, I say let’s start with the Kardashians.

Didn’t you love Nancy Pelosi’s little girlhood ditty about digging holes in beach sand to reach China? She was in Japan, a country so close to China that it could also be reached by a deep hole in the sand. The Japanese officials looked puzzled, if not offended, as she made another one of her flying hands word salad gibberish speeches. This is the “thing” that would become president if Biden bites it. Keep that in mind when you wish he would stay in his basement in Deleware watching Jill make her wardrobe out of curtain material from the local Walmart and helping Hunter design artistically beautiful crack pipes for distribution in the wokie cities. But, the obvious may not be the best solution.

So Ellen’s old squeeze, Ann Heche, drives around Los Angeles with a bottle of vodka in her cup holder, a bottle of Ripple in her lap, and crashes into a local citizen’s home, destroying the poor lady’s house and her meager belongings. Poor Ann is toasted up a bit and was most likely drunk as a wino on skid row. But she can’t seem to let that “Ellen” thing go. The old gunslinger, Alec Baldwin, is praising Ann for her courage when he should be organizing his buds to rebuild the poor lady’s burned-out home. A 12.5 earthquake in LA would be nice; any time now.

Mitch and his boys better get their country club asses in full war mode. The cheating for the mid-terms is in full swing. If the Repubs had run stronger candidates in Georgia, this entire collapse of Western civilization would not be happening. Someone slip this incompetent fossil a mickey in his scotch.

I probably have said too much and offended half the world, but it’s my blog, it’s Monday, it’s hot in Texas, and I am old and pissed off most of the time.

John Steinbeck and His Eden


As a ten-year-old, I had no business reading “The Grapes of Wrath,” but my Aunt Norma thought I should discover more than Mark Twain. Her foresight gave me a vision beyond my years.

I learned to read between six and seven. I started school later because my birthday fell beyond the cut-off date. So my Mother and aunt ensured I would be ahead of my class when I entered first grade. I was at least two stages ahead in reading and writing but woefully ignorant of math, my most hated subject. Fun With Dick and Jane were books written for childish idiots. I yearned for more. My young brain was afire.

I’ve read all of John Steinbeck’s books except for ” East of Eden,” which I have almost completed. It’s supposedly autobiographical about his family, the Hamiltons, who were farmers outside of Salinas, California. There was a movie of the book made in the 1950s starring James Dean. It was a disastrous attempt, and Steinbeck deplored the film. I could hardly watch it.

I am a rabid reader and follower of Larry McMurtry, Truman Capote, William Faulkner, and Thomas Wolfe, but good Lord, this book, this blessed and talented man, John Steinbeck, may have written the best novel I have read to date. Its time is old and takes place in the late 1800s into the first world war, and if you know nothing of history, this book will teach you enough to not sound stupid at a cocktail party, which is now called a wine tasting or some other hip gathering. Most young folks nowadays don’t read, so you may be considered a god or a fumbling old fool. The young are not impressed easily.

If you have time, a rainy day brings boredom, or you may simply want to improve your life, read this book and learn from a master of American literature.

Rocky Mountain High In Colorado Springs


Heading to the Market! Photo by Ken Kesey

This past Saturday, while visiting my wife’s lovely Daughter, husband, and her young family in Colorado Springs, we visited the Old Town Colorado Farmers Market in the original 1800s village of Colorado Springs. It is the happening place to be if you are an aficionado or an original member of the 1960s. My wife and I are both, so we were looking forward to taking a time machine back to the days of innocence and peace.

A beautiful day; the weather was in the low 70s, sunny and bright, and the scents of fresh organic produce, fragrant honey, extravagant lemonade, and Rocky Mountain High pot floated through the park. Sunshine was on our shoulders and flowers in our hair. I thought I spied John Denver strumming his Martin guitar, but then, remembered he has been dead for a while now, thanks to not checking his fuel gauge on his plane.

Young families with passels of little kids, every breed of dog imaginable, and I believe that every old hippie that came to Colorado Springs in the 60s never left. Grandmas with dreadlocks, granny dresses, and boobs hanging south to their knees were escorted by their husbands that resembled Rip Van Winkle more than a modern-era man. I thought we were at a “reproduction” of Woodstock. One cool guy may be the twin of the late Joe Cocker, down to the cowboy boots and the tye-dye tee shirt, while another was a ringer for Arlo Guthrie. It was a fantastic trip; my wife and I were stone-cold sober, so that made it even more surreal.

Tents with vendors selling “Colorado Eco Hip Friendly Bee Honey,” “Homemade and Cosmic Blessed Hemp Jelly,” “Granny Sunshines Fresh Baked Love Buns,” ” Hip Harry’s Secret Tomatoes,” and so on. A few booths were original and had quite a queue: “Madam Gina’s Personal Physcriatic Help-$20 for ten minutes.” Another was “Personal Weed Advice.” With all the different varieties, one could, if not careful, might choose a lousy bag and wake up in hell.

The only thing that did worry me was the number of young folks wearing backpacks. Men and women seemed to be carrying all their belongings in a variety of fashionable packs; maybe in case, they were called on a long-distance personal quest at the last minute.

What did those bags include? I am guessing they would be some “smart water,” “an Apple Laptop and iPhone ( required of the hipsters),” some high-quality weed, an extra pair of Doc Martin sandals, maybe a few organic pieces of fruit, and a flash drive containing the soundtrack from Woodstock or Dave Mathews. Of course, I could be wrong.

After the market, we went to the exquisite “Broadmoor Hotel.” This place has gardens equal to those of biblical Eden. Beautiful trees, flowers, and bushes that would never be found in Texas, and enough grounds staff to ensure it all stayed in perfect cosmic alignment.

Beautiful people strolling the sacred grounds with their Gucci sweaters tied around their shoulders and their Tacova boots shined to perfection. The reflection from their Rolex watches would have blinded me if not for my $10.00 pair of gas station sunglasses. This is how the other half of the country lives at a grand a night for a bed and bathroom. If I had a tin cup and a sign, I would have begged for enough money to pay for the trip.

The lobby reminded me of Fort Worth’s Amon Carter Museum. Fredrick Remmington’s famous oil paintings hung on every wall. There were easily ten million bucks in original western art in that lobby. I was in a trance.

It was a great trip to see the family, with good food, and perfect weather. We look forward to going back and having to wear a jacket.

It will be 104 degrees in Granbury today. I think God has a sense of humor and may have chosen Texas for his new “weather Hell” because of all the Californians moving here. Nothing looks funnier than a toasted Wokie.

A Friday Rant From The Cactus Patch That is Visiting in Colorado for a few days !


Well oil my musket, wipe my ass and call me Davey Crockett. Things in the Cactus Patch are so off-kilter I can’t walk straight without a good shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey.

Now the whales are pissed off and jumping onto boats. The boat was owned by a Democrat Greenpeace Pot Smoking Transgendered Fishing Captain attempting to coax a throng of weekend mariners to join his cause. The whale was obviously a conservative and was enraged by the rainbow flag flown aftward and the “Little Mermaid” sticker on the hull. Let’s hope the Great White Sharks off Lon-gilend don’t catch on.

If Martha Stewert went to prison for insider trading, why isn’t Pelosi, her husband, and most of the congress receiving the same treatment? The only reason she is still alive is that she has enough money to buy black market spare organs to keep her going. If she farted, her face would explode.

Merrick Garland is going to prosecute Trump? WTF? How about he starts with Hunter Biden, his wife, his father, his hookers, and then all the Antifa and BLM trash that ruined Seattle, Portland, Minneapolis, and other smaller cities? Garland is a worthless human unit that uses Dippity Do on his hair and hasn’t had a good bowel movement in years.

Biden releases another 20 million barrels of oil from our national reserve. Who is he selling it to this time? He will try and take a victory lap, but will likely be held up by Jill and the Secret Service. The corpse doesn’t know what planet he is on. This is the result of putting an old man that has shit for brains in office. Although Scarlett O’Hara wore her dress made from her curtains better than Jill does.

Biden’s machine is in full swing. The cute little Barbie black lesbian is now a historian. She and her lemmings now tout that he is the new Winston Churchill. At 79 years old, Mr. Churchhill knew his time was up. Health and mental issues had rendered him a shell of the ferocious lion-hearted warrior he was in the 1940s. Biden is only an 80-year-old feeble man with a small quadrant of his brain that occasionally functions. Don’t insult the world by comparing Biden to Churchill. It’s sacrilege.

When Larry McMurtry Had Texas In His Back Pocket


Over the past few years, I’ve harbored two “bucket-list” items to fulfill before I reach room temperature. One was to visit Marfa, Texas, the self-proclaimed and pompous art nouveau hub of Texas and the holy ground where the movie “Giant” was filmed. I envisioned a hip desert town with fine food, good booze, and every inhabitant wearing Justin boots. I got a dusty, dirty, ugly little town with two nice hotels and no decent food.

My Marfa bubble was busted within thirty minutes of entering the town. I would have suffered a breakdown or a medical event, but my wife held me together until we made it back to Alpine, packed our gear, and headed back to Granbury.

The second and most anticipated bucket item was a visit to Archer City, Texas, the hometown of our revered Texas Nobel Laureate, Larry McMurtry. The small town boy knocked William Travis and Stephen F. Austin of the “favorite son” list.

Mo and I were headed to Colorado Springs to visit her daughter and family, so stopping in Archer City to visit McMurtry’s hallowed book store ” Booked Up” would make the trip an event to remember. This bubble was more significant than the one I had for Marfa. If not for Hemingway and Steinbeck, there would have been no McMurtry. If not for McMurtry, there would not be other great writers that learned from him.

The website said the store is open for business. It wasn’t and had not been for a while. I peeked through the dusty glass front door, and some autographed books were displayed on a table, where they once had been for sale. I was about as hang-dog as a man can get.

A fellow pushing his garbage bin to the street was helpful and filled us in on the particulars. It’s a good yarn but could also be a steaming pile. Small towns run on gossip, rumors, and legends.

The old man leaned on his trash bin, got close to the window where my wife sat, and let her rip.

When McMurtry passed on, he left his two town bookstores, his typewriter, and 30,000 rare books to the lady that ran them for years; Khristal Collins. His wife Norma Fay and his writing partner Diana Ossana got the cash. His estate hired a hot-shot New York book bow-tie-wearing appraiser to give the books a value. It seems the fellow opened a few books and some stock certificates fell out, then some more books and more certificates hit the floor. Now, he had to go through every book in both stores. It may take years. Let’s hope his wife checked their mattress.

In the literary world, the man is not a mere mortal, except that he did pass away at home a while back, so I was disappointed that a writer of his Homeric wizardry could actually expire.

I can imagine Larry sitting on his front veranda in the late afternoon, enjoying a good glass of scotch while contemplating his next book about the fictitious town of Thalia, Texas, and he fades with the setting sun.

When and If the Booked Up store re-opens, I will make the trip back to Archer City. I’m still hoping to meet Sonny, Duane, and Jacy.

Larry McMurtry Made Me Crazy


This coming Wednesday, July 27th, my wife and I are driving to Colorado Springs to visit her daughter and family. New transplants from Fort Worth, Texas to the liberal and hip state of legal pot and “mile-high-hipsters.” We are making a bucket list stop along the way to the small Texas town of Archer City.

My wife Mo, is accomodating, but she thinks the head injury I suffered two years ago has effected my mental priorities. “What the hell is an Archer City?” she asked. I can’t explain without choking up. How can a writer explain the reverance of visiting the holy grail of litature. I get so excited, I piss my pants a bit, but that’s because I am 73 years old and cancer did a whammy on me.

For the illiterate non-book readers who are followers of my blog, Archer City is the hometown, and for 70 years, the home to one of the greatest authors in American literature; Larry McMurtry.

Born, raised, and recently died there, he is the fair-haired favorite son that put this one red-light town on the map. A true son of Texas that accepted his many awards in jeans and Justin boots. He may have lived in New York City for a spell, but he got back to Texas as soon as he could. He won the Pulitzer Prize for his book “Lonesome Dove” in 1986. A good ole boy from hicksville Texas writing about the famous cattle drive inspired by Charles Goodnight and Oliver Loving, both legendary and larger than life figures in the old west; bet it pissed those Swedes off but good.

Like many great novelist, he was an educater at North Texas State and Rice University; but I don’t hold that against him. He wrote on a portable typewriter and didn’t own a computer or a cell phone. He could play the rube with the toothpick in his teeth then write an essay that would bring tears to a grown mans eye. He also kept a rebelious streak in his back pocket as he was one of the Merry Pranksters along with Ken Kesey and his Acid Test for a few days when the circus stopped at his home in Houston. He said the LSD made him a tad anxious and preferred whiskey. For reasons unknown, in his last years, he married Ken Keseys widow and moved her to Archer City.

One of his novels, “The Last Picture Show” was a Peter Bogdonovich movie that raised a public ruckus in 1971 for the nudity and taboo liason between a high school football player an the coaches wife. A young Cybil Shepard even showed her little titties in a swimming pool scene. Good Lord.

The cast of characters in his books was drawn from the townspeople he grew up with and even with the slightest of name changes, they were easily recognized and plenty pissed until the movie and books put their one horse town on the tourist map. The movie was shot in black and white and filmed in a ramshackle Archer City which took on the 1950 look and name of “Thalia, Texas.”

As in many of his books, the places folks spent their time was at the Pool Hall, The Kwik Shack, The Movie Theater and the Dairy Queen. I plan to visit his book store, “Booked Up,” and of course have a burger and a shake at the famous Dairy Queen. One more thing striked off my bucket list. Who knows; I might see Jacy and Duane eating a chicken fried.

In Search Of My Family History; Didn’t My Mother Own A Pen and A Sheet Of Paper?


Left foreground: Terry The Terrier, Uncle Jack, My Grandmother, My Grandfather, and my Aunt Norma

I am dismayed that the numerous members of my father and mother’s families didn’t have the foresight to record their family history for future generations. So there we were, a passel of kids that would grow up to have our own passel of children, but not a paragraph or a sentence was penned for historical value. For all we knew, the entire gang of us were adopted from the Masonic Home.

A note in an old bible or a scribble on the back of an old picture. Who is the old farm wife holding a baby goat in front of a ramshackle barn in 1935? She may as well have been Ma Joad.

Ancestry has been no help, I know where my father’s family came from; England, Ireland, and Scotland; via ships with vast yards of sails, they made landfall in New York, kissed the Statue of Liberty, and then on to Pennsylvania, and points west these were men and women of Celtic origin, who could handle a sword and drank Jameson Irish Whiskey instead of water. They were the refugees of the potato famine and the Catholic-Protestant conflict that still rages today.

My mother’s family is vague, shrouded in indigenous Indian mythical mystery. Relatives who grew up on the Cherokee Indian Reservations, also known as The Indian Nation in Oklahoma and Arkansas.

These folks lived in Buffalo skin teepees and log cabins and hunted for their food, and there are rumors they killed more than a few white settlers. My grandmother had a large mass of human hair she claimed was a scalp her father took during a raiding party; she would bring it out at Christmas to add drama to the children’s holiday.

From what I’ve been told, my great-grandmother had a serious “thang” with the violent but educated Cherokee Chief Quannah Parker, and that “thang” is still a family mystery. Still, my grandmother looked like him, so the family story calls us relations. There may have been more than holding hands in the moonlight on the banks of the Canadian River.

Belle Starr, the infamous outlaw gal, is another relation on my mother’s side. My grandmother said she never intentionally shot anyone but did shoot her husband’s pinky toe off when he wouldn’t help dry the supper dishes Dime Novels made a fortune off of her antics.

Belle was a larger-than-life fixture residing in the old Fort Worth district known as “Hell’s Half Acre.” Butch, Sundance, and Etta Place were her drinking partners, and it’s rumored that she could out-shoot Annie Oakley and Buffalo Bill, who also had a “thang” for Belle. The famous quick draw Sherriff Jim Coulter was puppy-love sick for her, but he knew she could likely out-draw him, so he loved her from afar.

A famous uncle also worked as a US Marshall out of Fort Smith, Arkansas, and rode with the legendary black marshall, Sam Bass. Sam handled a Colt 44 as graceful as a forkful of steak and taters. Unfortunately, he had to replace the handles on his pistols twice after he ran out of room for the notches related to the count of bandits he had plugged. The uncle in question was likely the model for the character July Johnson in Larry McMurtry’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, “Lonesome Dove.” I’m waiting for confirmation that I may be related to Will Rogers, Sasquatch, Blue Duck, and Amelia Earhart.

I was a teenager when I heard one of the better stories from within the family. My mother’s brother’s wife shot and “more than killed” their only daughter’s mean-spirited husband during an “Old Crow” inspired confrontation of which there were many. The old gal shot her son-in-law three times in the chest with a 38 Police Special and then once more in the head, just to assure he wouldn’t get up. She got off in self-defense. However, the thoroughly dead fellow was unarmed and stupid drunk.

The famous weapon hung on the wall in a framed case, still loaded with the two remaining bullets. Family badges of honor come in all forms.

For me, time is of the essence because it’s running out. I hope to complete some form of family history for my grandchildren by Christmas. It may not be pretty, but it will be a good read.

A Reader Shall Never Be Illiterate


Back in those magical 1950s, Texas had a law that a child couldn’t start first grade unless they were six years old on or before September 1st, the standard start of the school year. So my birthday came on September 17th, rendering me ineligible for formal education.

As my neighborhood friends marched down the sidewalk in their new school clothes, off to George C. Clark Elementry, I stood on the front porch feeling like life was passing me by. In a way, it was, and for a kid, the slightest things seem dramatic.

My Mother and my aunt Norma hatched a plan. They got their hands on two years of Dick and Jane books. First and second-grade editions that taught kids to read. Within a few months, I was a reading machine, having breezed through the books learning to read and then write in the lined notebooks used in school. My Mother and Aunt Norma were determined that I would enter the first grade on a third-grade level. I suffered through the year of drills and teaching techniques, but I emerged a better student for it.

My aunt Norma, a crazed reader, introduced me, by reading me, Micky Spillane, Zane Gray, and a long line of pulp fiction paperbacks that in a decent world should have been off limits to a kid my age. Murder, mayhem, sex, and salacious behaviors seemed normal to me before the age of seven. ” Mike Hammer stood in the doorway as the cool redhead dropped her robe to the floor exposing her watoness to the hardened detective.” What kid reads that crap? It seemed normal to me.

Entering the first grade, my teacher was perplexed by my abilities. I had already advanced to the third-grade level of reading and cursive writing. She assumed I was an idiot savant and recommended I be sent to a special school for mal-adjusted children. Fortunately, my Mother and aunt intervened and explained the situation and their tutorial extensions. I was saved and allowed to attend classes with my peers, even though I was bored and apt to nap most of the day. My teacher asked the class about their favorite Dick and Jane book, and I explained that Mickey Spillane was my most endured famous writer, along with Mark Twain, of who I wanted to become. An hour in the principal’s office did nothing to deter me from my goals or abilities. Once again, I was on the savant list; and another conference was convened on my behalf. With no kindergarten in those days, kids were expected to trod along at a slow pace and learn as a group at that level. My additional year at home had allowed me to surpass in the form of hyper-speed, eclipsing my peers that were by no means ignorant but only learning at the average speed expected.

By fourth grade, I had read Mark Twain’s collection of works and started on “The Grapes of Wrath.” I didn’t grasp many of Steinbeck’s words and his sentence structure, but in all, I got the jest of the story because my grandparents had been the Okies that traveled to California and did the fruit and vegetable picking Steinbeck wrote of. Hemingway and Thomas Wolfe, Gertrude Stien, and F. Scott Fitzgerald found me. I was ruined for life. Dick and Jane were nothing but fodder for a good winter fire in our hearth.

A Special Rant From The Cactus Patch


Good Lord in Heaven, the news flashed a moment ago that Biden is sending the oil from our national reserves to China instead of using it to lower the cost at the pump.

“Just Go Buy That Electric Car,” I ask you, what kind of man, much less a president does something like this? Perhaps because he is secure in China’s back pocket because of his sons’ dirty dealings, from which he undoubtedly benefited? Maybe dementia has altered his state of reality and he is of the mind of a child? Doe’s the Democratic Party not have a clear-thinking member that opposes the ruination of this country? All valid questions, and I am but one of the millions with like thoughts.

” Silence Is Not Golden,” although the Tremeloes had a great hit with that term. Why has the Republican Party not offered answers to their constituents? Where are the press conferences and full-page newspaper ads? The gonads of McConnell, Medows and a dozen other so-called leaders are safe in a drawer in their bedroom credenza. Most likely next to their useless pricks, which renders them, useless Eunuchs. Our saving grace may be some of the firebrand female senators that pack a pistol on each hip and mean business.

How does the majority of America receive its news? Good old NBC Lester Holt, the metrosexual young man on ABC, and that green-eyed red-headed pronoun devil on CBS, an avowed conservative Christian hater, although her family all served in the military. She is a contradiction.

There is Fox and Newsmax for conservatives, then the rest of us peons watch the three-letter networks or Google, or Yahoo, or the hundreds of leftist sites that populate the net. It’s an orchestrated effort to feed the population a constant flow of misinformation. Biden’s almost cute little Nazi misinformation Frau didn’t last a full week. She was yet another of his appointments with no experience in anything except producing sing-song Tik Tok videos. To date, AOC is the only one to successfully pull it off, only because her voting base in her hood is as moronic as she is.

Who is the wizard behind the green curtain? Soros, Biden, Pelosi? The Lion, Scarecrow, and Tin Man? More than likely it is a combination of Obama, Hillary, Eric Holder, and Susan Rice, all with direct lines to the Biden residence. Scoff if you may, but I might be right, based on what I have read in and between the lines. Of all the experts in written media, Victor Davis Hansen may be the most accurate. His assessments and predictions are spot on and should keep us awake at night.

” Come And Take It,” is the flag waved by the outnumbered Texans during the battle of Gonzolaz against the Mexican army. Our illustrious pontificating governor should learn a thing or two from our history, starting with that flag. So the DOJ is filing suit against Texas declaring our border an invasion from a foreign power. It is exactly that and more. Let Merrick Garland and his lackeys try and stop us. They are chickenshit at best. Mexico’s government shrugs their shoulders, “no english” they say. The hordes keep marching to the castle walls with no end in sight. Abbott had a good idea when he held up the trucks at the border, he should reinstate that law. A large chunk of Mexico’s economy is ” Western Union” money from illegals in our country. Halt that and see how fast President Pedro does the sideways shuffle and puts on the brakes. How about our National Guard with a shoot-to-kill order on anyone that resembles a Cartel or drug mule? Maybe some well-placed Texas militia in the scrub brush? That sounds drastic and cruel, but we are eons past the point of civility. This is a war against our country. As in Washington, under the current administration of our once proud state of Texas, the sons of the Alamo have been silenced. It’s heartbreaking.

“Are You A Boy Or Are You A Girl?” The sixties group “The Barbarians” had it right over 50 years ago. A tongue-in-cheek jab at our parent’s generation of intolerance. It was a catchy tune that if revived today, would likely become a breakthrough hit. If a boy wants to dress up and play Girlie-Girl and a girl wants to dress up and play Manley-Man, then do it. Don’t expect special treatment or rights from the rest of us, except maybe a butt whooping once in a while. We all played cowboys and Indians back in the 50s, and none of us grew up to be Roy Rogers or Tonto; well maybe a few of my friends did. My childhood friend Billy Roy grew up to be the Texas version of Pretty Boy Floyd and spent his entire life on the dope farm in West Fort Worth. I also had a cousin that dressed like a woman and robbed a Piggley Wiggley, but he got off after pleading insanity. The judge sent him to live in Dallas…nuff said.

Remembering the 4th of July, 1957


The whirling of the push mower blades sings their song of torment as I struggle to advance the heavy beast forward. I miss cutting the grass by two days; now, it’s akin to whacking my way through a South American jungle. I’m eight years old, and it’s the 4th of July, 1957.

Later this afternoon, friends and relatives will arrive for a backyard cookout and fireworks at dusk. There is a watermelon packed in an ice-filled tub. Cold beer and soft drinks fill another. Both tubs are sitting in the shade of our backyard Mimosa tree. My father’s beloved Leonard Brothers all-steel charcoal grill sits on the driveway, loaded with briquettes.  

Many of the relatives are on my father’s “shit list,” but being the nice fellow, he extends the invitation on this day and the Christmas holidays. They always come, and the reason for their banishment soon rears its ugly head. Beer gives them the strength to make a beautiful ass of themselves. I’m a kid and could care less. I want to play with dangerous fireworks and blow things up.

People arrive around four. A few cousins close to my age make the party tolerable. My tomboy cousin Ginger brings her bow and target arrows. She wastes no time shooting my cousin Jok in his left buttock. My father removes the arrow, and a band-aid dresses the wound. Kids were tough back then. A speeding bullet is the only thing that might stop us. We move on to firecrackers, cherry bombs, and sparklers.

Burgers are served along with “tater salad” and watermelon. Pearl beer gives my father’s uncle Orum the ability to talk like Will Rogers. His home-spun recounts of past family gatherings captivate the adults. Without the lubrication of beer, he is as humorless as a cardboard box. Cousin Ginger finds her bow and arrows and sends one through the bedroom window glass. She gets a well-deserved butt whooping. It’s not often I see a girl get a butt busting. She does the one-arm dance as her mother delivers the blows. Cool.

I destroy every ant mound in our alley with Black Cat firecrackers and send a tin can into the stratosphere with a Cherry Bomb. Cousin Jok sits a cherry bomb on top of the front tire of his older brother’s new MG convertible to test the velocity of the explosion. The firework blows an outward dent in the fender. Jok is a doomed kid when he gets home.

Darkness arrives, and we swirl sparklers in figure-eight patterns. Sticks of metal burning at 3,000 degrees. Kids holding a welding torch; what could go wrong?

Ten o’clock arrives, and I’m lying in bed after my bath. The soft whir of my bedroom swamp cooler lulls me into La La Land. The adults are still in the backyard. I hear their laughter and catch a few words of some dirty jokes.

Drowsiness comes; sleep is but a minute away; then I hear my mother singing God Bless America, and the others join in. It feels good to be a kid on the 4th of July.

When Decorum And Respect Is Lost


Photo Courtesy of Getty Images

Mayra Flores is the new Hispanic congresswoman from South Texas; she was sworn into office a few days ago. Her husband and children attended the ceremony. During the official photo, Mrs. Flores and her family were joined by Speaker Nancy Pelosi. A photo op Mrs. Pelosi was visibly uncomfortable with.

Mrs. Flores’s oldest daughter was standing next to Pelosi, perhaps a little too close for Nancy’s comfort.

In a fit of childish behavior, Pelosi elbowed the young girl not once but twice, wanting her to move away. This was caught on video, and photographers and Mrs. Flores and her husband, a United States Border Patrol Agent, are unhappy about the incident; as is much of conservative America and the Hispanic community.

Perhaps, Mrs. Pelosi was upset because a young Hispanic woman won her seat as a Republican when, historically, all Hispanics are supposed to be Democrats, no excuses. If you ain’t a Democrat, you ain’t a Hispanic.

You won’t see this on our national news broadcast. The Dems have put out the word not to cover this boo-boo. The media always complies with the leftist because they are of the same ilk.

Nancy Pelosi should “publically apologize” to Mrs. Flores and her family. But she won’t; she is incapable of apology. Many doctors say she and Diane Feinstein are more cognitively challenged than Biden, so don’t look for decorum and decency from this evil woman. It’s not in her DNA.

AOC, the social media princess of morons, is back in her adoring national spotlight.

She stands outside the supreme court building with hundreds, if not thousands, maybe even millions of her female worshipers, shouting through a bull-horn to abolish the supreme court and impeach the conservative judges. Then she ramps it up by calling her constituents and followers to take to the streets and fight and attack the judges in their homes, “violence is the only way,” she screams. So, where is the DOJ? To me, this is worse than what President Trump implied. Will she get an investigative committee? Will she be arrested? No, she will be immortalized as a demonic saint by the horde of twenty-something ignorant women that hang on her every word and action. Without Facebook, Tik Tok, and Instagram, this childish adult woman would still be bartending in a blue-collar beer joint in Queens.

This is what the Democratic Party has become. The party of hate and violence. But hasn’t it always been? I was a teenager in the 60s and watched the news. Not much has changed, only better and faster coverage.

This summer is shaping up to repeat the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago; blood in the streets, buildings burned, and innocent people shot. So it’s time for ordinary American citizens to clean their weapons, stock up on ammo and get ready for the big show coming to your city.

“The Supremes Have A Number One Hit!” Musings From The Cactus Patch


Photo courtesy of Jill Biden

The Supreme Court, also affectionately known as “The Supremes,” has a “number one hit” with their upholding of the second amendment, which is part of our constitution. Six judges voted to uphold and three voted against, which means they are against upholding the constitution, the main document they are supposed to protect and follow. It will be illuminating to see how the court acts on other issues coming next week. I’m anticipating Diana Ross throwing a hissy-fit.

The liberal and radical left will naturally set social media on fire and organize protests peppered with violence. What a glorious sight it will be to see hundreds of little college-educated snowflakes running down the street with their hair ablaze. I can’t wait.

The Biden White House is telling the peasants to purchase a $60,000+ electric vehicle and stop complaining about $5+ a gallon gas.” This comes from Karine Jean-Pierre, the young, highly educated, and perfect black-lesbian-immigrant-press secretary. For a change, she had to answer some tough questions from the reporters and folded like a cheap Walmart lawn chair. Her usual response to anything of substance is; “gaze upon my black lesbian perfection, I am an African goddess.” Yes, she might be all of those, but she is also a total moron. Infrastructure to support electric vehicles is still two to three decades away.

Did anyone notice good ole’ Lester Holt on NBC news last night? He was interviewing someone and he used the term “circle back” with the guest. Come on Lester, you are better than that.

The Magical Green Switch


Here it is Thursday, June 23rd, and our President, or should I say, “Resident,” has yet to flip that magical green switch that will lower gasoline to an affordable price.

Suspending the gasoline tax of .18 cents will yield the average driver around $2.50 per tank-full, almost enough to buy a half-gallon of milk or a loaf of Wonder bread.

Perhaps he should call former President Donald Trump and ask the location of the switch?

Biden; “Trump, this is Joe, you know the President; can you tell me the location of that switch that will fix everything?”

Trump; “Sure Joe, it’s in Oz, behind the green curtain. Dorothy, oops, I mean Jill can show you the way. By the way Joe, you know I won.”

The End Is Near, Save Yourself


Remember back in the day, all those cartoons in the magazines had a bearded man in a long robe carrying a sign saying, ” The End Is Near.” We laughed then, but we are not laughing now.

“It’s not like I can turn a switch and reduce the price of gas.” Yes, Dear Hearts, these words came from Biden’s mouth last week. These are things the moron says when his handler, Jill, lets him away from her side for a few moments.

The honest answer is, “yes you can turn that switch because you turned it off, and it can be turned back on.” Unfortunately, it’s not Fairy Dust and Unicorn Piss, Joe. The poor human is so stupefied, mentally unstable, and clueless that he might as well have his office in Disney Land.

Jimmy Carter and Hoover can rest easy now; they will no longer be remembered as the worst presidents in history. Biden currently holds that honor.

I’ve read up on Biden and his 49-year tenure in Washington, and it’s not pretty. The man never held a regular job, had 5 deferments to stay out of Vietnam (although now he remembers being in the service or something like it), was last in his class in law school, and was a poor student in high school.

“He may not be a smart man, but he knows what love is,” as Forest Gump might say.

He has never made a payroll, hired or fired employees, given a bonus to a worker, or produced a product or service for public consumption; Anything he did accomplish in the senate was for his minuscule home state of Deleware and not for the rest of America. The man is an actual mental midget regarding understanding the economy and how it functions.

People who worked with him in the early years remember him as a “bully and a thug.” He would, and still does, get in the face and threaten anyone that opposes him or ask a question he doesn’t like. There are more than a few tapes of his attack behavior on the public. In the last few years, it has gotten worse because that is what happens with dementia patients. They have no filters and are apt to say disgusting things anytime. This is the leader of the free world. Let that marinate for a bit.

Putting a hold on the federal gas tax of 0.18 cents will help no one. Maybe a few dollars a gallon would bring relief, but that will never happen. We will be staring at $8.00 per gallon by August, and that, cousins, will not only throw us into a recession, which we are already months into but a depression. Our country runs on oil and gas, and that drives the economy. There are no electric trucks or planes that deliver our goods. No electric tankers have our interests, and there is no infrastructure for electric vehicles. One day in the not-so-distant past, we were energy self-sufficient and supplying other countries with oil and gas. The next day, we weren’t. So WTF happened? The Democrats took office.

” Oh, Nancy dear, I signed the orders you requested and shut down our economy; now you can throw that cute little green switch and turn on the solar batteries and wind farms.”

Nancy goes into a vodka rage, “Ugh, Joe, you moron, we are three or four decades from having enough of those to power this country. What the hell were you thinking?

The Fathers Day Reel That Never Caught A Fish


A few nights ago, I thought about “Father’s Day.” I often wake in the wee hours, which are my most fruitful time to contemplate the state of the world. Things such as, did I forget to water my veggie garden or put the trash bin out for collection. The small items require as much thought as the big ones.

The restaurants will be packed to the limit this coming Sunday, and Bass Pro Shop and Amazon will be working overtime until Saturday night. But, of course, it wasn’t always this way.

Like Mother’s day, it wasn’t an official government-sanctioned holiday until the 70s, although the American public has recognized the special day since 1910.

During the second world war, it gained ground because the retailers figured out how to make a few extra bucks by plucking our heartstrings with schmaltzy advertising. As a result, hallmark has sold Billions of cards, and American retailers continue to milk this golden cash cow dry.

Around our house in the 1950s, “Father’s Day” wasn’t considered an extravaganza. My Dad mowed the yard or made repairs on our home, Mom made him a special meatloaf with cornbread, and my sister and I gave him our homemade construction paper cards. Sometimes, he received a gift, but not often. One year Mom purchased a fancy fishing lure for us to give him. Large shiny treble hooks and feathers were sure to make any fish want a bite. Another year, a nice shirt and a pair of fishing sneakers. He never expected much because money was always tight, and folks of his generation weren’t wired like they are now.

In 1969, I gave my Dad a Garcia saltwater fishing reel for ” Father’s Day.” Captian Rick Corn, who owned the Sports Center in Port Aransas, gave me a “poor boy’s” deal, or I could have never afforded such a gift. It was a beautiful bright red and chrome reel, nestled into a padded black leather case. Unfortunately, it was too pretty to use. The saltwater would tarnish the colors and the shining chrome within a few weeks. Then it would be like our other working reels.

For years to come, during our fishing trips into the Gulf, I noticed he never put the reel on a pole. He said it would be a shame to lose it overboard like we had a few others when a 40lb King Fish hits our bait at light speed, and the rod escapes the holder and goes flying into the water. He kept it locked in the storage closet of our family beach house. So I forgot about the reel for many years.

My father passed away in 1996. So when my sister and I sold the beach house in 2001, I ran across the reel in the storage closet; it had never been on a pole. It was as shining and beautiful as it was the day I gave it to him.

Years ago, I passed the reel on to my youngest son, Wes. He knows the family story behind the reel.

He and his family live on South Padre Island, just a short drive from Port Aransas. His home is on a canal that leads to the Gulf. His Blue Wave fishing boat moored to his dock behind his home. As of yet, I have not seen the reel on his rods, so I will assume he treasures the 52-year-old reel as my father did, by not risking its loss in the Gulf. One day, he may pass it on to my grandson, and perhaps he will catch a record-breaking Kingfish with that reel.

Thoughts From The Cactus Patch


If a Republican Senator or lawmaker had attacked a liberal Justice like Sotomayor or Kagan or Jackson, declared without ambiguity that ‘they will pay the price,’ it is virtually guaranteed you would see wall-to-wall coverage if an attempt was made on their lives,” he said, referring to Senate Majority Leader Chuck Schumer’s, D-N.Y., comments in 2020 about conservative justices, including Kavanaugh.” Taken from the New York Post.

It’s disturbing that the national news media outlets gave zero coverage to the attempt on Supreme Court Judge Kavanaugh’s life. True, the young man did not fire a shot or get into the house, but it was an attempt. When did one political party assume total control of the information on television, newspapers, and the internet? A guess would be in the early 2000s. Peter Jennings and a few other tv talking heads from back in the 90s, although liberal, attempted to give us the facts and the truth. I had high hopes for Lester Holt, but he caved in record time and fell into step. Who can blame the man? The networks pay these teleprompter readers extravagant salaries that have no base in reality. It’s a job, and they don’t write their own script.

Our Supreme Court judges are our most sacred cows deserving to be protected no matter the party affiliation of the president that appointed them. Not a concerned or denounced word from President Biden, Nancy Pelosi, Chuck Schumer, or others of their ilk. So, does that make them complicit in the attempt? First, it would be a yes, but maybe they are afraid to speak out against their radical base. They could be next in line. Silence can be golden, but it can be deafening and damning in the newsroom.

I’ve seen much in my 73 years, but I must confess that 2021 and 2022 may win the golden calf or at least a plaster Saint for your garden. History denotes the effectiveness of presidents, starting with General George Washington. Up until Carter, Buchanan, and maybe Hoover was considered the losers of Washington. Jimmy and Rosiland Carter can rest easy now; our current president has taken the flaming torch and is leading a parade down Pennsylvania Avenue. He thinks he is going to light the Olympic flame. Please, Jill, take him home.

Maureen and I don’t take many trips nowadays. We did manage a family gathering in Fredricksburg, Texas, back in May for Maureen’s 70th, but that was before the gas prices went south. Galveston was on our agenda for July, but with the cost of fuel, hotels, and food, we will be sticking close to home. Maybe a short day trip and a good meal will suffice. The days of long hauls in our trusty Honda may be over for a while. I believe the Gulf of Mexico and Guido’s shrimp baskets will be there next year.

The tomato harvest is upon us. The backyard garden is fruitful this year. Small, medium and Godzilla-size orbs are ripening within a day. It’s either my taste buds or on the fritz, or the tomatoes this year lack flavor. The Squash bit the dust early on due to a disease or bugs. I blame it on the hot, dry spring and, of course, the economy.

” I Mean, You Know”


Photo by Lilly Munster

The president also dismissed the world’s richest man, seeming to mock Musk’s business endeavors in space exploration. “So, you know, lots of luck on his trip to the Moon. I mean, I don’t — I mean, you know…” Biden concluded on the subject, trailing off. 

This is the response from our president regarding Elon Musk’s take on our economy. Elon is a visionary, a genius, and an employer of thousands; he gets it and has the good sense to move his empire to Texas. Thank you, young sir.

Joe Biden is a man who never has in his long life held a private-sector job, owned a company, made a payroll, produced a product or a service that benefited the public, and made a career of using his elected office to make millions of dollars for himself and his corrupt family. Basically, Joe Biden is as worthless as a steaming pile of Racoon shit fermenting in a vacant lot in downtown Chicago. Makes one wonder how and why the state of Deleware still exists?

The Young Privileged Wokie’s


Photo by Diane Arbus

“As of today, every student deceived, defrauded, and driven into debt by Corinthian Colleges can rest assured that the Biden-Harris Administration has their back and will discharge their federal student loans,” Education Secretary Miguel Cardona said in a statement. “For far too long, Corinthian engaged in the wholesale financial exploitation of students, misleading them into taking on more and more debt to pay for promises they would never keep.” This also includes loans from other universities. Taken from an article published in American Greatness.

You didn’t call me for my opinion or advice concerning your college education?

I would have told you flat out that a degree in Ancient Greek Philosophy wouldn’t get you a job as a grocery checker at Trader Joe’s. Now, after investing five years and $150,000. You work as a fact-checker at FaceBook and think the rest of us uneducated peons should pay off your bloated loan for your worthless degree. You drive an electric car, but can’t go far, so you spend most of your time with your like-minded friends at a coffee shop staring at your phones. Woke-ism is what drives your worthless narcissistic life. You believe Jesus is a plaster statue in your grandmother’s garden. The focal point decor of your crappy apartment is a Hillary Clinton bobblehead, a signed photo of AOC, and a framed picture of Ruth B. Ginsberg.

How’s this Biden thing working out for you?

Deep Thoughts From The Cactus Patch; Things That Make You Say WTH? Updated 5/25/22


Most of my posts are comedy, poking fun at the ineptness of our government and our off-the-rails society; as both are so deserving of ridicule.

I didn’t watch television or listen to the radio yesterday until around 6 pm, and that is when my wife and I saw the tragedy unfold in Uvalde, Texas. 18 elementary school children and 2 or 3 of their teachers, and a grandmother, all killed by an 18-year-old deranged psychopath. The reports indicate the death toll may rise, let us pray it will not.

As a nation, in unison, we must mourn these innocents, but we also must find the reason why these mass killings are growing. What as a whole, are our society and our leaders missing? Is it gun control? likely not, any fool can buy an illegal gun from an individual or from someone in the wrong part of town. Is it the mental health of our nation? Partly, yes. Violence comes at us from everywhere. Video games on X Boxes or on our phones, music and music videos, movies, and television. An already unstable person could see this behavior as normal and acceptable, with no repercussions. It’s part of our society that now seems to be a surreal video game playing out 24-7. The final piece is social media. Facebook, Tik-Tok, Instagram, Twitter, and more are quick to fact-check and ban what they feel is misinformation, religious views, or the questioning of vaccines, yet they leave the crazed recorded rantings of killers to be shared with others, which in turn emboldens their actions. For the moment, they are the star of their own demented reality show. Millions will view the post, and some will agree, but most will cringe in disgust and question why is this allowed to be there for viewing.

The killer in Ulvade had a presence on social media; it’s not known at this time how much, but it was there and known, yet no one came forward with a warning. Friends and the authorities did nothing. The school was left unprotected because of budget restraints within the district. Everyone gets that reality until it’s too late. There will be hearings, firings, and lawsuits, and the state of Texas will likely introduce new laws and protocols for schools. But, it’s too late and has been for decades. Every administration has dealt with mass killings on their watch, only to kick that can on down the congressional road. Unfortunately for our resident president, there have been numerous attacks, and still nothing except speeches, rantings, and blaming the other political party and conservative Americans. There is no unity in this nation, and until there is this type of evil will fester and grow.

Biden praises ballooning gasoline prices and says, “Americans have to go through a transition to learn their lesson.” Well, Joe, the electric so-called car experts, believe we are approximately 20 years away from having a minimal infrastructure to support electric vehicles. So what does Joe do? The minute he gets his Mont Blanc fountain pen in his shaky hand, he attempts to kill the oil and gas industry, the main lifeblood that drives the country and our economy. America doesn’t run on Las Vegas magic, Unicorn Pee or Fairy Dust. I hear that Jill ( not a doctor ) and AOC are working on a children’s book that claims it does.

“Mommy, you don’t need gas for our car anymore; just fill it up with Unicorn pee-pee.” It will be a New York Times bestseller.

Signing one after another freshly printed order, Joe remarks,

“I’ll show those gas-guzzling, Trump-loving deplorable racist how it’s done; Oh, Nancy dear, is there anything else I can sign that will turn our country into a third-world nation by tomorrow morning?” Nancy brings another stack of executive orders and leans in close so Joe can sniff her freshly washed hair. The American public doesn’t know, or will ever know, what the dementia-wracked old man signed. He thought he was approving checks to pay the utility bills.

Is the White House green? Do they have solar panels and windmills in the backyard? Nope, I believe they still use good old coal-fired electricity transmitted through a building-mounted meter. Makes one wonder about that monthly charge.

The Catholic Archbishop banned Pelosi from taking communion, causing the green-haired fishing- tackle-faced Wokies to organize and go after the church. Now he may have to reverse his order. He may want to phone God or perhaps the Popester on his magic red phone for this one. The problem is, Sir Archbishop, the Wokies don’t attend church and are not Christians, so does it matter what they think or do?

How about sticking to your holy-six- guns and having some big gonads like you possessed back in the good old inquisition days when the church didn’t take kindly to Heretics (a 14th-century term for Wokies) and burned them alive tied to a nicely carved wooden stake, threw them over cliffs, and, while still alive and protesting, tore their limbs off and fed them to the hounds. It worked wonders back then.

Since Pelosi’s religious practices are in the news, did anyone notice how during Lent that she and Biden wore their forehead ash blessing for days so the easily impressed public would believe they were “real Christians?” There will be a unique dinner table in Hell for them, right next to Hillary and Bill Clinton’s table. Jeffry Epstein will be their Maitre-d’ and everything will be burned to a crisp.

Trying to pull a fast one on the local school mothers of the country, State Farm Insurance backed a “secret squirrel” program to put LGBQRSTUVWXYZ-themed books into our elementary school classrooms. Unfortunately, some sensible employees at the “Farm” spilled the beans, and they were forced to end the program before the company imploded. Too bad for Flo, I’ve Seen a Thing Or Two, and the lizard; they missed out.

The greatest scandal hit Washington since Watergate; Hillary Clinton has been outed for orchestrating and paying for the Trump Russia BS smear. Where are Bernstein and Woodward? Where is Forest Gump? Old NBC Lester hasn’t said a word about it. Old Joe is filling his diaper, knowing he and Hunter are likely next.

That cute little press secretary is such a moron that she can’t answer a question without sounding like a 4-year-old caught telling a lie. Her stock, circle back answer is; I’m a proud black immigrant lesbian woman; I don’t need to answer anything, just marvel at my perfectness. She checked all of Biden’s boxes except the one for IQ. Bring back, Peppermint Pattie.

Did I say too much? Probably so.

Sunday Scattershooting In The Cactus Patch


Is it just me, or nowadays, does every man with a protruding gut look pregnant? Yesterday at Walmart, the place resembled a maternity ward. One guy’s water broke and soiled the floor, but then I realized he had pissed himself after the checker tabulated his basket of groceries.

Why are the Kardashians and Johnny Depp still in the news? A family of sluttish women with surgically enhanced butts has caused mental health issues for millions of young girls because they young’un’s think that everyone should live and look like the Kardashian clan, and they can’t. And to further the cause, we have a Mansonesque “man bun” wearing lunatic and his equally deranged ex-wife receiving more news coverage than the Durham investigation, which would make an excellent thirty-minute sitcom. Follow the formula of the old “Roseann” show, and it would be a sure-fire hit.

Our government gives Ukraine a 40 Billion dollar check without knowing ‘what it will be used for, or who will distribute the money.’ On the same day, the morons in Washington voted against a 43 Billion dollar package that would give relief to our American small business owners that have been ruined by Biden’s economy. You can bet that Hunter and The Big Guy will be receiving some of that Ukraine money.

Brings to mind Charlton Heston in the classic movie, The Planet of The Apes. ” It’s a madhouse,” he screams as the laughing chimps poke him with sticks. So, likewise, I’m plumb worn out of being prodded.

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.

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