Day: April 1, 2022

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“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.

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“Weather Days and Weather Nights”


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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