Month: February 2024

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Warnings From The Cactus Patch


Don’t Do It..Don’t Press That Cute Little Button With Your Mouse!”

Who wouldn’t want to see what an AI generated Barbie Doll for each state would look like..right? Well, I was on MSN, the evil 1984 computer software owned by “Steve Jobs rip-off-boy and Mail Order Doctor, Bill Gates, and the article was there with a cute picture of a Barbie doll. She was wearing a woodchopper shirt, staring all dead-eyed with that perky little nose and luxurious plastic hair, so I clicked the read. First Barbie for the state of Alabama popped up, a chirpy little southern belle, very racist in her frilly debutant outfit, holding a mint julep; I kept looking for “the help” doll that came with her. Cute, I wouldn’t buy it for my granddaughter, who never liked Barbie anyway; she was into the American Girl high-dollar dolls. Then I hit the continue button, “Bammo…. call 800 Microsoft, and all these scanning windows come up on my screen, ” your PC is infected with a Virus of lethal origin, your information will be lost in space and your laptop will melt into a puddle of plastic unless you call this number.” Lucky for me, I have a great anti-virus called Webroot, and that caught the little basement-dwelling culprits, likely some Chinese dudes living in Shang-Hi or Bali Hi, with their mothers serving them Fung Chow tea and eating fried bats with Raman noodles all day. This is the tech-savvy security checks that MSN gives its users. I’d be safer using Alta-Vista on a dial-up modem.

Her New Album Is Coming…

The Swift One, The Anoited Ambushiness Blond, The Long-Legged Succubus, so many names, so many men to write songs about. Now, poor Neanderthal raw meat-eating Kelce is her focus. His attack on his coach told Tay-Tay that she probably shouldn’t marry this Transformer, who has no control over his testosterone-fueled madness. So, in a secret recording studio, somewhere in deep Europe, the album has begun in secret. This signals the end of her partnership with the NFL unless she can steal Patrick Mahomes from Elle May. I know my post a few days ago said no more Taylor stuff, but this is just too good to pass up. Gimme a hall pass on this one.

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New York Gives All The Key’s To The City To Thankful Zombies


Jaques Coustou holds Mayor Adams’s Voodoo Doll

Not that Momo and I plan to visit New York in our lifetime, which has shortened considerably in the last three years due to calculated circumstances. Today, I read in the New York Press that Mayor Adams is begging fellow New Yorkers to house migrants/invaders in their private residences. What..are all the four and five-star hotels full? It’s reported by untrusted and misinformed sources that the hordes of illegal river rafters have trashed most of the hotels in New York to the point that they will need total reconstruction if the verminatosious are ever evicted.

One well-meaning moronic family in Long Island, feeling all warm and fuzzy after a Saturday morning trip to Starbucks and Barnes and Noble Bookstore, offered two rooms of their luxurious home as a safe haven for a poor migrant family. They called the appropriate agency, and within an hour, a family of four from Haiti was knocking at their door, ready to move into their new “forever home.” The Haitian family needed a few extra rooms for their goats and chickens, which would be used in voodoo ceremonies, and one of their children, a certified living dead Zombie, ate the family’s pet cat, Doonsbury Jr. After a week of torment, finding voodoo dolls in their likeness all over the house, and fearing for their lives, B.D. and Joanie Caucus and their two children, Zonker and Lacy fled in the dead of night from their 2.5 Million Dollar abode and are now staying at the Fredrick Mercury homeless shelter in Queens. The Haitian family has had the locks and the alarm code changed and has run up a $2,000.00 DoorDash bill using Mrs. Caucus’s credit cards found in a desk drawer. Bet they’re feeling all warm and fuzzy about now.

Tay-Tay Kicks Kanye’s Ta-Ta…Elly Mae Jets In From Beverley Hills

This will be my last paragraph about Tay-Tay Swifter. The Super Bowl did me in. Momo and I went down in flames. Eleven times, the cameras cut to the “anoited one” and her entourage of hangers-on instead of showing the game. Now, I learn that she had poor, old, downtrodden Kanye West barred from attending the event after he had purchased seats in front of her private suite. “Like…you know….like…ain’t nobody gonna…like…. steal my camera time,” she was overheard saying to her new bestie, Elly Mae Mahomes. Poor old Travis, her knuckle-dragging fiance, has been forced to move out of his home because manic packs of young “Swifties” invaded his residence and are refusing to leave until Tay-Tay comes to the house and gives them a blessed Swiftie communion. There’s a song in there somewhere.

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The Swifter Bowl Has Arrived To Save Las Vegas


New Just In From Las Vegas; The NFL has issued a statement that says they will postpone the start of the Super Bowl ( swifter bowl) until Taylor Swift is seated with her entourage in her million-dollar suite.

It’s also reported that a crowd of ten thousand Swifty Fans will greet her at the airport and carry her on a river of fans to the stadium, her feet never touching the pavement. Once there, she will be seated on a throne and carried by young Swifty pre-teens to her suite. The Mehomes chick will have to find her own way up there.

Personally, if they show her more than twice in the first quarter, I will switch to Yellowstone. But then again, I may not watch the Super Thang at all.

Something to ponder: Why is it called the Super Bowl, and the winners are the World Champions? No one in the world except Canada plays American-style football. Imagine a team from Somalia or India playing the Chiefs; then they might earn the title of World Champions. The dudes from Africa would be great receivers because they can outrun a Lion, and that’s quite a feat.

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In Remembrance: The Day I Was Hypnotized


In Remembrance is not about a last tribute to a dead guy; for me, it’s about remembering, while I can, bits and pieces of my colorful childhood.

I was nine years old and thought of nothing but baseball, cartoons, and fireworks. I won’t say my childhood was purified and biblically cleansed; my neighborhood pals and I did get into our share of trouble, resulting in no less than three or four butt-busting per day: my poor mother’s spanking arm was toast by noon. We did nothing bad, just the usual little kid stuff: blowing up mailboxes with Cherry Bombs, setting garages on fire, and fighting the “hard guys” across the tracks. It was the 1950s, and we were the first generation of baby boomers unleashed on our suburban-dwelling families.

Our hijinx had reached a crescendo, and the mothers in the neighborhood were plumb worn down from our growing delinquency. Threats of being sent for a stint at The Dope Farm, a boy’s ranch for unruly boys, had lost their punch: we needed an intervention, and fast.

My neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Mister, retired Air Force officers and native Californians, were consulted over cocktails and cigarettes in their luscious backyard one summer evening. A few of the mothers and fathers had one too many Hollywood Dirty Martinis and made an early exit from the pow-wow, leaving my folks, a few buzzed moms, and Skippers’ parents to ask for help. The Misters were our heroes, mentors, and dream parents. We would have gladly traded ours for their parental guidance. Mrs. Mister was the neighborhood “it girl,” and all the fathers had the “Hubba Hubba’s” for her: she was an exact pod person for Jayne Mansfield.

Mrs. Mister, after a few double Martini’s, said she knew a doctor who worked miracles with hypnosis. He had convinced Mr. Mister to quit smoking and hypnotized her Poodles, Fred, and Ginger when Mr. Mister had made them street rat crazy after sending them into the stratosphere on his homemade rocket and Doganaut capsule. The dogs were a wreck until Doctor VanDyke got hold of them. She felt the doctor could take some of the piss and vinegar out of us boys and a few of the poor girls that had joined our coterie of mayhem. The plan was hatched.

The Misters gave a backyard cookout, which was the cover for the intervention. Doctor VanDyke set up his office in the Mister’s TV room, and each of us kids was escorted to the Doctor by a parent. Skipper was first to go down, then Georgie, Cheryl, Rhonda, Bean, Frankie, Billy Roy, Stewart, Stevie, and I batted clean-up.

The old guy was covered in creepiness. Bald head, a sharp devil goatee, horned-rim glasses, and a bowtie. My mother sat in the corner as the doctor held a little pendent in front of me, giving instructions to watch the shiny object, and I was getting sleepy. I gave in: Doctor Creepy put me under. It was a nice nap, and I was refreshed and a bit goofy when I joined my pals in the backyard, but something was off, not just with me but with all of us.

Rhonda and Cheryl announced they were no longer friends with us and were quitting the baseball team so they could go back to playing with doll babies. Skipper wouldn’t drink his Kool-Aid; said it tasted like cat turds. Georgie was whimpering and crying like a baby and sucking his thumb, Stevie got all Romeo’d up and tried to plant a kiss on Rhonda, and she whacked him on his head with a Coke bottle, causing blood to run down his face, and I had this sudden urge to pee, which I did without embarrassment, whipping it out in front of all the guests. My poor mother was mortified. Doctor VanDyke had flicked the wrong switches in our young brains; we were now worse than before. The party abruptly ended.

After a week of house arrest, most of us were back to our normal bad behavior. Mrs. Mister learned that Doctor VanDyke was not a real doctor but had learned hypnosis from a mail-order course advertised in the back of the Farmers Almanac. He was a huckster.

The gang went back to our routine, baseball, cartoons, and fireworks. The two girls rejoined the team and threw away the doll babies and dresses. I felt pretty darn good, except I couldn’t bring myself to touch plastic Tupperware; it was like a live Rattlesnake in our kitchen. The old standby staple of every mother’s kitchen scared the liver out of me. It still does.

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It Was Sixty Years Ago Today…The Beatles Taught Us All To Play


Sixty years ago, on a Sunday night, the Beatles invaded America, and I watched in glorious black and white as they captivated every teenager in the country. The next morning, I told my mother that there would be no more haircuts and that I needed an electric guitar and amplifier. At this point, I had been playing guitar for two years on an old Gibson D 45 and was ready to take the leap into electrified instruments. I took extra vitamins and found a few special exercises to generate hair growth. It was a painstaking process.

Halfway through my school year, my family moved to Plano, Texas, and I was befriended by my good pal, Jarry Davis. He and I both had that special itch to play rock music. He knew a drummer and a sort of bass player, and I took on the lead guitar duties, playing a Japanese electric with six pickups and twenty knobs that did nothing. We called our band The Dolphins, later changing it to The Orphans, which sounded a bit tougher and fit us because of our long hair and general surely attitude; we were not the Monkees.

My rock n’ roll journey started on that February night and lasted until 2019, when my band, The American Classics Band, retired our setlist. Not a bad run of it.

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That’s All I Can Stands, ‘Cause I Can’t Stands No More.


A classic quote from an old sailor that fits my frame of mind lately. Tell me your thoughts; you can send the “Oh no, the elves went too far” emails and comments after you hear me out.

The Devil Worshiping-Narssisistic-Scum Bagging-God Hating- Ozempic Shooting Grammy Awards

Not shown for shock value..nothing shocks us these days

I didn’t watch them this year and haven’t in many. But, the articles on the websites cover the schmooze-fest quite well. The show, according to Rex Reed (I didn’t know he was still around) may have reached a new low. From the pictures on the net, most of the folks attending looked like characters from the Star Wars Bar. Swifter Girl is enough to keep many of us away, as well as all the gangster Devil-worshiping rappers carrying a 9 MM or a Uzi in their tux pockets. One poor girl actually performed a Satan Worship routine while singing about vampires sucking her blood, which at the appropriate time, she cut a vein and rubbed her own joy-juice all over her wokie body; ( it may have been Hawaiian Punch concentrate). I watched that video on YouTube and found it disgusting. The crowd loved it, stood up, and clapped, and Taylor Swifter danced and clapped. Okra Winfrey was filmed jamming it to the devil’s song while giving herself a shot of Ozempic. So, I guess digging out on that Devil’s music cancels Tay-Tay’s best-selling ” Study Bible,” which is being smuggled into the children’s section of our public libraries and on display in your neighborhood Wokie bookstores. A frail Joni Mitchell may have been the high spot of the broadcast. In her 80s and not too mobile, she sang one of her biggest “back in the day” hits. Bless Brandi Carlise for her friendship. Joni did an admirable job singing and just getting through the performance. I watched, with one eye covered, Miley Cyrus’s performance on YouTube. Good Lord, what a demonic little moron. Hopping around on stage, 95 percent naked, she sounds like Cher when she sings and like an 85-year-old whiskey-soaked five-pack-a-day smoker when she speaks. Pretty sure she’s shooting up the Ozempic, too. The music industry has gone to Hell in a Beelzebob Ozempic-loaded handbasket.

The Crisis At The River -Everyone Gets Baptized

I don’t have much left to say when it comes to the invasion on the border. I’m worn out and burned out. The Crazy Texas Wire Dealer is doing all he can, as are the Texas National Guard and The Texas Rangers. One man of the cloth, and I’m not sure which cloth he wears, or even if he is an ordained preacher, well, at least he had the TV preacher hair, said, “All those poor unfortunate sinners swimming in the river, it’s as if the good Lord is baptizing them before they reach the Texas shore.” That pretty much sums it up, folks.

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In Remembance: Kids With Weapons Of Mass Destruction


Toys in the 1950s, you gotta love them. The one pictured above, the machine gun that shoots wooden bullets, is a weapon I could never get my paws on. I did manage a Fanner 50 western pistol and a Colt snub-nose version that shot plastic bullets, but nothing like a machine gun. That would have been the ultimate weapon for our neighborhood battles against each other and “the hard guys” across the railroad tracks. All of these potentially lethal weapons were advertised in comic books. Did any responsible adult ever check these ads before the book was printed? Hard wooden bullets mowing down kids; talk about shooting an eye out or death. These weren’t ads dreamed up by New York Mad Men, but ones from back alley shops that made money off the gullibility of children, me included. My buddy Georgie ordered a so-called real hand grenade from the back page of a Richie Rich comic. A month later, he got a real steel WW2 surplus hand grenade in the mail. It wasn’t live with explosives, but damn, it gave his parents a shock. His father had thrown more than a few of them when he fought at Guadalcanal.

I ordered the Super Man X-Ray glasses from my Super Man comic book. The first pair I ordered for $1.49 called “Magic X-Ray Glasses,” got me into trouble. I told two girls from my neighborhood baseball team that I could see their bones and guts, even though I couldn’t see a thing. They ended up giving me a beating with their Hula Hoops! Who knew a Hula Hoop could hurt so much? I had the word WHAMMO imprinted on my back for a week. My mother dispensed the fake glasses to the garbage can in the alley and saved me from further assaults. Most everything bad that got me in trouble wound up in those alley garbage cans.

Faster Than A Speeding….

Yep, I had to have one, so for Christmas, mom coughed it up. It was a cheesy-looking costume, not much better than cheap pajamas. My Aunt Norma, a seamstress extraordinaire, added tufts of foam and cotton padding to give the appearance of super muscles. She made gold material covers for my PF Flyers and made a new cape. I was hot stuff. Naturally, all my buddies assumed this suit would enable me to leap tall buildings in a single bound, fly faster than a speeding bullet, and all that super stuff. I actually believed I could, so I climbed to the second-story roof of our house, stood on the roof line, cape blowing in the wind, and stared at my buddies thirty feet down in the backyard, awaiting my takeoff. Down the roof, I ran and launched off the edge into the spring air. I landed on top of two of my friends, which saved me from injury. Mother, who saw the whole performance immediately busted my butt with a Tupperware container while dragging me into the house. The suit was in the alley garbage can the next morning. I never flew again.

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In Remembrance: My Rocket Ship To Mars


Back in the 1950s, before the internet and home shopping networks, us kids were convinced that anything sold in a comic book had to be the real deal. Tiny Sea Monkeys, X-Ray Specs, Space-Ray-Guns, Real Hand Grenades, and yes, like the one above, a real Rocket Ship. What a gullible bunch of schmucks we were.

It took me nearly a year to gather and cash in enough soft drink bottles to purchase my very own rocket ship. I was just a quarter short, and fortunately, my grandfather came to my rescue; he knew where I lived! I was beyond thrilled, trembling with excitement like a dog trying to pass a peach pit, as I sent the order form by mail. In six weeks, my ticket to Mars would be in my hands: a bona fide rocket ship complete with illuminated controls, atomic fuel, a disintegrator ray gun, and space for a buddy and me. When I proudly showed the advertisement to my neighborhood scientist and mentor, Mr. Mister, he tactfully agreed to help me assemble the contraption upon its arrival, not wanting to burst my small bubble. According to my mother’s calculations, my rocket ship should arrive just after Thanksgiving but before Christmas, allowing Mr. Mister to assist me in assembling my celestial chariot. My nights were filled with restless anticipation, I developed a rash, and my appetite vanished; I was a jittery, nervous wreck of a kid.

A week after stuffing my face with turkey, the postman dropped off a ginormous flat box at our doorstep. The moment of truth had arrived. With my mom’s assistance, we lugged the package into our living room, and I eagerly began unpacking my “spaceship.” Instead of finding an epic disintegrator gun or an atomic fuel cell, I only uncovered a pile of flat cardboard, a string of Christmas lights, and two measly C batteries. Oh, and to top it off, the instructions were in Japanese. Talk about a recipe for a miniature meltdown! In my time of need, my mother summoned Mr. Mister from next door. After assessing the comical catastrophe, he instructed me to head over to his place for some cookies with Mrs. Mister while he worked his magic on assembling the rocket ship. Now that’s what I call outsourcing! What a guy! All of us boys wanted to be like Mr. Mister.

Two hours later, I returned home to be greeted by the sight of a rocket ship chilling in the middle of our living room. It was a real looker, decked out in red, white, and silver, all prepped for a space adventure. So, I hopped in, ready to blast off into the great unknown. I couldn’t locate the blastoff switch. I turned to Mr. Mister for some wisdom, and what does he say? “Looks like they forgot to send the engine with the ship. Let’s see if we can piece one together out of spare aircraft parts I have in my garage.” Yeah, right. We both knew it was BS. As I climbed out of the rocket, I accidentally fell backward into the ship. We tried patching it up with tape, but nope, it was toast. There I stood in the dim alley, staring at the crumpled remains of my dream rocket ship to Mars. The things we do for adventure!