The Way I See It In The Cactus Patch…And It Ain’t Always Pretty

I realize my thoughts might carry as much weight as a thimble in a swimming pool, but at 75, I’ve witnessed more ups and downs than a cheap roller coaster. Lately, though, it feels like our dear old blue planet has taken a wrong turn and is spinning like a top on a greased floor, sending everything straight into a comical disaster!

Momo whisked me away to a swanky birthday supper at a place called 1890—how fancy! We had previously visited there, of course, but on that occasion, our wallets had us seated in the bar, indulging in a drink and a wedge salad that could barely fill a mouse’s stomach. This time, however, we plopped ourselves into the big boy chairs adorned with linen tablecloths and sparkling silverware that made us feel like we were pretending to be someone important. Our waiter—his name was a puzzler, something foreign that I couldn’t grasp, yet I distinctly recall his well-groomed beard and a whiff of patchouli oil wafting about him. It took me back to our youthful days as hippies in the 70s when that scent was all the rage with the hairy-legged hippie chicks. Momo went for a steak that could challenge a cow in size while I, with an empty wallet echoing my woes, settled for saltines slathered in butter and Tabasco—gourmet, I assure you! As we departed, stomachs full and wallet depleted, we spotted a black Greyhound-style bus parked at the courthouse. We mused that perhaps a country band was visiting our quaint township for a hearty meal. But lo and behold, when the door flung open, cats erupted like confetti, scattering everywhere—hundreds, I’d wager, taking over the square as if they owned the place. Nuns, dressed in their required uniform, handed out squeaky toys, kitty litter, and catnip to placate the new arrivals. Curious, I asked the driver what on earth was happening. With a grin, he informed me that the SPCA was orchestrating a rescue mission, whisking away all the cats and some distressed dogs from Springfield, Ohio, to Texas. It was, he said, a noble endeavor backed by a contingent of single cat ladies and a handful of purified nuns forever wed to their feline friends.

Football players are often regarded as the dimmest bulbs in the grand carnival of manly athletics, a parade of brawn where a surplus of testosterone is the secret sauce for getting through the heavy lifting of life. Picture, if you will, poor Travis Kelce, relegated to the bench like a discarded plaything, wearing the kind of woeful hang-dog expression that could bring tears to a Confederate statue. Ah, but even Neanderthals have their emotions, and it seems the Swift One is tucked away in her plush hotel suite, likely crafting a breakup ballad that might just capture the essence of their fleeting romance, a tale as old as time and yet as fresh as a morning breeze. Young love is a fleeting aura that departs on the fickle winds of gastronomical flatulence. He should have taken the strenuous advice of friends and whisked her off to a tar paper shack in deep Appalachia and kept her barefoot and pregnant with annoying little swifties playing small plastic Ukelales.