Category: 1950s

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Ask A Texan: The Magic Of The Yeti Cup


Illuminating Advice For Folks That Seek It

The Texan

Another old friend of mine, Bwana of San Saba, wrote me with a question. Like our other mutual friend, Mooch, Bwana refuses to talk on the phone because he won’t wear his high-dollar hearing aids. He’s also forgotten the art of texting and avoids computers. At this point in our lives, I attribute all unusual behavior to old age. He writes that he is losing sleep over knowing how his Yeti cups and ice chest work; the technology is foreign to him.

Bwana Of San Saba: Mr. Texan, I need help in the worst way. I can’t sleep, eat, or drink my hooch, and my wife is about to banish me to the Deer lease in San Saba because I’ve gotten her last nerve. I’ve owned and excessively used Yeti cups and ice chests for years: I use only the best when it comes to hunting gear. My man trailer on the lease is full of Yeti stuff. Did you know they make a Yeti iron skillet, pans, forks, knives, hunting clothes, and a darn good Deer rifle? Neither did I, until my wife stocked my hunting trailer with the gear, which makes me uneasy because I’m thinking she is baiting me, and wants to get rid of me. Well, I was sitting on a rock in a dry creek bed waiting for a Bambi to trot by so I could nail his little white-tail ass. This is the same creek bed where I killed the 1,000-pound wild pig with my Yeti pocket knife. I told you about that battle many times. It’s damn hot, too hot for Deer, so I reach in my Yeti backpack and pull out my Premium Ultra Yeti Tumbler for a drink of water. Mind you, that tumbler had been in my pack for half a day in 100-degree Texas heat, and when I pulled a swig, the water was so cold it gave me a brain freeze, and that’s when my sleepless nights and obsessive behavior started. I was so discombobulated that the Bambi I was waiting to shoot walked up to me to see if I was alright. I’m sitting there thinking about that damn Yeti cup and the biggest 20 pointer I’ve seen is in my face begging for a drink of water or a Granola Bar. I poured a handful of cold Ozarka water into my hand and gave the Bambi a sip or two. He turned, wagged his white tail at me, farted, and trotted off. I need some advice here. How does this Yeti thing work? I’m having a nervous breakdown here.

The Texan: Well, Bwana, I can see how not knowing how mystical, magical technology works is causing you to lose your marbles. When I was a young’un, right about the same time you were in the 1950s, my mother bought me a genuine Davy Crockett lunch box. In the tin box was a Davy Crockett Thermos Bottle. It was a dandy, with a coon-tail attached to the lid. I took that box to school every day, and my milk was always icy cold, which baffled me. Why would Yeti make a rifle? Does a gun need to remain at a specific temperature to work correctly? Now I’m confused. I used to feed the Deer in Ruidoso watermelon and Nabisco Granola. They loved it and would almost sit on my lap to get a treat, so it’s not surprising the Bambi in San Saba approached you. Even a thirsty Deer knows a quality product. I believe Yeti has used the same magical technology in its products as Davy Crockett. I’m no scientist, and am as jiggered as you on this one. The answer to your question is: ” It keeps hot things hot and cold things cold…how do it know?” I’m sending you a package of Deer Of The Month trading cards and a box of Cherry Bombs to help you unwind and relieve your anxiety. Let me know if you figure the Yeti thing out.

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The Endearing Connection: Ozzy and Ozzie. Pass Me That Burning Guitar…


When old Rockers check out, they do it in style. Ozzy Osborne did one last concert the week before his ride up to meet Saint Peter. TV preacher, Joel ( Money Bags) Olsteen, said that Ozzy, upon being stopped at the gate by an Archangel, told God that the whole black satanic Satan thing was just an act, and he never liked the taste of Bats. I haven’t heard anything yet about whether that worked. Alice Cooper had more fun with the makeup and outfits, and Alice is a Christian, so he will likely make the cut when his time is up.

I was not a Black Sabbath fan, and couldn’t name you one tune they did, but I did watch the Ozzy and family show a few times and found it sort of entertaining and depressing at the same time. I was accustomed to the original Ozzie show, the one with his wife, Harriet, and the two nice-looking sons, and a street full of nicely dressed neighbors. Everyone cooked hamburgers on their charcoal grills every night because the weather on the back lot at California’s Desilu Studios was always so perfect. That’s the Ozzy I connect with. Much like Ozzy Osborne, Ozzie Nelson was also a musician and a television producer. Big Band music, large-scale orchestrated numbers featuring blaring horns, doghouse bass players, and hep cat drummers. Then his son, little Ricky, grew up and had twinkling blue eyes and perfectly styled wolfman hair, a nice Martin guitar, and sang teenage songs that made the young girls all jelly-legged and instantly fertile. So, the dull Ozzie could have related to the outrageous Ozzy, as he had raised a rebellious teenage musical son.

I made a list of deceased musicians and read it to Momo. She is adept at correcting me when I make a social or personal mistake. She asked for a rundown, so I gave it my all, but all was wrong. I had no idea Bruce Springsteen, Spinal Tap, Stills and Nash, Neil Diamond, Diamond Lil, Joni Mitchell, The last Monkee, Paul Simon, Simon and Garfunkel, Dave Clark and his Five, Peter the Hermit, Freddy the Dreamer, and Sir Paul were still alive. What a shock. Ringo is now a member of The Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, so I guess that “They’re Gonna Put Me In The Movies” tune paved the way. I told her to put the list in her desk drawer and check it in a few years to see if I foretold the future. The sad reality of old musicians and singers passing on is, who will pick up the torch and replace them? Please don’t even consider Taylor The Swifter and that group of cartoon music morons she spawned. I’m waiting on Dylan and Baez to go on tour.

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Ode To The Mesquite Switch


Memories of your childhood can invade your life at the oddest of times. While shopping at H-E-B a short while back, I witnessed a young mom dragging a screaming toddler down the aisle by his arm while the rest of his little body slid along the floor, she used her other arm to push the cart, which also held another small child. She was nonchalant about the whole scene; obviously, this was a common occurrence for her. I thought she at least had the guts not to give in to the little demon. In my childhood days, not that anyone gives a shit about what an old man remembers, my mother, and more likely my Cherokee Indian grandmother, would have administered a healthy dose of parental punishment. Today’s mothers call in a “child whisperer” to reason with the kid on their behalf.

My two late uncles, Jay and Bill Manley, had a significant influence on my upbringing, and not always in a good way. It must have been in the mid-1950s, on the farm in Santa Anna, Texas. My cousin, Jerry, and I were out behind the smoke-house shooting tin cans with our Daisy BB guns. This was about our only form of entertainment on the farm, except for shooting at rattlesnakes and each other. My uncle Jay walked up and asked if he could shoot my gun. Of course, he could; he was my idol, my mentor, my mother’s older brother; he could do no wrong, except that most everything he did was wrong in my mother’s eyes. I handed him my Daisy. He turned and shot one of my grandmother’s five hundred chickens square in the butt. The hen jumped, squawked, and ran a few feet, then went about pecking the ground for whatever chickens peck for. I was shocked. Jay said the BBs give the chickens a little sting, but don’t hurt the birds, their feathers are too thick. Well, that’s all I needed to know. I popped a few, as did cousin Jerry, and man-oh-man, what fun that was. Jay walked away knowing that he had given his nephews a new source of entertainment.

The rest of the day was spent shooting chickens. I must have used two tubes of BBs. The chickens, one of natures stupidest birds, jumped, squawked, and then went on about their chicken lives. My cousin and I were having a grand old time, and improving our shooting skills on moving targets.

Unbeknownst to us, my grandmother was watching the shooting gallery from the back porch of the farmhouse. Her son, Jay, ratted us out after putting us up to the crime. She let us have our fun.

At supper time, she called us to the farmhouse. Standing on the back steps to the porch with her arms crossed, we knew that she knew we had been shooting her egg-laying chickens. It was no use to plead and beg for mercy; we accepted our sentence. As always, she told us to go to the barn, go around to the back of it, and cut a nice limb from a Mesquite tree that would serve as the switch to deliver our punishment. She knew the mental anguish this caused, having us deliver the weapon to the executioner. I cut the shortest limb I could reach, hoping that the smallest weapon would deliver the least pain.

I handed her the puny limb. She smiled and said, “That’s the sorriest excuse for a switch I’ve ever seen.” She then walked to the barn and came back with a whole tree limb, complete with all the thorns. Jerry and I almost pissed our blue jeans. My uncle Jay was standing on the porch, doubled over in laughter. At that moment, I realized my mother was right about her brother.

Instead of switching us with her tree limb, she asked for my BB gun. She was an old Indian gal and knew how to shoot. She instructed Jerry and me to go about fifty feet away and start running in circles, which we did. She then started shooting both of us in the butt with our own BB guns, and man, did it hurt. I don’t think she missed a shot. After that, we didn’t shoot anything except tin cans. We knew that Granny kept a 22 rifle next to the ice-box.

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Summer Adventures of a 1950s Boyhood


It was the summer of my seventh year, 1957.

It was too hot to play pick-up baseball games unless my buddies and I got to the Forest Park Ball Diamonds before 8 am, and the city pool was closed because of the Polio scare; my mother kept a picture of an iron lung taped to the icebox to remind me what would happen if I disobeyed her orders. Boredom set upon us, we had too much free time on our grimy little hands, so the six of us that comprised our neighborhood coterie did what any gang of young boys would do; we went feral. It was two full months of constant butt-whoopings, loss of cartoon time, and other parental vs child warfare. My buddies and I agreed it was our best summer so far.

Mr. and Mrs. Mister, our next-door neighbors and mentors, attempted to reel us in, which worked for a short while. Mrs. Mister, a wonderful mom substitute who resembled the movie starlet Jane Mansfield, would let us sit under their backyard Mimosa tree. At the same time, she served chocolate chip cookies and Grape Kool-Aid to control our restless young spirits. Fred and Ginger, her twin white Poodles, would join us and beg for cookies. Mr. Mister, when his wife wasn’t looking, would let us have a sip or two of his ice-cold Pearl beer. We were bad assed and nation-wide.

This was the summer we declared war on our school tormenters, the older boys across the tracks known as “the hard guys.” And thanks to Mr. Mister and his military and engineering experience, we successfully implemented a detailed plan and defeated our nemesis. Sidewalk biscuits with implanted cherry bombs and a small Roman Catapult designed by Mr. Mister played a role in the defeat. Instead of feeling remorse for injuring our schoolmates, the battle made us insufferable and meaner, fueling our summer of feral behavior.

Our parents and Mrs. Mister were shocked and bewildered. Fifty or so butt-whoopings with everything from a belt, switch, and a Tupperware pan, didn’t phase me or my gang. The three girls in our neighborhood, our classmates, were all tomboys, and they said we were now “too mean” for them to associate with. Cheryl, our center fielder, the only girl we would allow to play on our team, called us “mean little shits.” Those are pretty sophisticated words from a seven-year-old gal, although we knew some of the good ones we heard from our fathers.

Skipper, or resident math wiz and duly elected gang leader, had the “Hubba-hubba’s” for Cheryl and gave her his tiny Mattel Derringer cap pistol as a sign of affection. He found it on his front porch one morning with a note from her mother that read, ” stay away from my daughter, you mean little shit.” Now we know where her scoffing comments came from. He was crushed, of course, but he was young and felt much better after he blew up Mr. Rogers’s mailbox with a cherry bomb. Firecrackers and high-powered fireworks secretly supplied by Mr. Mister played a big role in our feralivious behavior. The two neighborhood garages that caught fire were blamed on us, and Georgie, with his love of matches and lighter fluid, may have had something to do with those fires, but he wouldn’t admit to it.

My parents started taking Miltowns, an early pill similar to Xanex, and most other parents began drinking more than normal. Mr. Mister was called in to negotiate a truce, but secretly, he was on our side. He felt boys should have the right to cut loose and show their young oats, even though we didn’t have raging hormones, underarms, or pubic hair, which we anxiously awaited.

Our parents had enough of our feral behavior, and one Saturday evening, there was a hot dog party in our backyard. All my gang was there, as were their parents. Ice cream and a cake were served along with burnt wieners, and the Misters were there with Fred and Ginger. It was a downright ambush, the predecessor to the popular “intervention.” Our parents let us know that the next stop for us was “The Dope Farm,” an institution where malcontents and little hoodlums were sent to do time. We knew the stories about the place. It was out of a horror movie, and Father Flannigan wouldn’t be there to save us. It was time to clean up or be locked up doing hard labor and eating maggot-infested gruel. No more baseball, cartoons, or Mrs. Mister’s cookies and Kool-Aid. We huddled, agreed amongst ourselves, and promised our parents we would walk the righteous path of the good child. We did for the most part, but we hid our stash of cherry bombs for the next summer.

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The Day I Tried to Fly: A Superhero Story


I wrote and published this childhood memory back in 2018. Any kid who has ever dressed up in a superhero costume can relate to my true experience. Thinking back to that time in the mid-1950s, I now realize my neighborhood buddies didn’t care if I died right there in front of them while attempting this stunt. We were all bullet-proof and somehow had nine lives. It was all about the show, as I soon found out.

Surfing Netflix and Amazon Prime a few nights ago, I was surprised how many movies feature superheroes. Sure, the two originals are there, Superman and Batman, but then there are at least a dozen others. Did I sleep through some cultural entertainment shift?

The original Superman television series premiered in 1952, and by 1953-54 every kid in my neighborhood pretended to fly while fighting for truth-justice-and the American way. The girls wanted to be Super Girls, but the boys wouldn’t allow it. Superman was a man’s man, so they had to settle for Lois Lane.

The family that possessed the largest television screen was the meeting point where the gang gathered to watch our hero. My Father purchased the largest black and white television available, 15 inches, so our den was the destination.

There he stood in his padded super suit, cape flapping in the wind, a steely look on his all-American face. What a man! Only years later did we notice the slight paunch, the double chin, and the bad teeth.

At Leonard Brothers department store in Fort Worth, you could purchase a genuine Superman cape for $2.00 or for $20.00, a kid could have the full outfit, which included a blue stretch top and tights, a red speedo, and super boots. The kids in our neighborhood couldn’t afford the suit, so they settled for whatever fabric they could find for a cape.

I was the lucky one. My Aunt Norma, a seamstress extraordinaire made me a custom-fit Superman suit. It was a beauty; dark blue stretchy top with little super muscles sewn in, blue tights with a red swimsuit, gold fabric covers to over my PF Flyer tennis shoes, and the bright red cape with the super “S.” I was in super heaven and the envy of all my pals. We immediately planned a flying demonstration, and I was the vehicle. The reality that I had never flown didn’t matter . Our home, the only two-story house on the block was the designated launch point.

After gathering in my den for our afternoon viewing of Superman, the gang rushed to our backyard, awaiting the flight. I sneaked upstairs, squeezed into my super suit, and slipped through a window onto the roof.

The usual gang of six had suddenly swelled to thirty or so kids of all ages. “How can I fly in front of strangers? What if the suit doesn’t work?” I was getting a severe case of “cold feet.”

The roof grew higher with every breath as I inched my way to the peak. Looking down to the yard, it may as well be the grand canyon. I was shaking like a wet dog, and a dribble of pee leaked down my leg. A kid in the crowd yelled, ” What’s wrong kid…chicken.” That did it. I was by-golly flying today.

I crossed myself and ran down the slope of the roof. A millisecond before launch, my Mother yells from the window, “don’t you dare do that.” It was too late. My six-year-old super legs launched me into thin air. I hear theme music, feel the air under my cape and below, my pals, a look of wonderment on their faces, cheer me on to super glory.

Instead of gaining height and accelerating to supersonic speed, I made it twenty feet or so then dropped straight down, landing in the midst of the admiring crowd. Our thick lawn saved me from certain paralysis.

My Mother was on me like a duck on a Junebug. Jerking me up by my super cape, she proceeds to whip my little butt with a flyswatter; the only weapon she could find. I was mortified; young Superman receiving a whooping from his super Mom. The crowd dispersed, leaving me sitting in the grass in my super shame.

The next morning; miraculously recovered, I am sent out to play with my pals. Walking through the back gate, I noticed a bit of my super cape hanging from under the garbage can lid. My super days are over.


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Exploring the Beat Generation: Kerouac and Cassidy’s Road Trip


Jack Kerouac

Two Catholic boys, Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy, are on a road trip by car across the American West to find the meaning of life. The badlands of New Mexico held all the secrets that New York City would never have. It could be a great book are a movie. But, as it turns out, it was a book first. What could go wrong?

It was 1947, and half the country still lived in a Norman Rockwell painting, and the other poor souls struggled with keeping food on their table and a decent job. The war was a few years ago, and the scars were fresh and raw. As the movies would have you believe, not everyone had the good fortune to live in New York City and shop at Macy’s. The Hollywood boys covered everything in Fairy Dust and Unicorn Piss, and the commies were coming to your neighborhood. The two young men sensed the growing change and needed to find the “real America,” the wide-open, gritty, in-your-face, working man culture that made their country run on regular gasoline.

“On The Road” was published in 1951. The author, Jack Kerouac, a French Canadian American who didn’t learn to speak or write in English until he was six years old, became an instant literary celebrity and a reluctant prophet to the “Beats,” which would become the “Hippies” in the 1960s. He tolerated the Beats and the new intellectuals because he helped birth them, but grew to despise the Hippies before he died. He wrote many times that he was sorry they found his books and used them as their warped ideological, drug-addled bible that led to the near destruction of his beloved country. The “beat generation,” another term he loathed, wasn’t meant to survive past 1960. The writings and musings made no sense after 1959. He believed everything had an expiration date.

Ginsburg and Burroughs kept the plates spinning; the publishing cash and the adulation were too strong to walk away. So Kerouac moved on and became a drunkard and pillhead. Fame, and all that came attached, was not his bag.

The only comparison to the book that I can think of would be the “road” movies of the 1940s. Two pals and a gal road-tripping to Nirvana. Kerouac would have been Bing Crosby and Cassidy a bi-polar Bob Hope with his girlfriend a sluttish Dorothy Lamour. But, of course, their adventure was adults only. Weed, booze, Minga Minga, and foul language would not have made it with old Bing and Bob.

The two main characters, Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty, were the essential bad boys before it was cool. Their names alone were enough to make you buy the book. Every teenager who read it could easily place themselves in their universe for a while. Who knows how many ill-fated trips the book influenced?

My cousin and I toyed with the idea. First, to California and back to New York, then home to Texas in his Corvair; then the effects of the pot wore off, we ate a cheeseburger and shit-canned the plan.

James Dean was a disciple, as was Marlon Brando. They wore bad boy cool like a soft leather jacket. The movie boys jumped on it. “Rebel Without A Cause” and “The Wild Ones” sent parents screaming through their middle-class neighborhoods with hair ablaze. Ozzie and Harriet doubled down. Pat Boone turned up the heat. Art Linkletter had a meltdown. The fifties were dying before our eyes.

I may revisit “On The Road” again. It sits on my bookshelf, aging like wine, and needs to be jostled.

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Understanding Cicadas: My Summer Adventures with Little Buzzy


Little Buzzy

Yes, Dear Hearts, Summer Is Upon Us…

It will happen any day now. Zillions of them will crawl from their dirt bungalows, dust off their wings, slick back their hair, and proceed to make us miserable with their obnoxious song. Cicada’s are God’s way of shaking his “no-no, you’ve been bad” finger at us.

In the 1950s, it seemed the little critters were everywhere in our Fort Worth neighborhood. Cats loved to eat them, dogs like to crunch them, and us kids captured them for fun. Tie a kite string on their leg and fly them around like a model airplane, and then blow them up with a Black Cat firecracker. Such fun. Nothing was quite as freaky as an angry Cicada buzzing in your hand.

One summer evening, as the family sat in our backyard, drinking iced tea and listening to the buggy orchestra, I put my pet Cicada, “Little Buzzy,” down the back of my mother’s shirt. No one in the family knew she was such an accomplished acrobat.

The educated experts say the insects appear in seventeen-year cycles, then die off and reappear seventeen years later. Who are these experts, and when did they start keeping track of the bug’s appearances? What if a few miss the die-off or stay too long in their hidey hole and mess up the entire show? That may explain why we heard them every summer in the 1950s; confused Cicada’s.

I’m looking forward to sitting on my patio, a nice tumbler of Irish whiskey in my paw, and listening to the sounds of my childhood.

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The Neighborhood Wizard Strikes Again!


I wrote this story a while ago, but in recognition of the upcoming Colonial Golf Tournament, I find it fitting to republish it. Some, or most of my readers, think the Misters are a fictitious couple; I can assure you they were neighbors and as crazy as I portray them in writing. Most everyone recalled has passed, so I’m sure they won’t mind the praise.

Mister Mower 5000

I have written about my childhood neighbor and his wife before. Mr. Mister and Mrs. Mister of Ryan Ave, Fort Worth, Texas. Every kid should be so lucky to have known the original mad scientist.

Pictured above is Mr. Mister’s early prototype of “The Mister Mower 5000,” a self-propelled riding reel mower suitable for golf courses and yard snobs. This baby was something else.

Constructed from junk jet aircraft parts he pilfered from Carswell Air Force Base, his employer, this little hummer would reach a top speed of 20 miles per hour and cut the grass so low it would give an ant a flat top haircut. It was the first riding mower with a zero-turning radius, a drink holder, an ashtray, and an under-dash air conditioner taken from a wrecked Chevy Impala. The fathers in our neighborhood would gather and watch when Mr. or Mrs. Mister would mow their front lawn. Mrs. Mister was a Hollywood starlet type, so she usually drew the largest crowd because she always wore a bikini bathing suit for maximum tanning effect.

In 1956, sales of Toro lawnmowers were sagging. After learning of Mr. Misters’ new invention, the executives arranged a demonstration at the Colonial Country Club of Fort Worth, home to the prestigious Colonial Golf Tournament. Mr. Mister was ecstatic.

The demonstration was the day before the big golf tournament, so the Fort Worth bigwigs could attend and be handy for photo-ops. The Misters arrived with the “5000” strapped to its custom-made trailer towed behind their menstrual red Alfa Romeo sports car. Fred and Ginger, their poodles, were strapped into their car seats, wearing head scarfs and sunglasses like Mrs. Mister. Ben Hogan was almost as impressed with the invention as with Mrs. Mister, so he asked if he could be the first to drive the contraption. Of course, Mr. Mister, a slobbering Hogan fan, agreed and instructed Mr. Ben to operate the mower. Remember, this machine was experimental and could fail completely at any moment.

The mower was rolled into place on the 18th green, which was a bit shaggy and needed a buzz. Ben Hogan seated himself on the machine with his ever-present cigarette in his mouth. Mr. Mister set the required mowing height and gave Ben a few final instructions, but Mrs. Mister was standing next to Ben, who was transfixed on her copious appendages and didn’t hear a word of instruction.

Now, Ben Hogan was the world’s best golfer, but he didn’t know Jack-squat about driving or operating machinery. So Ben put the mower in gear and started around the green. “Ooohs and Ahhhs” from the crowd gave him a bit of encouragement; the newsboys were snapping some great shots, and folks were clapping and whistling, so he upped the speed a bit and pulled a lever underneath the seat, hoping to increase the efficiency of the “5000.”

At that moment, Mr. Mister realized that he had failed to warn Ben about that one lever that was hands-off. Too late. Ben engaged the “Scalp” mode, which increased the power and lowered the blades to the “Eve of Destruction” setting. At twenty-five miles per hour, the “5000” and Ben Hogan holding on for his life, dug up the 18th green deep enough to plant summer squash and Indian corn. Dirt and dwarf Bermuda was flying like a Texas twister. The Leonard Brothers, part owners of the club, fainted in unison. Mrs. Mister, a track star in her early years at Berkley University, and still in great shape, sprinted to the runaway mower and leaped onto Ben’s back, hoping to reach the kill switch, another part Mr. Mister had failed to show Ben.

Mrs. Mister

Mrs. Mister finally attempted to reach the switch by climbing over Mr. Hogan’s head and wrapping her track star legs around his neck. Finally, on her last effort, she got the toggle, and the mower abruptly stopped, throwing her and Mr. Ben off the machine and into the beautiful pond adjacent to the green.

Ben waded out first, bummed, lit a mooched Camel, and strode across the destroyed green to the bar, where he ordered two double Scotches. Mrs. Mister, wearing a promotional white tee shirt with ” The Mister Mower 5000″ printed on the front, waded out of the pond to a round of applause. The news photographers were popping flashbulbs like firecrackers.

Of course, Toro passed on the mower, and Mr. Mister was distraught until he started his next invention. The 18th green was re-sodded in a few hours, Ben Hogan won the Colonial Tournament, and Mrs. Mister inaugurated the first Wet T-shirt Contest in Texas.

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Ask A Texan..4.25.25


Semi-Serious Advice for folks Who Don’t Live In Texas, But Wish They Did

The Texan

I received a Buc-ee’s Post Card in the mail with the following question:

Question: Mr. Texan,
I recently bought some two-day deodorant pads at a truck stop outside of Waco, Texas. How can I keep these pads under my arms for 48 hours?

Signed, Kenworth B. Smelly

The Texan: Mr. Smelly, us’n Texans are known for our ingenuity. If it hadn’t been for bailing wire and duck tape, there wouldn’t be a ranch or a farm left in West Texas. My late grandpa’s tractor and Ford sedan were held together with bailing wire, as was his farmhouse, and that was before Duck Tape. My best buddy, Mooch, broke his leg while stepping into a Prairie Dog hole. He was out in the Chihuahuan Desert near Marfa with no cell service. He crawled to his truck, dragging his useless leg, found a roll of Duck Tape, wound it around the hurt leg, and got home. So, I know the stuff can perform miracles. Hold the pad in place with one hand, then take the roll of Duck Tape and wrap it around your shoulder and over the perfumigated pad, making sure it’s real tight. That should fix you up, and ignore the instructions; those things are good for at least a week if you don’t shower. Good luck, and keep in touch.

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Aunt Hunny Bee, Hollywood, and a Dog Named Lester Munroe IV


I wrote this story a while back and decided It needed a recall for those who may have missed it.

Pictured are Aunt Bee, Lester Munroe the IV, and Hunny Bee. Photo by Jay Sebring

My late father’s late Aunt Bee and her late sister, Hunny, had the most unique beauty parlor in town. Happy Texas was, and still is, not known as anything but a place you wind up if you get lost. In the 1950s, it was so small it wasn’t shown on road maps, so most of Texas didn’t know the village existed. The one gas station in town always had a father behind the wheel of a station wagon full of screaming kids and barking dogs, asking directions to anywhere but there. Any wrong turn within twenty miles always puts you in the middle of Happy.

In the 1950s, some oil tycoon from Lubbock started a bank there. The Happy Texas State Bank was born so the caddie-driving cowboy could embezzle from himself instead of the big banks. The feds couldn’t arrest him because he always managed to pay back the money before they could move in. Then, in the 1960s, a bunch of Hollywood boys came to town and made a movie. All the citizens were used as extras. Aunt Bee and Hunny found themselves genuine movie stars. Their beauty shop was used in many of the scenes.

The movie was about a little cowboy kid who lived on a cattle ranch with his grandparents after his Daddy, Jake, was stomped by a bull, and his Mama ran off with his Daddy’s brother. Little cowboy Gabby also got kicked in the head by a mean Shetland pony. He was a real slow after that, so his Granny had her ranch dog trained as a service animal to watch after her addled grandson so he wouldn’t wander off onto the prairie and get eaten by Coyotes or Dingo’s. However, there aren’t Dingo’s in Texas, it was a movie, so no one cared.

The dog hired for the movie was a relative of the famous Lassie, but it developed a prima-donna attitude and wouldn’t do anything but chase chickens and bite the movie-set boys. They were in a spot and needed a four-legged actor, pronto.

Aunt Hunny Bee happened to have a cattle dog named Lester Munroe the IV, who was a female. She named all her dogs after her favorite uncle, Lester Munroe, who got himself trampled to mush by a Brahma bull when she was a child. Being the only trained dog in town, Lester was hired to replace the star. Unfortunately, the movie script called for a male dog, so the poor canine had to wear a prosthetic penis and gonads, which didn’t jee-haw with Lester Munroe the IV.

Lester had to spend two hours every morning in make-up and then was sedated so the movie vet could apply the prosthesis, turning Lester Munroe, the IV, into a male dog.

After a few weeks of filming, Lester started hiking her leg to pee and humping the actor’s legs. The pooch was a nervous wreck.

Finally, Hunny Bee took poor Lester to her beauty shop and gave her a set and curl, one of the dogs’ favorite things, but it didn’t help; the dog had gone through the change. The vet decided to leave the prosthesis on Lester because it wasn’t worth getting a bit bit to try to remove it. He said it would eventually fall off.

After the movie crew left town, Lester Munroe IV pranced around town for a few days, as if she owned the place; he was the big dog in town. Then one day, it rained, the prosthetic gonads fell off, and the fake penis followed. After that, Lester Munroe the IV got moody and depressed and really squirrely, so the town vet had to give her Valium, Xanex, and some hormones to help her out. The picture above is after Lester Munroe the IV returned to the beauty shop for her weekly curl and set.