Category: Comedy

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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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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!

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The “Swifter Bowl” Is Coming


Yes, Dear Hearts, she has now taken over the Super Bowl. It’s not about football anymore; it’s about a singer with an average voice who knows four chords on a guitar and always holds her microphone near her rear end. What is up with that? We can be assured that the camera will show her face every few minutes; maybe they can catch her squeezing a zit. Poor Kelce, there will be a song about him in the near future, and he knows it: what an unlucky schmuck. I have no plans to watch the “Swifter Bowl:” there are too many good movies on Netflix and Amazon.

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Ain’t Dead Just Quite Yet!


American Classics playing our acoustic set at The Georgetown Winery, Georgetown, Texas 2012. L to R: John Payne, Jordan Welch on drums in the window, Danny Goode, and myself.

My back is killing me, and my left hand and fingers may never be the same, but damn, it was fun. Last Saturday, my friends Jordan, our drummer, and his wife, Jonelta, hosted a Mardi Gras party in their home. Jordan is a certified Coon-Ass from Louisiana, so he always makes two types of gumbo, shrimp and sausage, which I love both. Add homemade bread, cajun cake with a baby inside, pralines, wine, and a good group of friends, and you have the perfect setting for an impromptu reunion of the American Classics Band. We haven’t played together since April of 2019, and since then, our good friend and lead guitar and fiddle player, John, has passed away, so now we are three old guys wondering what happened and who’s next. We had a good run of it, the same four pickers playing together since 2001.

After eating ourselves into a Gumbo-induced coma, the three surviving members of the band took the stage in our old practice room. This is not a cheesy garage band setup; it’s a large room in Jordan’s home with a stage, a kick-ass recording studio sound system with a board, and speakers mounted on aluminum trusses suspended from the ceiling. My pal, Jordan, didn’t hold back in giving the band a good practice room.

Not me, but very close….

After a mic and instrument check, we kicked off some of our old tunes that we could play without a lead guitar. Our vocals were always the strongest part of our music, and we missed John’s third harmony voice and his guitar and fiddle. It was a bit of a sad shock at how different our songs sounded, with a large part missing, but we made the best of it and played for two hours without a break. After that, we collapsed in a heap. Voices shot, fingers on the verge of falling off and Jordan, behind his drum kit, was huffing and puffing. We all agreed that for us, men in our middle and upper 70s, any gig outside of this practice room would not happen.

We hope for a repeat performance soon because we ” Ain’t dead just quite yet.”

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“You Want Wire? Well Hoss, We Got Some Wire!”


There’s a sanctified saying that’s been used in Texas for at least 40 years, ” Don’t Mess With Texas,” and we damn well mean it. Our governor, Greg Abbot, has the cajones of a penned-up bull, giving the middle finger salute to those elitist som- bitches in Washington. Old Gov is now known as the “Crazy Texas Wire Dealer.”Here’s an excerpt from his commercial that’s running on the radio down by the border.

Hey folks, It’s Governor Abbott here; I’m now called The Crazy Texas Wire Dealer! You want wire? well hoss, I got a wire. I got me some Razor wire, Constantina wire, Barbed wire, Hog wire, Horse wire, Rabbit wire, Chinchilla wire, Chicken wire, prickly wire, smooth wire, Viet Cong wire, wire with little bells on it, wire with $ 50.00 ATM cards hanging like ornaments, Bud Light wire, Amnesty wire, Biden Wire ( it’s invisible), Go to Jail wire, Cartel wire, Terrorist wire, wire with little bombs attached, 10,000-volt electric wire, poisoned wire, Telegraph wire, Western Union Wire, Walmart Wire, Taco Bell wire, wire with little Don’t Tread On Me flags hanging off it, I got wire for every occasion, and if I don’t have it, I can get it. We also got Alligators, Nile Crocodiles, Nile Pirahna fishes, Electric EEls, little remote-controlled submarines that shoot missiles, swimming Dingo Dogs, Scuba Pit Bulls, Wives with guns going through The Change, Crazed Teen Girls with guns having their period, Swimming Zombies, Air Boats with machine guns, Armed Boy Scouts, Cub Scouts, Girl Scouts, Indian Guides, The Boys Choir, The Highway Patrol, George Strait and his band, John Daley, The Neighborhood Patrol, the Shooting Grannies, the Proud Boys, the Ploughboys, The National Rodeo Association, Nuns With Guns and every armed Texan that can make it to the border. Come on down; it’s gonna be some kind of fun.

Momo and I are leaving in the morning.

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The Three Mouthkateers Ride Again


Pictured are my three Texas rootin-tootin-cowboy cousins circa 1956. Right, to the left are “Little Bit O’ Lunch” Lunch Kit,” and “First Aid Kit .” I believe the horses are Butterfinger, Twigger, and Furi’ous. The Daisy BB guns they carried are not shown in this photo.

My grandmother was the original Texas chicken lady, calling her farm the Chicken Ranch of Santa Anna: not to be confused with the infamous Chicken Ranch and the best little whore house in Texas.

In 1955, after consuming half a dozen Pearl Beers, my uncle counted, more or less, 1500 hens and 50 noisy, aggressive Roosters. The cousins rode the chicken ranch range all day keeping the fowl in line. Any chicken employee not doing their only job of laying eggs got a BB to the rear end. Grandmother was thankful that the little cowpokes liked to ride the chicken range because they constantly ran their mouths about everything and nothing at all. She called them the “Three Mouthkateers,” not to be confused with the kids wearing the mouse ear hats also while singing and dancing about nothing.

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January Dispatch From The Cactus Patch


Don’t Look At That Sun..You’ll Go Blind

I’m ready for the Eclipse in April. That’s me back in my 3-D days. I walked around for months wearing my cheesy glasses. Everything looked better in the beautiful hues of red and blue, so I saved them in my Roy Rogers lunch box with the original Thermos that held my cold Ovaltine and kept it cold for half a day. How did it know? I figure these specs will work just fine for the Solar Eclipse.

The Beat Goes On…And On

My father’s late cousin, Mail Order Preacher, Little Jimi Bob Fender of Fort Worth, Texas. He started out playing that “Devil music,” rock-a-billy, and jive-assed jumping-around stuff out on Jacksboro Highway. After getting knifed a few times, then shot up real good by the jealous husband of some old hairy-legged gal, he glammed onto religion and started the “Church Of What’s Happening Now.” He had the rocking-ist church music in Texas, and many of the great musicians, such as Delbert McClinton and Willie, stopped by on Sundays to jam. As you can see, he was a snappy dresser. Dig that guitar and that blue suit.

When It’s Round-Up Time In Texas

Back in the 1950s, long before there was the Dixie Chicks, there was my late 14th cousins’ trio, “The Texas Fried Pies.” They played most of the grocery store openings, school assemblies, parades, Tupperware parties, Avon get-togethers, rodeos, The Fat Stock Show, and select funerals. Left to right: Peach E. Keen on the doghouse bass, my cousin Apple Coreby on the banjo, and Cherry la’Tartness on the squeezebox.

The Gospel According To That Person of The Year

Good Lord, help us, please. Now she has her own religion and a bible? It was bound to happen, given she has around ten million young zombie followers. I read from a former swiftie-cult member that when she turned 21 years old, her brain hit reset, and she became a normal woman and started listening to George Strait. There is hope.

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Dispatches From The Cactus Patch…A Few Things You Might Not Know About


Pictured are my late father’s late cousin, Bell, and her husband, Alexander, showing off their 1952 invention, the “Head Phone,” which was the predecessor to the modern mobile cell phone. It was an awkward unit to use. The phone is attached to your head, and the braided phone line is carried in a backpack. Cell towers weren’t invented, so the unit and the lovely couple were tethered to the home plug by a five-hundred-yard cord roll. She eventually sold her phone ideas to some hot-shot princess in Monaco who came out with her own line of cute little bedside phones. ” Besides”, Bell said, “every time the damn phone rang, it gave me a massive headache.” Alexander, on the other hand, was unable to speak, smoke a ciggie, or drink his nightly cocktail, which impacted their social life.

Pictured is my first real grown-up science experiment kit, Christmas 1955. I asked our neighborhood mentor and mad scientist, Mr. Mister, to tutor me in the art of scientific experimentation. He brought home a few viles of Plutonium X3 from his job at Carswell Air Force Base, and with parts and dangerous minerals from the kit, an old Waring blender, and a Betty Crocker pressure cooker, he and I constructed and tested a small nuclear device right there in our neighborhood. Our garage was totaled, and we were all puny and hairless for a few months, but the family got over the effects of the radiation and, seeing they had a small genius in the family, awarded me a second kit the next Christmas. See Below.

Christmas 1956, I received my second kit, like the one above. I had no idea what Meth was, and the instructions were in Spanish, so frustrated with making 9 Love Potions and disappearing inks, I gave the kit to my cousin, Jock, who set up a cute little lab in his family’s camper trailer parked in their backyard. After blowing up their trailer and suffering non-life-threatening injuries, he was sent to the Juvenile Dope Farm for six months. The last I heard, he opened several pot shops in Ruidoso, New Mexico, after retiring from the Texas Senate.

Who knew that Lard was so good for you? My grandmothers would not have been able to cook a meal without a tub of Crisco, White Cloud, or Puffy Stuff lard. They also kept a soup can full of used bacon grease next to the stove, so if they were out of that soft, luscious lard, they could still fill our bloodstream with massive doses of saturated vein-clogging fat. My grannie soaked her chicken mash feed in Puffy Stuff and then fed the hens her secret mixture. She claimed it made the eggs bigger and better, and when she wrung the head off of one of the greased-up hens and cooked it for supper, the chicken was already basted and fried to a golden brown. Yummm. Gotta love that country cooking.