Tall Tales and Ripping Yarns from The Great State Of Texas
Mass confusion at the Vatican today. After lunch, white smoke was spotted from behind the Sistine Chapel, leading to chaos among the holy followers. A Pope has never been chosen in such a short time. It was a big mistake. Father Guido Sarducci of New York, a first-time participant, was warming a frozen pizza at the Papal Outdoor Grill and left the pie unattended for a few minutes, resulting in the white smoke. He has been sent back to New York.
The Texan and Notes From The Cactus Patch will be offline starting tomorrow, April 30, 2025. Here’s the reason why:
I was pulling up some dead plants and pesky weeds in my landscape, and I reached over a little too far and jerked on a pesky dead plant. I heard a “pop” and felt the rotatory cuff muscle and bicep detach from my shoulder. And, of course, it’s my good arm, the one I use for playing the guitar, painting, writing, shaving, brushing my teeth, and holding my whiskey tumbler. I wouldn’t be so upset if it was my left shoulder. Dr. Pepper, my young surgeon, says he will fix me up, and I’ll be able to use my arm after eight weeks in a special sling. He explained he would be using a small Robot controlled by his Atari game controller, so no humans would be touching me. I’m concerned that the small Robot might make a mistake and go rogue. The little fella looks a lot like R2D2. Dr. Pepper says no worries. The robot will be scrubbed in, and a mask and surgical gloves will be on his little mechanical hands. They had him worked on last week to fix the glitches. I asked what the glitches were? It seems the Robot had malware in his little chipped brain and removed a lady’s liver instead of her gall bladder. That made me feel really warm and fuzzy.
I had a similar experience when I had cancer. The surgeon needed samples of my poor prostate gland, so he used a robot called “Davinci.” It was larger than this R2D2 and wore a purple cape and a matching Italian Beret. The little fellow got his samples, took one, and put it in an Italian cut-glass jar. It’s sitting on my coffee table.
I’ll be back writing and giving worthless advice soon. God Bless Texas, The Alamo, and Davy Crockett.
Decent advice for folks who might not live in Texas but wish they did.
A fella sent me a note on a Tractor Supply postcard. It seems Mr. Leroy Buford of Chigger Bayou, Louisiana, has suffered the wrath of a vengeful wife.
Leroy: Mr. Texan, my wife, Lavernfullella, got mad at me for gambling away my paycheck on the Dallas Cowboys game. I’ll admit it was my fault; who in their right mind would bet on those boys to win. The case of Bud Light had something to do with it. Anyhow, I came home, and our house was gone. She had hooked up her pickup to the trailer and pulled that sumbitch out of the Chigger Bayou Trailer Park. I don’t have a home and am living in the old lady next door’s tool shed. Can you give me some advice on how to fix this mess?
The Texan: First off, Mr. Leroy, never bet or watch those washed-up Americas team again. That Hillbilly with a gold card ruined a great Texas franchise. Secondly, why didn’t you remove the tires from your home? You’d be sleeping warm and cuddly right now. This scenario reminds the Texan of his friend, the great white hunter, Bwana of San Saba. He had a nice Airstream on his hunting lease in the Texas rough country. He was sleeping good one night, dreaming of killing a Bambi. Some Cartel boys liked the looks of his fancy trailer, so they hooked up to it and pulled it away. He was sleeping soundly and didn’t know he was being hijacked. He woke up the next morning in a parking lot in Juarez, Mexico. He looked for a policeman, but he only found two little boys wanting him to come to meet their sister for twenty dollars. Lesson learned, take the tires off your home and hide them somewhere. Hope you find your Hacienda. Keep in touch.
I first posted this in 2021, November. I met Wavy at the Texas International Pop Festival, Labor Day weekend, 1969.
The organizers of the SXSW Music Festival thought it would be a great throwback piece of nostalgia to invite the infamous Wavy Gravy of Woodstock fame to speak at one of their Hipster symposiums during festival week.
Mr. Gravy, while giving a book signing at the “University of Woke Texas” bookshop, had a few choice words for his admirers. His new book, ” How I Survived The Brown Acid and Made A Million,” is a New York Times bestseller and attracted a crowd that stretched around the block. Everyone in Austin thinks they are a retro-hippie.
Maya Sharona, head reporter for NPR and SXSW News caught up with Wavy as he was returning from the men’s room.
” Mr. Gravy,” she asked, microphone inches from Wavy’s face,
“Can you give your loyal throwback fans in Austin some advice on how to get through the destruction of humanity, the scourge of oil pollution that is changing our climate, killing Polar Bears and Tiddly Wink minnows, turning women into men and men into newts, and is destroying our universe while rendering all highly educated females infertile and unable to return to work because we can’t afford a Prius ?”
I kid you not, she was dead-ass-serious.
Wavy thought for a moment, took a swig of his Mylanta Antacid Margarita, lit a joint, checked the time on his Rolex, scratched his balls, cleaned his ears with a bandanna and spit, hocked a snot ball, farted, and said to Ms. Sharona,
“Take the Brown Acid kid, it did wonders for us at Woodstock.”
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.
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 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.
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.
Mr. Cletus Snow sent me an email seeking advice.
Cletus: Mr. Texan, I’m a long-haul trucker for Walmart out of Arkansas. My route takes me to Chicago, then to Minneapolis, then to Yellowstone, then to Arizona, and I wind up in Fort Worth. My dog, Bandit, and I are trucking 3,000 miles a week hauling Coors beer. I’ve developed a fatal case of hemorrhoids, and so does Bandit. Any suggestions on how to deal with all this mess. East Bound and Down.
The Texan: Mr. Snow, you have my sympathies. I, too, drove a truck for a while, and the biggest complaint I heard at the truck stops was the scourge of the Hems. I suggest you remove the driver’s seat and drive while standing up, thus relieving pressure on the sensitive area. I’ve got a good buddy who developed a cure for hemorrhoids when he was killing Viet Congs over in the Nam. He got his hands on a Vietnamese Death Pepper, the hottest pepper on the planet. It took him a while, but he invented a hot sauce that can cure almost anything. Since he is a Texan, too, he calls it “Davy Crockett’s Ass Cannon.” Believe me, I’ve seen it cure the lame, make a blind man see, give an old woman the body of a Hooters girl, and, of course, burn off those pesky hemorrhoids. I’m sending you a bottle. Keep in touch.
I wrote this story a while back and decided It needed a recall for those who may have missed it.
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.
I’m an old-school reader. An Amazon tablet sits in my desk drawer, but it has gone untouched for four years. Electronic devices don’t allow me the same experience as holding a book made from cardboard and ink printed on recycled paper. Technology is fine for some but for the written word.
It starts with the jacket. Most are now in color, printed on shiny paper, with the author’s name as large as the title, a nice photo or drawing, and a few lines of publisher praise to capture your attention and make you feel that the $30 or more you paid wasn’t in vain. It’s a dance of sorts, but our money has been collected, so it’s best to continue the waltz.
Then comes the preface or the dedication to loved ones, friends, or contributors. Some are short, sweet, and curt and fail to credit the deserved; others ramble on until I lose interest.
Truman Capote snubbing Harper Lee’s dedicated research with “In Cold Blood” comes to mind. A few excluded words of thanks ruined a lifelong friendship. He wasn’t the first, but his pettiness was unforgivable.
I notice the typeset and spacing information, the font, the Library of Congress notes, the printing dates, and then the first paragraph, which sets the tone for the next few hundred pages or more.
Ernest Hemingway said a book should begin with ‘one true sentence.’ He knew it was a waste of the author’s and their readers’ time if it didn’t. His advice has taught me well.
My wife, Momo, a Registered Nurse, retired last August. Soon after, she underwent major back surgery, and during her recuperation, she re-discovered her love of reading. Now, instead of watching television until late hours, we both retire early, prop ourselves up on our bed pillows, and read our books late into the night.
I recently revisited ” In Cold Blood,” Capote’s masterpiece that so affected his life that he never fully recovered to write another novel. I enjoyed it more this time than I did thirty years ago. It was a butt-whooping to the end. Every chapter contained a piece of his soul.
Anthony Doerr’s two newest novels are commanding reads. My wife and I have read both, and she is on the verge of starting his third. I am reading Amor Towels and find his storytelling to be in the style of Steinbeck and Hemingway. I was once a James Elroy fan, but his last two books were an effort from start to completion. He is on my rest list for now.
Besides ” Fun With Dick and Jane,” the first real books I read were Mark Twain’s ” The Adventures of Tom Sawyer” and then his follow-up “The Adventures Of Huckleberry Finn.”
I come from a family of non-readers, so my love for books comes from somewhere, possibly my elementary school librarian or my father’s sister, Norma. She was a voracious reader who leaned toward romance schlock, Cormack McCarthy, and Micky Spillane noir. I am thankful to both for their influence and guidance. It was Aunt Norma who introduced me to Thomas Wolf. I returned the favor with Joseph Heller and Kurt Vonnegut.
My wife and I are relieved that the year 2024 is behind us. It won’t be missed. No tears from this household, only two middle fingers pointed skyward. Our ages allow us to forget what we wish to and remember the best. I believe 2025 will be our year of reading dangerously. We may, holding hands and a frosty cocktail, step out onto that literary ledge and take the leap, attempt to leave our comfort zone, and take a chance or three. Time is of the essence, my eyesight is on the fritz, I have a blister on my thumb, and the books keep coming.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 