Category: Granbury Texas

Posted on

Ask A Texan: The Craze for Dubai Chocolates Is Taking Over The Country


The Texan

This Texan received a letter from a Mr. Atticus Finch from Greenbow, Alabama. Seems his wife, Maudie, has discovered Dubai Chocolates and has gone off the deep end.

Mr. Finch: Mr. Texan, I saw your article in the back pages of Flower of the Month Magazine at the hardware store that Miss Mayella runs. My wife of forty years, Maudie, went to The Walmart, bought some of these new Dubai Chocolates, fell in love with them, and now that’s all she eats. She’s bought about fifty boxes of them, and won’t eat anything that Calpurnia, our cook, made, so she quit. Now I’m down to eating supper from Chicken Express. Not only is she gaining a bunch of weight, but the doctor also said she now has type 3 Diabetes, a fatty liver, and a big brain worm. But that’s not the worst of it. Since these candies come from Dubai, one of them Arab countries, she now thinks she’s a Muslim. She loves her Walmart, so she buys a Pioneer Woman bathrobe, dyes it black, then some Martha Stewart scarves, wraps them around her head, pokes holes in them for eyes, and goes around town dressed like a Muslim woman. We were driving to church down Maycomb Blvd the other day, which is the busiest street in town, and she jumped out of the truck at the stoplight, threw her new Pioneer Woman bath mat onto the street, knelt down, and started chanting all this gibberish while eating a box of those Dubai candies. I’m afraid she might do something rash and become a terrorist woman. Our two grown children, Jean Louise and Jem, won’t bring the grandkids over anymore, and our two neighbors, Dill and Boo, won’t come out of their house because they’re scared of her. Needing some help here in Alabama.

The Texan: Well, Mr. Finch, you’re in a “dill pickle” of a mess there in Maycomb. I’ve heard those chocolates are causing some scary behavior among folks. I called a psychoanalyst friend of mine, Dr. Harper Gump, and she says that these new candies contain a concentration of a special nut oil that’s engineered to make folks want to be Muslims. I think it might be a plot by Al Qaeda to take over the country, one candy-loving woman at a time. My late father’s late, late uncle Orem, back in the prohibition days, drank a whole case of moonshine, and it affected him so bad that it turned him into a Baptist. So I guess sustenance and libations can affect folks adversely, turning them into something else. I would find a Priest to perform an exorcism and get that pesky brain worm demon out of her, and get rid of those candies. Buy her some of those Lady Godiva Chocolates. I’m sending ya’ll a CD of my favorite movie, “To Kill A Mockingbird,” and a box of cherry bombs so you can blow those Dubai candies up. Keep in touch.

Posted on

One Day After: The Parade Of Slovenly Zombies And The Flannel PJ People


The hype season is upon us. Thanksgiving is in the rear view mirror, and everything is Christmas, and it started in October. Walmart skipped Thanksgiving and Halloween and went from summer to Christmas. Which is fine by me. I only visit that store when forced, and I was forced against my will a few days before Thanksgiving to accompany my wife for prescriptions and a few last-minute grocery items for the Turkey dinner with the family on Tuesday instead of Thursday, which we spent eating lunch with her brother, who is living in a rehab center in Dallas.

Every person in Granbury seemed to be there, thinking they were saving money, which is the big trick that the Waltons pull on the public. They mark some things way-way-bottom down low, and then raise the price on others, tricking the poor shopper into believing they are getting a great deal and saving their hard-earned money, or EBT money, which is really mine and your taxes financing all those overflowing baskets of junk food, hair extensions, and fancy dragon-lady fingernails.

I did notice more young women in full bedtime attire this year: jammy-bottoms and tops, along with fuzzy house slippers; some of them should have at least combed their hair and brushed their teeth. One girl had a long string of toilet paper dragging behind her PJs. What is wrong with women these days? They think it’s fashionable to come to a public place in their sleepwear? They look like morons. One older lady was wearing a Pioneer Woman house robe, a shower cap, and hospital socks, the kind with the little rubber bottoms so you don’t slip and fall. She was pushing a basket full of Pork Rinds and Dr Pepper, which, here in rural Texas, are considered one of the survival food groups, along with coldbeer and baloney.

Thinking back, decades ago, in the mid-1950s, I would accompany my mother to the grocery store, Piggly Wiggly, which was her favorite haunt. I would see women with their hair in rollers, peddle pushers, KEDs, and nice blouses. There was always a cigarette hanging out of their mouth, which made them look a bit sleazy, but back then, everyone smoked and used hair rollers. My mother loved to smoke; she was a world champion and would have a burning one in her mouth and one in each hand, ready to replace the other. She had a lot of big hair, so there would be at least two dozen rollers of all sizes shaping her follicles into a work of art. It seemed that these women all knew each other. They would stop and say, “Look at yeeew, how’s your mama and them? Did you get a new dress, or is that hair color just darlin, makes you look ten years younger and as cute as a Christmas puppy?” This went on for hours, as the ice cream melted and the meat grew dangerous E. coli bacteria, and I lost a large part of my childhood that could never be reclaimed. At least they didn’t wear pajamas.

Posted on

When Your Cardiologist Is A Stand-Up Comedian


The heart monitor returned to the Cardiologist, leaving me with a week to ponder the worst. Momo, my wife, the former Cath-lab heart nurse, was as worried as I was. She said that if the doctor had found anything unusual on the monitor, he would have called with the bad news. That somewhat calmed me down. Janice Joplin was waiting in the wings.

Dr. Squatch, my Cardiologist, is somewhat of a comedian and should be on stage in his spare time. He enters the room like Kramer on the Seinfeld show, bursting through the door in a whirl of energy. Momo and I had been sitting and waiting for an hour and were half asleep.

“Here’s the good news,” he says. ” You have about forty percent blockage, and for a guy your age, that’s not too bad, but plaque will be plaque, and a piece could break away and travel a bit and give you a massive heart attack or a dandy of a stroke. The bad news is that with your family history of heart problems, you are a good candidate for La La Land. Enjoy your bourbon while you can.” I certainly will. It looks like old, ghostly Janice Joplin will have to wait a bit longer.

Posted on

Why Every Writer Deserves to Call Themselves an Author


A while back, an obnoxious blogger that fancied herself a serious author said that writers are not authors, and real authors are those that have been published and cut their teeth in academia, meaning a teacher or a professor of sorts. The rest of the poor souls plodded on through pages of typos and third-rate editing. I know that Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Capote would likely not agree with her observation.

Being the smart-ass that my mother raised well, I challenged the blogger on her assessment of the current literary scene and its “wink-wink” secret membership.

I knew she was a teacher right away because the following lecture and browbeating reminded me of high school. Much high-handed rhetoric and pontification without explaining anything. Sound familiar?

My measured response was that you must first be a writer to become an author. A writer is anyone that puts to paper a story of fact or fiction. It matters not if anyone ever reads your effort; it’s done and sealed. If your writing makes it to a publishing house or a website, you may call yourself an author, but you are still a writer. Nothing changes but a definition and perhaps a fat check.

My first writing was around ten years old and was on a Big Chief tablet. I was working my way to being the second coming of my beloved Mark Twain.

My uplifting teacher at the time had no problem telling me I would likely become a writer. Of what, I asked? She said maybe a book or a novel or a newspaperman; she thought I had a knack for the genre. She did encourage me to learn typing, which I did on a 1930s-era Underwood that occupied my parent’s dining room table. I was the only kid in our neighborhood that knew typing. My friends were google-eyed envious as if I had broken the enigma code or figured out the Orphan Annie decoder ring. I did gloat a bit, but not too much.

At 76 years old, I consider myself a writer; with over 200 short stories and interviews to my name, they attest to my efforts.

I have, over the years, been published a few times; Interviews about the rock scene in the 60s and early country music, so even though I received little to no money, I could, if I wished to, call myself an author. But it’s all a wordplay around egos. So, until I can come up with something as serious as Thomas Wolfe, Harper Lee, Truman Capote, or my beloved Mark Twain, I will remain a humble writer.

Posted on

Coming Soon To Your City Whether You Like It Or Not


I promised Momo, my wife, that I would dial back my post on politics. So far, I have done well and only posted a few little blurbs in the last few years. I can let most things go, and go water my plants, or play my guitar, but this is one I can’t walk away from, so here goes.

As a proud American and Texan, I am one opinionated S.O.B., and I have lost all of my social filters as I have aged. My wife and I believe that the fall of New York City will affect everyone in this country, not just the residents of the city and the state of New York.

I live in small-town America: Granbury, Texas, a Christian town full of gun-toting, Bible-carrying, Jesus-loving, patriotic Texas folks. We may have a few socialists and Muslims here, but they keep themselves under wraps and don’t cause trouble.

If the young, liberal, elitist citizens of New York are ignorant enough to vote in a communist Muslim that will attempt to turn the most influential city and the hub of financial America into a third-world terrorist Disneyland, then they shall get what they deserve, and the good citizens of New York will either have to suffer through it or revolt against it. Do you think the Mafia boys are going to let this moronic little boy ruin their city and their business, no matter how illegal it may be? Do you think the good Christian’s and the Jewish community will stand by as he attempts to turn their city, their home, into a Muslim controlled city and come after them because of their religious beliefs? I doubt it.

Britain, France, Spain, Germany, Ireland, Scotland, and a few other EU countries are ruined. Their cultures are on the verge of elimination because of unchecked immigration, handouts, and crimes committed by illegals and from third-world countries that refuse to assimilate. Exactly what the US has been doing for decades. Muslims have taken over Europe, and if Zohran Mamdani is elected mayor of New York, this will be the start of the takeover of every large city in the United States, starting in the northeast and working its way west. The Democrats, along with Soros and a few more, will back the invasion and takeover. We have the young, university-educated, white boys and girls who will vote him in because they have been brainwashed to believe our country is racist, and capitalism doesn’t work. They all expect, after receiving their degree in Taylor Swift Music Theory or Middle Eastern History, a high-paying job, a Rolex, a rent-controlled million-dollar apartment, and a new BMW parked in their parking garage. Pipe dreams and speeches sprinkled in Fairy Dust never come true, and that smoke that has been blown up their rears will dissipate the moment Mamdani is sworn in with his hand on the Koran.

Have I said too much? Sure I have.

Posted on

Halloween Candy Haul: A Grandpa’s Last Trick-or-Treat Adventure


I wrote this in 2019, but thought it appropriate to bring it out again for Halloween.

I’m sad to say, that my wife did not believe me when I announced this would be my last “trick-or-treat” before my coming demise. There are three things left on my bucket list, and this will reduce it by one.

Walking out of the front door in my black jacket, black shirt, black jeans and Texas Rangers baseball cap, the look on her face says that she didn’t believe I would really do it. I reminded her to “hide and watch” as I departed down the sidewalk carrying my Trader Joes paper bag.

A few blocks down, I joined a group of children in search of sweets. It was cold, so most had on heavy jackets that hid their fancy costumes. The kids assumed I was someone’s grandfather and welcomed my presence as a chaperone and comrade. A few of the mothers gave me the stink eye, but being a kindly older fellow went a long way in easing their fears.

A few dozen houses behind us, the group was thinning down to a dedicated few. The hour was late and the school bell rings early, so the younger ones retreated for home to sort their spoils. I noticed that my bag was getting heavy, so I told the group I would do one last stop, then split for home.

Our last stop was a retirement apartment complex. One kid said ” it’s the best because old people miss their grandchildren and really pile on the goodies.” I can identify with that, and I would do the same if I was wielding the candy bowl.

As predicted, the octogenarians loaded our bags to the bursting point. They didn’t mess around with the bite size candy bars, everyone received full size bars, like the ones you see in grocery stores. My bag, one handle ripped, was maxed out.

Unable to carry my booty, I summoned my wife to drive me home. She was excited over the amount of candy I collected because she loves chocolate as much as any six-year-old, and I had enough to last for months.

At home, we turned on “The Bride of Frankenstein” and dumped my bag of goodies onto the den rug. We were, for a moment, children again. A treasure trove of candy lay piled before us. It was the largest haul of my life. I gave my spouse a smug “told you so” smile, as she clapped with glee and sorted out the best chocolate bars for her consumption. It was then things took a weird turn.

From the pile of sweet treasure I pulled a plastic bag of No. 2 Male Catheters. I’m thinking someone at that retirement home must be missing these by now. Digging further, I exhumed a new tube of hemorrhoid cream, two tubes of denture paste, a bottle of stool softener, handwipes, a pair of reading glasses, an adult diaper rolled up and tied with a blue ribbon and three 50% off coupons from Luby’s Cafeteria. I was mortified. My wife laughed so hard she barely made it to the bathroom. Well, at least I gave it a shot.

Posted on

Day Two Of The Heart Monitor And Janice Taking A Little Piece Of My Heart…Now Baby.


I got through the night without the red light coming on, so I didn’t wake up dead, which is another misnomer. How does one “wake up dead?” I don’t care to find out. I know Jerry Garcia was always playing and talking about being part of the Grateful Dead, another messed-up name for a band. Dead folks aren’t grateful unless they have never heard a Taylor Swift record, or they are in Heaven, so we can assume the band at least gave Christianity a second thought. In the end, Ole Jerry didn’t have much to be grateful for except a body full of Heroin or whatever the hell he killed himself with. We can assume that if he made it to Heaven, the Good Lord at least put him in one of his praise bands along with Hendrix and a few others.

I had my usual cocktail last night, sitting on the patio with Momo, watching the Skunk and two Opossums come into the bird feeding area scrounging for treats. I was surprised the two critters didn’t get into an altercation, considering they both prefer the same foods: fruits and veggies. Momo says no old man in their right mind would encourage critters to come to an animal Luby’s cafeteria in their backyard. Somebody has to take care of our small furry critters. Elie Mae Clampett always had a few hanging off of her, and Granny was good at fixing them for supper when Elie Mae wasn’t around and Jed was out shooting for some food and finding more crude. Did Granny ever serve Mr. Drysdale and Miss Jane any Possum Medallions on a wooden stick with Chipmunk sauce?

Finally got my heart monitor paired with my Bluetooth hearing aids and my stereo and listened to some of the drum solo from Iron Butterfly’s “Inna Gadda Da Vida,” and man, that guy could play, I got my heart to match his kick drum, and was moving and grooving in my La-Z-Boy: Momo thought I was having the big one and almost called 911 since the light started blinking yellow. If it’s green, I’m good; yellow means it’s iffy, and if it goes to red, then I’m off to La-La Land. I got a text from my Dr. Squatch to “knock it off.”

Posted on

Sharing My Desktop Challenge 10.15.25


Many years ago, as I was starting my landscaping and building my side yard fencing, the Polar Vortex, which caused temperatures to drop to -2 degrees for many days, accompanied by ice and snow, took out many of my plants, and I had to start over.

The Polar Vortex arrived.

The disgusted gardener having to start anew…

Posted on

Dealing with Crows: Tips for Backyard Bird Feeding Just Short of A 4-10 Full Of Birdshot…


It pains me to say this, but the Crows are back. Not the band, but the Avian models. I moved the bird feeders to a new, more open location, hoping to deter squirrels, crows, and other critters, such as rats, field Mice, Possums, and other nocturnal creatures. It didn’t work. The Hawks or the Horned Owl that calls a back lot tree home may have dispatched the pesky Squirrels, but the Crows are a nuisance. Pushy Avian bullies exhibit an attitude similar to that of high school students. They park themselves outside of our bedroom window and squawk, starting before daylight. I know that somewhere in the woods behind our land, there is a roughly written sign in bird language with directions to our back yard feeders. There is also a barcode since the Crows will take a quarter and bring me back a dime in change. They are smart, and no, I haven’t found the sign yet. So, Momo, my overly sympathetic wife, continues to feed them peanuts, their favorite food, as if we run a Luby’s bird cafeteria. Today, the Blue Jays beat the Crows to the peanuts and cleaned them out, so now the Crows are amassing on the high wires, similar to Hitchcock’s famous movie. I need my eyes, so I’m staying in the house this afternoon, or at least until they go to roost. I’ve also oiled up my old 4-10 shotgun, just in case.

Posted on

The Retail Rebel: A Fugitive’s Tale


A Wanted Man On The Run

I’d Like To Settle Down But They Won’t Let Me…A Fugitive Must Be A Rolling Stone…Down Every Road There’s Always One More City…I’m On The Run. The highway is My Home.

Years ago, when I lost my social filters after a fainting head-planting fall from our hot tub, my once kind demeanor has vanished in blocks. There are post office quality pictures of me in Lowes and Home Depot, saying ” Do Not Wait On This Old Man, He Is A Retail Verbal Assaulting Fugitive, Call Your Manager Immediately.” And, they do, if they recognize me. I’ve become quite good at disguising my appearance: caps, sunglasses, different beards, band-aids, creams, crutches, walkers – anything that will throw them off so I can do my shopping. Now, Walmart, my last bastion of shopping, might be adding me to their list of undesirables, rejects, lunatics, and mentally deranged. All because of an overcharge on Bird Peanuts.

Wallmart might be the best in reatail at miss-pricing their items. I found a large bag of Bird Peanuts, which I usually buy at H.E.B. mainly for the Blue Jays and Crows, who turn their black beaks up at anything other than good old Texas Roots Legumes. The sign beneath the box said $7.57 for seven pounds of Peanuts, a bounty of a bargain considering H.E.B. wants over $2.00 for one pound. My wife, Momo, checked out, not paying much attention to the ring up. Arriving home, she discovered the bag of peanuts cost almost $15.99, and that’s when my remaining filter evaporated through my right ear and blew out the back door like a vanishing fart.

It was a long, sleepless night of tossing and turning. Eventually, I drank two hot cups of Ovaltine, which usually calms my nerves and elicits sleep, but nope, not this night. I sat in the dark, planning my strategy for how I would confront the customer service representative about the outrageous overcharge. Common sense was non-existent, my Christian faith waned, and my carnal instinct took over; I was out for righteous vengeance, and it would be mine.

I awoke at dawn, fueld by caffine and what little testosterone is left in my body, I was anxious for battle. I arrived at Walmart as the senior citizen greeter unlocked the door. ” Good morning, sir,” she said in her four-pack-a-day rasp. I growled and headed for the customer service counter.

The young girl behind the counter was kind, sweet, doe-eyed, and wore a cross hanging from her neck. My vengeance and blood lust disappeared. How could I crawl from the trenches and attack this sweet child? I explained the problem, which now seemed embarrassingly insignificant, and she was kind and understanding, offering my money back without question and a big, toothy smile along with a “have a blessed day.” I did notice behind the counter many post office-quality posters of old people like me, who are prohibited from shopping at Walmart. I’m safe for now. But there is always next week, and I will be sure to give them one of my better photographs.