Category: Granbury Texas

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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.

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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.

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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.”

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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…

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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.

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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.

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Three Strikes Doesn’t Mean You’re Out Of Life’s Game


How many chances are we allowed when we screw up? As a child, I was, at times, allowed three strikes and then I was out. The first one was the warning, the second was a more stern warning with parental icing, and the third was the one that always resulted in the butt busting and exile to my room with no cartoons or Ovaltine. I remember them well. I wasn’t a bad kid, but one who didn’t remember the first two chances as being severe enough to deter me from the dreaded third. Most kids have been there, my two boys included.

This past Saturday, Momo and I volunteered through our church, Generations Of Granbury, to help feed the homeless in our hometown of Granbury, Texas. It’s known, and touted as the number one celebration town in the country, as well as being the number one small historical town in the USA, it also has homeless folks. How is that possible? Look past the beautiful square, the lake, the historical charm, and all that razzle-dazzle hype. You find that yes, it’s like any other small town or city in Texas: we have homeless people living on our streets, or in cheap motels, paying by the week, or day for a bed and a bathroom. Good people who were dealt a bad hand found themselves without their castle, their home, their pride. It may not have been more than a few bedrooms, a bath, and a kitchen, but those walls and a roof held so many family memories of past Christmases, children’s birthday celebrations, graduations, and Thanksgivings past. The laughter and joy are gone in an instant because they couldn’t make the mortgage payments, or perhaps a divorce, loss of a job, or alcohol and drugs were to blame for their misfortune. Our society does not guarantee everyone a safe, warm home; that is up to ourselves to make that happen. What our government and NGOs do guarantee is that people from third-world countries come here illegally and freely partake in the American dream, and then some for breaking our laws and contributing nothing for what they receive. Just be sure to vote as we tell you, or the freebies stop. How about the poor American citizens and veterans who need a hand? Do they receive the same red-carpet treatment? Hell no.

We arrived at the Classic Inn, set up the tables, laid out the hot food and sack lunches, and waited for people to stop by for a meal. On our way from the church, I had noticed a young couple with backpacks sitting under a stand of oak trees by the highway. I told my wife, Maureen, that if they are still there, I would like to take them a sack lunch and some water. Everyone thought that was a good idea. I found them lying under a stand of trees in the front yard of a bank building. The young man was flat out and not moving; the young lady, his wife, was lying by their belongings, which consisted of a backpack and a grocery sack with grapes and an orange drink. I handed her the lunches, and she was grateful. I asked her where they were headed. She looked up, bottom lip quivering and tears in her eyes, and said she didn’t know where they were going or what to do. I saw the look of despair, hopelessness, fear, and defeat in her young eyes. She was mortified to be accepting food from a strange old man and to be in her situation. Here she sat, guarding the few things they owned, no home, no money, no nothing except her husband, who was going through his fourth day of agonizing detox from Fentanyl addiction. She had been clean and sober for over a month. Drugs knocked them to their knees, robbed them of their possessions, their pride, and then brought them to this shady patch of grass in Granbury. Whether I liked it or not, it brought them to me. I told her I would be right back and ran for backup, which was my wife, Maureen. She’s a nurse and a strong Christian warrior, and these situations are what she is made for.

We returned with hot food and more water. Maureen sat on the grass talking to the young lady while I purchased two bottles of Poweraid from the grocery store next door. When I returned, she asked me to go to the Classic Inn and pay for them a room for the night. Her nurse mode had kicked in, and she knew the young man needed out of the heat and a bed. The demons of detox had hold of him in the worst way. I procured a room and returned. We helped the young man, who could barely walk, to our truck and took the two of them to the motel. The Classic Inn is no Motel 6, but more like a Motel 4: no frills, just air conditioning, a bed, and a bathroom. We decided they needed another night, which we arranged, considering the condition of the man.

When we left them in the motel room, Maureen prayed with the young girl and was told they have a four-year-old son who is being cared for by the man’s mother. This made their situation even more dire, as a child is involved and away from his mother. Evidently, they had been given the three strikes you’re out from their families, and had failed: kicked out, and banished.

Maureen embraced the young mother, and she clung to her. It was not the easy embrace of friends, but one of desperation, and thanks for understanding and helping without judgment. We went back to the food table and helped load up, but as we finished, a car with a lady and three children pulled up and asked if there was still food left. They left with boxes of food for their supper that night.

Maureen and I went home, shaken by what we had dealt with for the last two hours, praying for God to heal and help these two young parents. They may have used that third strike and were considered out, but sometimes, folks deserve a fourth or fifth strike to get it right.

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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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Ask A Texan. Cloning For Dollars


Positive Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas, But Wish They Did.

My old pal, Mooch, whom I don’t see much of anymore because he became a vegan, and now we can’t meet at Whataburger for lunch. We always ordered a Number 1, no onions, extra pickles, large fries, and a Dr Pepper. I sure miss those days of culinary camaraderie. A week ago, instead of calling me, he wrote a friendly little letter on the back of a two-year-old garage sale flyer. He forgot I also have an email and receive texts on my iPhone.

Mr. Mooch says he’s about to have marital problems because of clones.

Mooch: Mr. Texan, you know me well, and you also know that I like to tinker with science and gadgets, right? Well, Giblet, my twenty-five-year-old blind and toothless Chihuahua, is close to cashing in his kibbles, so I decided to have him cloned. I took a sample of his drool to the South Side Animal Research Center over in Fort Worth. Their ad in the Nickel Shopper paper sounded very professional, and what the hell, I’m a sucker for science fiction. The science guy’s were real nice and said they could grow me a new little doggy with no problem. I paid them half down and said, “get-er-done.” Three months passed, and they called to say that Giblet Jr. was ready for pickup. Mrs. Mooch and I were so excited that she peed in her pedal pushers. We’re standing in the lobby, drinking a free Latte, and out trots an exact puppy copy of my old Giblet. I picked him up, and he bit my nose and peed on my shirt, just like old Gib. He needed a name for the certificate, so I decided to call him Gravy. Now I have Giblet and Gravy. Mrs. Mooch is so excited that she wants to have her old cat, Here Kitty, cloned as well. She said the clone cat would be called Here Kitty Kitty. She said if she can’t clone her Here Kitty, she’s going to do a Tammy Wynette Divorce song on me, and that would mean losing my truck and bass boat. Any thoughts on this little buddy? I’ve got to go fishing.

The Texan: Mooch, I rarely have any thoughts on the bat-shit crazy things you do. Charging folks to swim with the Mexicans across the Rio Grande, The Mooch 2000 Life Meter, and burning and burying your laptop are just a few that come to mind. I’m really sort of sorry, but not much, about that mean little demon dog Giblet, is about to expire, and now you have yourself a replica of the little Hell-Hound dog from below? I will admit that carrying him in a chest papoose was cute for a little while. I’ve known you for over forty years and didn’t know Mr. Mooch had a cat named Here Kitty, which is a ridiculous name for an animal. I guess a clone named Here Kitty Kitty makes as much sense. Old Possum didn’t do too well after Tammy and that song, so you might consider letting her clone the feline so you can keep fishing. I’m sending you a gift card to Whataburger, so if you ever decide to come back from the dark-vegetable side and eat some real food. I’m also sending you a box of Cherry Bombs so you can blow up those clones if they turn into little Frankenstein monsters.

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Ask A Texan 4.25.25


Serious advice for those who don’t live in Texas but wish they did.

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.