Sometimes correct but snarky advice for those who seek it.
This Iranian fellow sent me an email ranting and raving about what the US is doing to his country. I asked him why he was here in the US. He says he didn’t feel safe over there anymore, and besides, he can get almost everything for free over here. He also said he is considering wrapping himself in explosives and blowing up a Quick Trip gas station or a 7-11. He wants to go to Allah’s Heaven in the worst way so he can get his 72 or so virgins. I took him seriously, so I alerted the two businesses. I also sent him a picture of what to “really” expect when he gets there. I also sent him a Bible and a box of cherry bombs wrapped in melted chocolate.
Real Good Advice For Folks That Don’t Have Any Brain Cells left….
The Texan
This Texan received a request for help written on the back of a Walmart bag, the new ones made from paper. Mr. Weemus Weesley of Sore Rabbit Foot, South Dakota, says his wife is abusing Ozempic in the worst way possible.
Mr. Weesley: Mr. Texan, there ain’t nobody in our town that knows nothing about nothing. My wife, Luella, is a bit overweight. Well, some folks say she just has big bones, but she is honestly just a bit overweight, as are most women her age during menopause. Most of the weight is in her buttocks. I had to butter up the door jambs to the bathroom just so she could get in there for a shower. Her Doctor gave her a script for this new weight loss stuff, Ozempic, but she is deathly afraid of needles and passes out after I give her the first jab.
Some influencer on social media said she could inject this stuff into a blueberry and put it up her behind like a suppository. So she tried it. It was working for a while, and she wasn’t eating two gallons of Blue Bunny ice cream a day, but then she stopped losing weight everywhere except in her buttocks and her hands and her feet, and now the rest of her is still a bit heavy, but her ass, feet, and hands are the size of a little kid’s. She’s going through two or three pounds of Blueberries a week, and now I don’t have any to put in my yogurt, and she has this little gimlet ass, hands, and feet about the size of our six-year-old granddaughters, who refuses to come visit because Luella looks like some weird alien from those 1950s scary shows. She’s so freaky looking, I can’t even take her to Walmart at midnight when no one is there except folks in their jammies. Any ideas on this one?
The Texan: Well, Mr. Weesley, I’m almost out of words on this one. I’ve seen the pictures of the Hollywood crowd, and they all look like “The Night of the Living Dead,” staggering around with folks helping them to walk. This might be a good movie for her to watch. I believe it’s on Amazon. Take those Ozempic pens and squish all the juice out, then fill them with liquid Miralax, and change her ice cream to Bluebell. She might still be a bit overweight, but she’ll be regular and happy. This is just a phase these women are going through. Oprah will look like her old, chubby self once she stops the Ozempic. I’m sending you a case of liquid Miralax and some cherry bombs just to cheer you up.
Back in 1985, my father’s band, The Light Crust Doughboys, recorded an album that was meant to focus on Texas music, some present, mostly passed. Country music wasn’t invented in Fort Worth, Texas, but Western Swing was. Bob Wills started as a Light Crust Doughboy, as did most of the great talent from the 1930s onward. I was fortunate to have known every man on this record for my entire life. The members on this album were: Jim Boyd, vocals and rhythm guitar; Jerry Elliot, vocals and electric guitar; my father, Johnny Strawn, fiddle, electric mandolin, and vocals; Bill Simmons- keyboard; Elden Graham, stand-up bass; Marc Jaco, electric bass; Maurice Anderson, pedal steel guitar; Dale Cook-drums; Phil Strawn, five-string banjo; and Gary Murray, announcer. The album was recorded at Sumet-Burnet Sound Studios in Dallas, Texas, in April of 1985. Recording engineers were Bob Sullivan and Bobby Dennis. It was produced by Marvin Montgomery.
Songs on the album, in order, are: Side One 1. The Light Crust Doughboy Theme Song. 2. The Yellow Rose of Texas, 3. When The Bloom Is On The Sage, 4. Texas In My Soul, 5. Beautiful Texas, 6. Waiting For A Train, 7. Old Joe Clark with myself on five string banjo and my father on fiddle, 8.Tumbling Tumble Weeds, 9. You’re from Texas, composed by the legendary Cindy Walker. Side 2, 1. If You’re Gonna Play In Texas You Gotta Have A Fiddle In The Band, 2. Amarillo By Morning, 3. Across The Alley From The Alamo, 4. In The Mood, done the Texas western swing way, 5. Does Fort Worth Evdr Cross Your Mind, 6. Sure ‘Nuf Texan, 7. Texas When I Die, 8. Closing radio them, the song the band has always used since their inception in the early 1930s.
They are inductees into the Western Swing Hall of Fame and the Rockabilly Hall of Fame, and are part of the Country And Western Hall of Fame ( Chet Atkins always decided who would be inducted )
I traveled with these men for many miles, driving their van, loading and setting up their equipment, and playing bass, guitar, and banjo when one of them was ill and couldn’t make the show. Smokey Montgomery made me an official member of the band in 1984, which was the greatest honor any musician could dream of. The one cut from the album included in this post features my father (fiddle) and me (five-string banjo) playing the old 1800s standard, “Old Joe Clark,” with the rest of the Light Crust Doughboy band. We may grow old and die, but our music lives on forever.
I’m turning 77 in a few months, and the only object made from fine wood that I want is a Gibson F5 G Mandolin. Banjo Ben in Mo. has a used one for 4900. bucks. I’ve contacted The Southwestern Medical Center about selling a kidney ( I only need one to pee), maybe a pinky toe, and both testicles, but no response just yet. My son is checking into a clinic in Martamoras, Mexico, that is willing to give me a nice sum for all usable parts, so I can purchase the instrument. I don’t need balls, a pinky toe, or two kidneys to play, so it may work out. I’ll keep you all informed on the negotiations, though my Spanish is limited to “more chips and salsa.” Pronto. How many testicles does a man really need?
Mostley irritating advice from an old guy that’s seen too much
The Texan
Yes, Dear Hearts, famous words from my favorite comedian, imagine 60 billion American people leaving their jobs, their homes, dyeing their hair odd colors, wearing clothing straight from the Goodwill Store, and crawling like babies, riding buses, planes, cars, electric scooters, skateboards, roller skates, 5 K runs, etc., and making their way to every major city in the US to protest a man who has done miraculous things for our country. The Burger King in our town closed, or I would have worn my cardboard crown all day.
Now, to even things up, the conservatives, you know those folks, the ones who have jobs in the private sector, go to church and praise the only real king that will soon be returning, and will be plenty pissed off. Let’s get those 60 billion other folks to hold a nice day of protest to celebrate Obama and Biden and all of their stellar accomplishments. Isn’t AI amazing? How can you take a small crowd and, with a computer, turn it into the largest rally in the world? Gotta love AI and how it’s ruining the world.
Loosely Dispensed Common Sense Advice And Commentary Shot From The Well Armed Hip Of A Old Texan That’s Seen Too Much And Doesn’t Give A Rats Ass What Other Folks Think, Or Eat
The Texan
It took Forty-Eight Years for the Death to America and the Great Satan Party to take over the Middle East, like those morally depraved little shits took over Daytona Beach a few days ago and literally ruined the once nice state of Florida. Iran’s murdering demon-possessed regime robe-wearing ass is kicked so hard their butt is in their throat, but yet they keep issuing threats, shooting off those cute little Chinese and Russian missiles, and now claim they will nuke Israel, the UK, most of Europe, a good portion of the Middle East, and of course, America. I am anxiously awaiting what Elon Musk has in store for them. How many presidents in 48 years said they would be a problem to be dealt with, but kicked that Wolf Brand Chili can on down the dirt road for the next delegation of thieving, lying, scum-sucking politicians to deal with. FDR, the two Bushes, one fully grown to size of a Scotch Pine Christmas Tree, and the other a puny shrub planted in too much shade, gave a half baked attempt, Regan got a few things done, Carter made everything worse, Ross Perot ran scared and said screw it, Clinton took the white house to a new low in history, Nixon..nuff said about him, Obama gave his magic carpet riding bunch of cut -throat brethren billions in cash, and Biden tried to take most of it back.
Truman had the balls to use the big firecrackers, Churchill had the guts, and a country full of English, Scottish, Irish, and Celtic patriots behind him, and Margaret Thatcher was likely the toughest of them all. Now we have a president who clearly sees this must be dealt with, or Jesus will be coming within the next six weeks, and he will be plenty pissed off upon arrival.
Momo and I are not afraid of the nuke over downtown Fort Worth, we would sit in our backyard with a nice whiskey and put on the Solar sunglasses we purchased at 7-11 as our bodies are char-broiled to Texas BBQ perfection. I recently purchased some 6666 BBQ Rub from Taylor Sheridan’s Ranch in West Texas.
I’ve become testier in my old age. The IRS has been holding our 2024 tax refund for a year now because we overpaid them, and they can’t bring themselves to give it back to us, saying we committed fraud. Fraud against whom, ourselves? I hate every politician on all sides. You bet if I could pull it off, I would jump at a $185K a year job and leave a few years later having accomplished nothing and pull a wagon load of 30 Million to the bank, that’s the real reason these narcissistic bottom dwellers run for office and try and stay in as long as modern medicine can keep replacing their bodily parts. Greed and Power, once that rhinestone-encrusted crown is put upon their head, it’s almost impossible to relinquish it to another greedy bandit: one size fits all. God has a plan for them, and I hope I get to witness their time out and try to bullshit God, who my pastor says has a good sense of humor and won’t be afraid to use it.
The US has more oil than the Middle East times ten, so these high gas prices are driven by the stock market and speculators, denizens from the depths, and yes, Quint will need a bigger boat to land those bastards. Enjoy that PB&J sandwich and that glass of Jim Beam. Sorry about all the swear words in this post, I told you I was getting testier and meaner these days.
My last nerve has been breached and destroyed. I subscribe to many writing blogs by authors I once found interesting; that’s when they write their own stories, not the AI-generated ones that take up half my pages. No one has the time to write twenty to forty stories a day on various subjects, from lost loves to cats and dogs cohabitating to victims of the Holocaust, weight loss, hair replacement, and then post them like a lost cat poster on every telephone pole in town. I am ridding my blog of this crap, and it is crap in the worst way. ” Looky..Looky at me, I printed twenty posts today and got ten thousand likes and views! Oh my God, I’m just like Stephen King.”
Who gives a Street Rat’s poisoned ass? It only showcases that you are not a real breathing writer with one original thought; you rely on a Bot that spits out some of the worst gruel I’ve tried to read. So, I am deleting your blogs, blocking you for life, putting a bounty on your heads, and might hire some shady folks I know to hunt you down. I recently watched a YouTube video in which well-known authors excitedly screeched about how they now use AI to write their books, and, actually, the few I checked out, the little Chinese Bot did a better job. I’ve got my eyes on you guys.
Now, if only the gardening Elves would show up and help with my yardwork.
Momo acompanied me to my primary doc today for the results of my physical a few weeks back: it’s best she drives, but I’ll explain all that later on.
I like my doc; he’s a young fellow who dresses nice, wears stylish shoes, and wears colorful socks, sort of like a younger version of myself. He immediately started in on the blood work results, which were amazing since I’m on the cusp of 77 years old. I had a few age-related glitches, and he wasn’t worried just yet. I asked him, “When is yet a problem?” He said he would let me know later. I told him my heart doctor said I had a real good chance of a major malfunction, but couldn’t tell me when that might happen. He said not to worry, it would be quick and painless. I also said I needed to lose 25 pounds, and could he put me on that Wegovy pill or the Ozempic shot all the movie folks are killing themselves with? He sidestepped that question. I said, “Jeeze, doc, I don’t want to look like Demi Moore or Oprah, I just need to lose a few pounds.” He said just stop eating and work out. ” That’s all fine, but I can’t work out; I’m disabled from a bad back surgery, and my body won’t cooperate, and Momo just bought a yummy French Vanilla Pound Cake with some Blue Bell Ice Cream: get the picture?
The young nurse was a bit too perky when she handed me the little notebook for the cognitive test. She said the instructions are a bit tricky. She was right, they were Ayatollah gibberish. I did the best I could, but failed with flying colors. All those numbers, words, little pictures of monkeys and fish and ice cream cones. Old folks don’t give one shit about any of that crap, so I was a miserable failure. I told him I re-learned to play the mandolin in six weeks and will be taking on the fiddle next week, so my brain can’t be that blocked up. He gave me a cute little Dr. Marcus Welby laugh and said he wants more blood and another cognitive test to see if I should be in some sort of home, or at home with Momo pulling me around in a wagon with a drool sponge taped to my chin. I asked him if I was smart enough to be president, and he said, “No, we’ve already been down that road.” As of yet, I haven’t left the truck keys in the freezer, burned down the shed, or dug up a natural gas line with my spade, so there is still hope. Old folks remember what they want to and screw the rest of it.
At the behest of my university-educated and business-savvy son, I took the plunge into the world of Substack, a venture that, mere days ago, felt as alien to me as a distant star or a life-ending asteroid. I had heard murmurs of its name in passing, as I walked by the youngsters at church, yet I had dismissed it as just another one of those social media realms teeming with the eccentric and the unhinged, the kind of characters who seem to have a direct plugged in line from their phones to some endless well of chaos in their minds; perhaps I shall be proven right, though time will tell. “They,” you know, the ones that seem to know everything, say this space is meant for writers and thinkers, for those of reason and reflection, free from the vitriol of bomb throwers and purveyors of discord. So, I remain cautious, waiting to see what unfolds. My heart is heavy with weariness of Twitter and X, a landscape that has become the breeding ground for hatred and the raving lunatics of our age, where the young teeter on the brink of madness, consumed by their own shadows cast by the glow of their phones and laptops in the dark of night as they sit drinking a Redbull Margarita while consuming a bag of gluten free Cheetos as they watch re-runs of Friends, the Best of CNN or the latest Ken Burns series. Further posts will confirm my suspicions or surprises.
We’re a suspicious, scurrilous, and at times uncouth crowd not fit for fine dining at a Waffle House, but right at home at a 24-hour Whataburger or consuming gas-station sushi after a night of drinking Jack Daniels, sitting in a bass boat telling lies and catching crappie. Stay tuned.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 