Category: Texas

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Ode To The Mesquite Switch


Memories of your childhood can invade your life at the oddest of times. While shopping at H-E-B a short while back, I witnessed a young mom dragging a screaming toddler down the aisle by his arm while the rest of his little body slid along the floor, she used her other arm to push the cart, which also held another small child. She was nonchalant about the whole scene; obviously, this was a common occurrence for her. I thought she at least had the guts not to give in to the little demon. In my childhood days, not that anyone gives a shit about what an old man remembers, my mother, and more likely my Cherokee Indian grandmother, would have administered a healthy dose of parental punishment. Today’s mothers call in a “child whisperer” to reason with the kid on their behalf.

My two late uncles, Jay and Bill Manley, had a significant influence on my upbringing, and not always in a good way. It must have been in the mid-1950s, on the farm in Santa Anna, Texas. My cousin, Jerry, and I were out behind the smoke-house shooting tin cans with our Daisy BB guns. This was about our only form of entertainment on the farm, except for shooting at rattlesnakes and each other. My uncle Jay walked up and asked if he could shoot my gun. Of course, he could; he was my idol, my mentor, my mother’s older brother; he could do no wrong, except that most everything he did was wrong in my mother’s eyes. I handed him my Daisy. He turned and shot one of my grandmother’s five hundred chickens square in the butt. The hen jumped, squawked, and ran a few feet, then went about pecking the ground for whatever chickens peck for. I was shocked. Jay said the BBs give the chickens a little sting, but don’t hurt the birds, their feathers are too thick. Well, that’s all I needed to know. I popped a few, as did cousin Jerry, and man-oh-man, what fun that was. Jay walked away knowing that he had given his nephews a new source of entertainment.

The rest of the day was spent shooting chickens. I must have used two tubes of BBs. The chickens, one of natures stupidest birds, jumped, squawked, and then went on about their chicken lives. My cousin and I were having a grand old time, and improving our shooting skills on moving targets.

Unbeknownst to us, my grandmother was watching the shooting gallery from the back porch of the farmhouse. Her son, Jay, ratted us out after putting us up to the crime. She let us have our fun.

At supper time, she called us to the farmhouse. Standing on the back steps to the porch with her arms crossed, we knew that she knew we had been shooting her egg-laying chickens. It was no use to plead and beg for mercy; we accepted our sentence. As always, she told us to go to the barn, go around to the back of it, and cut a nice limb from a Mesquite tree that would serve as the switch to deliver our punishment. She knew the mental anguish this caused, having us deliver the weapon to the executioner. I cut the shortest limb I could reach, hoping that the smallest weapon would deliver the least pain.

I handed her the puny limb. She smiled and said, “That’s the sorriest excuse for a switch I’ve ever seen.” She then walked to the barn and came back with a whole tree limb, complete with all the thorns. Jerry and I almost pissed our blue jeans. My uncle Jay was standing on the porch, doubled over in laughter. At that moment, I realized my mother was right about her brother.

Instead of switching us with her tree limb, she asked for my BB gun. She was an old Indian gal and knew how to shoot. She instructed Jerry and me to go about fifty feet away and start running in circles, which we did. She then started shooting both of us in the butt with our own BB guns, and man, did it hurt. I don’t think she missed a shot. After that, we didn’t shoot anything except tin cans. We knew that Granny kept a 22 rifle next to the ice-box.

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Ask A Texan: Raising A Heathen Child


Somewhat Good Information For Those Unfortunate Folks That Live Up North

The Texan

A Mrs. Lee, of Rebel Yell, Virginia wrote that her son has been hanging around a bunch of contractors and has picked up their bad habits.

Mrs. Lee: Mr. Texan, there’s a convenience store being built on our block, and my six-year-old son, Robert, and his little pals have been hanging around the jobsite watching the construction. The tradesmen are friendly to the boys and have been giving them Pops and sharing their food with them at lunch break. A few days ago, Robert and four of his little pals tore down our backyard storage shed, and they are now using the lumber to build a fort in our two-hundred-year-old oak tree. My husband, Jefferson, thinks it’s okay, they are just being boys, but not only did they destroy our shed, which we bought at the Home Depot, but now they are cussing and yelling nasty things at the neighborhood girls. I’ve heard foul language in my years, but these little boys are using disgusting terms: ” **** this and **** that,” “you’re a dumb ass,” “hand me that ******* hammer, you know, the kind of foul language tradesmen use. I’m a Christian woman, and I can’t bring myself to tell you all I’ve heard from my little boy. Well, this morning, Robert told his sister to get out of his “damn way or he will kick her ass.” Well, that did it for me. I told him to go to the backyard and get me a switch so I could spank his little behind. He looks at me and says, ” Hell no! That’s the electrician’s job.” I don’t know what to do, my son is a heathen.

The Texan: Well, Ma’am, your problem is not as dire as you think. Boys love to demolish things and then build stuff with hammers and nails. Contractors often use colorful language because there are no women on the job sites. I wouldn’t be too concerned, it’s a phase and will pass. The good news is that Robert may have learned some valuable hands-on skills that can be used later in life, like carpentry and such, and some darn good curse words that will come in handy as he grows older. I was cussing like a Hun by the time I was his age. Let me know how he turns out, and I’m sending him a gift card to Home Depot and a box of Cherry Bombs.

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Prophecy Or A Coincidence? Is That A Molotov Cocktail In Your Pocket Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?


Is the world living out Biblical Prophecy, or is God testing us to see how far mankind will go to reach the end? Why would he not? He’s done it before with many empires: Roman, Greek, Mayan, Inca, and Persian. All the answers to the questions and scenarios were written thousands of years ago. Still, the main lesson woven throughout the Bible is that the land of Israel and the Jewish people are protected by God, with no exceptions. Flip the historical religious stone, and the Islamic religion and its followers’ rabid devotion to a tribalistic and often cruel deity are told to eradicate the Jewish people, with no exclusions. If the infidels, meaning Christians, stand in the way, then we are also to be taken out as part of the crusade. Twelfth-century manipulated, warped religious ideology combined with modern weapons of destruction presents a real danger to this world.

Closer to home, our United States mainland is facing a different danger. Our universities have been radicalized by left-wing socialist faculty and administrators, resulting in a curriculum that is more anti-American, socialist driven ideology than education. The most dangerous product coming out of our educational systems is the young, white, college-indoctrinated, feminist female who stands for nothing in particular but willingly and blindly embraces any radical cause. Please pay attention to the news reels of the violent protest, and what do you notice, most of the violence is coming from these women, and their man-bun, skinny jean-wearing, masked male tag-alongs. Will this be the next generation of mothers? I hope not, but it doesn’t look good.

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Summer Adventures of a 1950s Boyhood


It was the summer of my seventh year, 1957.

It was too hot to play pick-up baseball games unless my buddies and I got to the Forest Park Ball Diamonds before 8 am, and the city pool was closed because of the Polio scare; my mother kept a picture of an iron lung taped to the icebox to remind me what would happen if I disobeyed her orders. Boredom set upon us, we had too much free time on our grimy little hands, so the six of us that comprised our neighborhood coterie did what any gang of young boys would do; we went feral. It was two full months of constant butt-whoopings, loss of cartoon time, and other parental vs child warfare. My buddies and I agreed it was our best summer so far.

Mr. and Mrs. Mister, our next-door neighbors and mentors, attempted to reel us in, which worked for a short while. Mrs. Mister, a wonderful mom substitute who resembled the movie starlet Jane Mansfield, would let us sit under their backyard Mimosa tree. At the same time, she served chocolate chip cookies and Grape Kool-Aid to control our restless young spirits. Fred and Ginger, her twin white Poodles, would join us and beg for cookies. Mr. Mister, when his wife wasn’t looking, would let us have a sip or two of his ice-cold Pearl beer. We were bad assed and nation-wide.

This was the summer we declared war on our school tormenters, the older boys across the tracks known as “the hard guys.” And thanks to Mr. Mister and his military and engineering experience, we successfully implemented a detailed plan and defeated our nemesis. Sidewalk biscuits with implanted cherry bombs and a small Roman Catapult designed by Mr. Mister played a role in the defeat. Instead of feeling remorse for injuring our schoolmates, the battle made us insufferable and meaner, fueling our summer of feral behavior.

Our parents and Mrs. Mister were shocked and bewildered. Fifty or so butt-whoopings with everything from a belt, switch, and a Tupperware pan, didn’t phase me or my gang. The three girls in our neighborhood, our classmates, were all tomboys, and they said we were now “too mean” for them to associate with. Cheryl, our center fielder, the only girl we would allow to play on our team, called us “mean little shits.” Those are pretty sophisticated words from a seven-year-old gal, although we knew some of the good ones we heard from our fathers.

Skipper, or resident math wiz and duly elected gang leader, had the “Hubba-hubba’s” for Cheryl and gave her his tiny Mattel Derringer cap pistol as a sign of affection. He found it on his front porch one morning with a note from her mother that read, ” stay away from my daughter, you mean little shit.” Now we know where her scoffing comments came from. He was crushed, of course, but he was young and felt much better after he blew up Mr. Rogers’s mailbox with a cherry bomb. Firecrackers and high-powered fireworks secretly supplied by Mr. Mister played a big role in our feralivious behavior. The two neighborhood garages that caught fire were blamed on us, and Georgie, with his love of matches and lighter fluid, may have had something to do with those fires, but he wouldn’t admit to it.

My parents started taking Miltowns, an early pill similar to Xanex, and most other parents began drinking more than normal. Mr. Mister was called in to negotiate a truce, but secretly, he was on our side. He felt boys should have the right to cut loose and show their young oats, even though we didn’t have raging hormones, underarms, or pubic hair, which we anxiously awaited.

Our parents had enough of our feral behavior, and one Saturday evening, there was a hot dog party in our backyard. All my gang was there, as were their parents. Ice cream and a cake were served along with burnt wieners, and the Misters were there with Fred and Ginger. It was a downright ambush, the predecessor to the popular “intervention.” Our parents let us know that the next stop for us was “The Dope Farm,” an institution where malcontents and little hoodlums were sent to do time. We knew the stories about the place. It was out of a horror movie, and Father Flannigan wouldn’t be there to save us. It was time to clean up or be locked up doing hard labor and eating maggot-infested gruel. No more baseball, cartoons, or Mrs. Mister’s cookies and Kool-Aid. We huddled, agreed amongst ourselves, and promised our parents we would walk the righteous path of the good child. We did for the most part, but we hid our stash of cherry bombs for the next summer.

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Virgin Nuns With Guns


Let us all pause and think of those poor bastards in Iran and their buddies who think that by blowing themselves up, or sacrificing themselves for Allah and the Supreme Leader, they will be awarded with 72 virgins and whatever comes with that package. This picture above is what likely awaits them: Virgin Nuns with guns, and not real pretty gals either. Mother “Annie Oakley” Superior, far right, was a medal winner at the 1936 Olympic Games in Germany, and we can assume she has taught her Heavenly army of Nuns to shoot straight—my monies on the good Mother.

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It Was 50 Years Ago…


In honor of one of the greatest scary movies ever made, I’m posting a picture of my late, late cousin, Chumley, who worked as a shark wrangler and trainer on the iconic 1975 movie, Jaws. He was always hamming it up with the cast and crew and thought he had trained the white shark to join in the fun. This picture was taken a few seconds after he informed Quint and the Chief that they would need a bigger boat and more weaponry. Sadly, the only item recovered was a sneaker, which was sent to his widow.

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Ask A Texan: Preaching And Peaches In Lonesome Dove


Substantial Advice For Folks Outside Of Texas

The Texan

This Texan received a letter from Mr. Augustus McRae of Lonesome Dove, Montana. It seems that his middle child, a wealthy TV Preacher, has abandoned him and his wife, leaving them to fend for themselves in their old age.

Mr. McCrae: Back in 1978, I was doing some cowboying on a big ranch in South Texas and grew tired of everything. I hooked up my horse trailer to my Ford Pickup, loaded my horse, Hellbitch, up, and headed for Montana, where the water runs cool and the weather is nice. I made a stop in Albuquerque, New Mexico, for some chow and decided to go into this topless bar called “Mamery’s Are Made Of This.” I was sitting there drinking my Schlitz and eating a juicy burger when this topless lady comes up behind me, pecks me on the neck and sings, ” Blow up the TV, throw away the papers, move to the country build you a home… plant a little garden…eat a lotta peaches…try to find Jesus on your own.” I was young and naive and figured that topless lady had something up her sleeve. She danced around that ballroom, and she did the Hoochie-Coo, she sang that song all night long, telling me what to do. Well, it worked. She gave me a big old smackeroo, grabbed her little suitcase, and hopped in my pickup, and the three of us headed for Montana. We built us a little log cabin, no TV, no papers, planted a great garden with Peach trees, raised a lot of children, and they all found Jesus on their own. That’s where my problem starts, Mr. Texan. Our middle child, Baby Face Joey, took to religion and preaching like a duck to a June bug. He preached to anyone who would listen and began healing the ranch’s livestock and the garden veggies: we had the nicest Peach orchard in Montana. When he turned sixteen, he left the house and found himself in Houston, Texas. He preached a lot, built a large congregation, and relocated his church to an old basketball arena. Now he has about twenty thousand people in his church, and he’s raking in money like there’s no tomorrow: wealthy can’t describe the amount of cash this little chiseler stuffs in his custom-made suit pockets. Me and his momma are old and don’t have much these days, so I call Preacher Baby Face Joey and ask him for a little financial help. He sends us a $50.00 gift card to The Walmart and a membership in the Jelly Of The Month Club. I’m as mad as a hungry wolf and the wife is ready to whip his little butt with a Peach tree switch. Do you have any suggestions on how we can manage this situation without disrupting the entire familyThe Texan: Well, Mr. Gus, I’m sometimes at a loss for words, but this isn’t one of them. When I was a young and hungry man, I too did some cowboying down in South Texas. I got bitten twice by Rattlers and stomped by a bull, and that was it for the wrangler days. I’ve been in your part of Montana and there ain’t a more beautiful place, cows and Peach trees all over the place. Those TV preachers get pretty full of themselves, and I believe I know the one you’re writing about, and he’s about as obnoxious as they come. I suggest taking your wife and any kids left at home, go to Houston, dressing in some ragged clothes from the Goodwill, and walk down the aisle begging for some help. If that doesn’t get Baby Face Joey to cough up some cash, then nothing will. Keep in touch, and I’m sending you an album of John Prine’s Greatest hits and an autographed picture of Gypsy Rose Lee for the wife.

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Ask A Texan: The Quest For Big Rock Candy Mountain And The Bates Motel


Sort of Professional Texas Advice For Folks That Can’t Afford The Real Thing.

The Texan

This Texan received a postcard from The Walmart in Tom Joad, Oklahoma. It seems that Mr. Junior Steinbeck’s wife, Rose of Sharon, thinks she is real sick and wants a vacation bucket list trip, which he can’t afford.

Mr. Steinbeck: Mr. Texan, I’ve never written a request for advice, so please consider this my first and bear with me if I make any mistakes. Two weeks ago, Rose of Sharon, my wife of forty-five years, said she was near the end. This is nothing new; she and her four sisters are all world-class hypochondriacs and have so many fatal diseases that it’s a miracle any of them are still walking around and breathing. The woman has been on death’s door since the honeymoon, but has been as healthy as a town dog for all these years. Rose of Sharon comes to me and says that, since she is pretty sure this malady is the fatal one, she wants to take one last trip and go see the Big Rock Candy Mountain in South Dakota. I say, “There ain’t no Big Rock Candy Mountain, that’s a dang song.” She says, “No, Junior, it’s that big candy rock with those faces carved in it.” I say, ” No, Rose, that’s Mount Rushmore and those faces are the past great presidents, are you a moron?” Well, I gave in since she was ill and all.

We load up the truck and head out. About midnight, Rose says she needs a bed to sleep in, and our Ford Ranger pickup ain’t no Simmons Beauty Rest. I remember that guy on the radio always saying We’ll leave the light on for you, so I started looking for that motel. We drive into a town, and there it is: Motel 3, with its sign all lit up. I walk into the office, and there’s this guy behind the desk dressed like one of those Beatles boys, and he has a red dot on his forehead. The place is all smoky and smells like perfume burning, and I hear a goat from somewhere in the back office. I say we need a room. He says it’s okay, it will cost $25.00. I’m thinking that’s awfully cheap, but I’ll take it. Rose is moaning and groaning and thrashing about in the front seat. Once in the room, Rose decides she needs a shower. She comes out of the bathroom and says, “Junior, there ain’t no towels, toilet paper, or soap, what the hell?” So, I go to the office and tell Mr. Abdul something or another, we need the bare necessities. He says, “towels, $5.00 each, soap is $2.00, toilet paper is $ 3.00. I’m thinking this is a rip-off, but I pay anyway. I get back to the room and Rose says there ain’t no pillows or sheets on the bed. By this time, I’m a little hot. Same response: Pillows $4.00 each, sheets $10.00, and if you want to watch TV, the cord is $5.00. Again, I pay. Rose needs her rest and some clean sheets.

I go to put on the sheets and there is a big, old, huge blood stain on the mattress, so I flip it over and the blood stain is even bigger. Rose of Sharon freaks out and screams, ” Junior, this is the Bates Motel. I ain’t taking no shower and get stabbed by a lunatic granny.” We pack it up and leave, drive all night to Mount Rushmore. Rose thinks it’s no big deal, a big rock with faces. All she ever wanted was to see Big Rock Candy Mountain. Any ideas how I can fix this mess with the Motel 3 and a disappointed wife?

The Texan: Well, dang it, Junior, I’m almost, but not quite, a loss for words on this one. I have a couple of aunts who have been living with fatal diseases for about sixty years, and not one of them has expired yet. My grandpappy says it’s the water in Texas, stuff keeps you alive for a little too long past your shelf life. Motels aren’t what they used to be. I suspect you were looking for that Tom Bodett Motel 6: that’s the one that leaves the light on for you. You stumbled into one of those foreign-run places that charge for everything, even the cock roaches. You can sue the grifter, but it’s likely to cost more than the bill, so let it lie. Take Rose of Sharon to Enchanted Rock in Fredericksburg, Texas: it looks like a big old slab of rock candy, and she probably won’t know the difference. Keep in touch, and I’m sending Rose a box of Big Rock Candy and a copy of The Grapes of Wrath.

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Ask A Texan: How Bucc-ee’s Changed Our Culture


Sometimes Accurate Advice For Folks That Wish They Had Been Born In Texas

The Texan

This Texan received an email from Mrs. Her/She Cleaver of San Bernadino, California. She and He/Him husband traveled from California to Dallas for a relative’s non-binary wedding and made the mistake of stopping at a Bucc-ee’s in Amarillo, Texas.

Mrs. Her/She Cleaver: Mr. Texan, if that is your real name, or do you prefer to be called a misogynistic red-neck knuckle-dragging Neanderthal cowboy? I wasn’t sure. All of my troubles started when I accepted a wedding invitation to my non-binary relative’s wedding. Although she is formally female and will be wearing a dress, she prefers to be known as “it”, or “a human.” We quietly cruised into your backward state and needed a charge for our Tesla, which we recently disguised as a non-binary automobile. The only charging station in Amarillo, Texas, was located at a redneck gas station called Bucc-ee’s: who would name a business that? Pulling into the lot on our last few volts, we were amazed at all the carbon-burning autos and trucks purchasing gasoline and polluting our planet; there must have been a hundred gas pumps. I was so rattled; I needed my safe room, but I had to settle for my heavy blanket and a Valium. The two of us needed a restroom, so we swallowed our beliefs and entered. I must say, the cold air was refreshing, and my-oh-my, what a layout. Clothing, toys, jewelry, hats, all with a little Beaver wearing a baseball cap sewn onto everything in the store. The food, oh my creator from above, we have never seen so much of it—fudge, candy, jerky, BBQ, ice cream, every kind of sandwich known to exist. Personally, I was repulsed by all that wasted nutrition that could be feeding those poor, hungry illegals, and not one Vegan option available. How could they do that? We college-educated women have rights, too. While I was in the female’s restroom, a work of technology and cleanliness, my husband discovered the BBQ caveman meat section. Hot sliced brisket, ribs, sausage, and side fixings, he was gorging himself into a coma. I made a scene when I screamed, ” How could you do this to me? We are Vegan; think of that poor animal that died so you can stuff your jaws like a deranged Chipmunk.” He looked at me and said, “Kiss it, Karen, get in that toy car and get your happy vegan ass to Dallas; I’m never leaving Bucc-ee’s.” All covered in BBQ sauce and Banana Pudding, he ran to a big tub of little Bucc-ee’s stuffed animals and dived in. He then ran across the parking lot and rented a room at a motel and steak house called The Big Texan. I’m afraid our marriage is kaput, all because of Bucc-ee’s. Any ideas on how to fix this mess since your redneck backward state caused it?

The Texan: Well, Mrs. She/Her, or whatever you identify as It appears you picked the wrong state to visit. Bucc-ee’s is a national treasure, right up there with the old Alamo and Davy Crockett, and one thing for sure is, you “Don’t Tread On Us.” It appears you may be suffering from a culture shock known as “reality,” which no one in California can identify with. You should have just mailed a gift or made a donation in “it’s” name and stayed in your safe place. Your husband will be much happier and healthier living at the Big Texan Steak House and Motel; I’ve been there many times. You should fit right in with those man-bun-wearing, skinny-jeaned, purse-carrying little pansy-asses in Dallas; they are your kind of folks. Don’t bother writing back, and for once, you’ll get nothing and like it. God Bless Texas and Bucc-ee’s.

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Ask A Texan: Every Southern Man Needs A New Pickup


Free And Clear Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas But Are Trying To Get Here As Fast As They Can…

Mr. Boufrone Boudreaux of Chigger Bayou, Louisiana, writes that his son thinks he’s a girl, and his wife and daughter are all in on it because they can all swap their clothes and shop together at The Walmart.

Mr. Boudreaux: Mr. Texan, us Cajuns Coon-Asses don’t like to ask for advice from anybody outside of the bayou, but I’m backed into a corner by a pack of gators on this one. About six months ago, my son, Edouard, a high school junior at Chigger Bayou Slow Learning Center and High School, decided he was a girl, despite being over six feet tall and possessing all the typical male physical characteristics. He grew his hair out long, painted his fingernails, and started wearing his sister’s dresses. After he dyed his hair blonde, like my wife, Vionette, he made an almost passable but somewhat unfortunate-looking girl. He now calls himself Edouardine, which is an old Cajun family name. I had three aunts, all named Vionette 1, 2, and 3. He was a darn good hardball pitcher on the boy’s high school baseball team, The Fighting Chiggers, but has now joined the girl’s softball team, and they are about to win the state championship. A large university in California wants to offer him a full-ride scholarship to pitch for their women’s team, and to sweeten the deal, they will also provide me with a new Ford F-150 pickup truck with a leather interior and all the fancy features. My wife and daughter are all excited about Edouard changing because now they can swap clothes, do girls’ night out crap, and go shopping for girly stuff at The Walmart. I’m real torn up on this one because I need a new truck and won’t have to fork out a fortune on tuition. Looking forward to being saved down here in the bayou.

The Texan: I’m truly sorry for your anguish, but I understand, as we share similar predicaments here in Cow Country. Many universities give the athletes and their parents under-the-table gifts to entice them. SMU, Baylor, and UT come to mind. Sports cars, cash, whores, and pickups are all considered legal bribes. UT is exceptional in this category; they attract their foreign students by offering parents Camels, televisions, and Air Conditioners, as well as portable tiny homes to replace their mud huts in the African desert. Sounds like Eduardo is confused, and it’s nothing that a hefty dose of bayou minga-minga from a gal outside of the immediate family could smack him right out of it. I’d go for it; every man needs a new truck, and take the tuition money and buy yourself a nice swamp-certified flat-bottom airboat with a gator winch. I’m sending your son a box of cherry bombs to remind him that he’s a boy and boys like to blow things up.