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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: Mrs. Gentry’s Dilemma: Boat Motors vs. False Teeth


Down Home Advice For Folks That Are Out Of Options

The Texan

I received a letter from Mrs. Gentry of Tallahatchie, Mississippi, stating that her husband, Catfish John, had taken the money she gave him for a set of new false teeth and spent it on a new boat motor. She’s as mad as a cottonmouth.

Mrs. Gentry: Mr. Texan, I’m surprised I’m having to ask a stranger for help. I saw your articles in the Farm and Ranch magazine, and you seem to know your groceries. My husband, Catfish John, is what the locals call him because he spends a lot of time on the Tallahatchie River running trotlines. He had three teeth left in his fat head, so I gave him some cash I had hidden away in a coffee can and told him to go to town and get some new teeth cause I was sick of looking at his toothless face. His hound dog, Little Bob Barker, has the same problem, so I told him to get the dog some choppers, too. He comes with what I thought was new teeth. I looked at him and said, “Wait a darn minute here, Catfish, those don’t look like real teeth; they’re too big and are all the same size. ” Well, he admitted that he needed a new boat motor, so he bought a couple of boxes of Chiclets, those lovely little white candies, and super glued them into the holes where his teeth used to be: he did the same for his hound dog. They look like a couple of smiling great white sharks, and I’m out all the hidey money I was saving for our daughter’s upcoming wedding to Billy Joe MacAllister. She’s not around much these days cause Catfish sees her and the boyfriend throwing stuff off the bridge, which worries me; I’m missing a bunch of laying hens and some piglets. I’m as mad as a pissed-off cottonmouth and ready to send him to live with his baby brother, Perch. Any ideas on fixing this mess? I sent you a picture of him and the hound.

The Texan: Wee Doggies, now that’s a problem. Southern men take their fishing real seriously, and a good boat motor is essential. My grandpappy had the same problem, so Granny fed him soft biscuits and white gravy and mashed up his meat, and he got along just fine. Teeth are expensive these days, so he was just trying to save money. I love those little Chiclets candies; they are a true American institution. I wouldn’t worry too much if one falls out, he can replace it, they’re really cheap. As far as the wedding, have your daughter go to the justice of the peace. At least Catfish will always have nice-smelling breath, and if you’re at a social gathering and you need a breath mint, just jerk out one of his teeth. Keep in touch, and I’m sending him a big box of assorted-colored Chiclets so he can change his teeth to suit the holiday festivities. Let me know what your daughter was throwing off that bridge.

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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.

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Ask A Texan. The Cultural Shift: Cats, Pride, and Texas Traditions


Fancy Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas, But wish’un They Did

The Texan

This Texan received a letter from Mr. Merle T. Haggaurd of Muskogee, Oklahoma. It seems that his wife and her pet kitty have gone off the deep end of the Red River.

Mr. Haggard: About a month back, my wife’s pet kitty, Toonsis, appeared to have a nervous feline type of breakdown. I don’t know a lick about cats, being a dog person, so Reba, my wife, took the cat to a vet. It turns out the kitty did have a feline breakdown, and the vet suggested we take it to a specialized animal behavioral clinic in Austin, Texas. The only thing I know about Austin is that’s where Willy, Waylon, and the boys hung out, and it’s full of old dope-smoking hippie types. Me, I’m more of an Okie from Muskogee and a manly footwear-wearing feller. The doctor examined Toonsis and said she could fix her right up. She did say that this clinic is a LBGJQYST facility, which we had no idea what she meant by that. About a month went by, and two days ago, we got a call to pick up the kitty, so we headed down to Austin to retrieve Reba’s good-as-new cat. Driving into town, we noticed all these strange folks marching around carrying rainbow-looking flags, blocking traffic and spray painting little slogans on buildings and folks cars, and a lot of the buildings were draped in the same type of colors. We thought maybe we missed a national holiday or something. The hotel clerk got really upset with me when I asked what all these people with rainbow flags were doing. He squealed, “Don’t you know it’s Pride month?” I say, ” Well no, I’m as about as full of pride as any American and I didn’t know we had a month for it.” The next morning, we go to the clinic, and they trot out little Toonsis. She’s dressed in a rainbow kitty sweater and has pierced ears and eyebrows, and her fur is dyed purple and green, just like the doctor’s hair. The doctor says the cat is now identifying as an LBGQYST animal and now demands special rights and privileges. I pay Dr whacko the $2,000 dollar fee, and we take the new and not-so-improved Toonsis back to Muskogee. Did the missus and I miss something? Was there a cultural shift, or are all the folks down in Austin just plain weird? I’m enclosing a picture of Toonsis, who now prefers to be known as “It.”

Toonsis The “It” cat

The Texan: Well, Mr. Haggaurd, I wish you’d contacted me before taking Toonsis to Crazy Town. We, normal, gun-toting, beer-drinking, Bible-carrying rational folks in Texas, don’t consider Austin a part of our state. When Willy, Waylon, and the boys left, it went to pot pretty quick. Pretty soon, everybody and their dog or cat will get their own month. It appears that Pride Month is relatively new here in Texas, and we try to keep it fenced up in Austin and Dallas. After all, “Keep Austin Weird” isn’t just a slogan, I would try a Cat Whisperer if I were you. Keep in touch, and I’m sending Toonsis some 50 % off Pride Month coupons from PetSmart and Target.

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The Day I Tried to Fly: A Superhero Story


I wrote and published this childhood memory back in 2018. Any kid who has ever dressed up in a superhero costume can relate to my true experience. Thinking back to that time in the mid-1950s, I now realize my neighborhood buddies didn’t care if I died right there in front of them while attempting this stunt. We were all bullet-proof and somehow had nine lives. It was all about the show, as I soon found out.

Surfing Netflix and Amazon Prime a few nights ago, I was surprised how many movies feature superheroes. Sure, the two originals are there, Superman and Batman, but then there are at least a dozen others. Did I sleep through some cultural entertainment shift?

The original Superman television series premiered in 1952, and by 1953-54 every kid in my neighborhood pretended to fly while fighting for truth-justice-and the American way. The girls wanted to be Super Girls, but the boys wouldn’t allow it. Superman was a man’s man, so they had to settle for Lois Lane.

The family that possessed the largest television screen was the meeting point where the gang gathered to watch our hero. My Father purchased the largest black and white television available, 15 inches, so our den was the destination.

There he stood in his padded super suit, cape flapping in the wind, a steely look on his all-American face. What a man! Only years later did we notice the slight paunch, the double chin, and the bad teeth.

At Leonard Brothers department store in Fort Worth, you could purchase a genuine Superman cape for $2.00 or for $20.00, a kid could have the full outfit, which included a blue stretch top and tights, a red speedo, and super boots. The kids in our neighborhood couldn’t afford the suit, so they settled for whatever fabric they could find for a cape.

I was the lucky one. My Aunt Norma, a seamstress extraordinaire made me a custom-fit Superman suit. It was a beauty; dark blue stretchy top with little super muscles sewn in, blue tights with a red swimsuit, gold fabric covers to over my PF Flyer tennis shoes, and the bright red cape with the super “S.” I was in super heaven and the envy of all my pals. We immediately planned a flying demonstration, and I was the vehicle. The reality that I had never flown didn’t matter . Our home, the only two-story house on the block was the designated launch point.

After gathering in my den for our afternoon viewing of Superman, the gang rushed to our backyard, awaiting the flight. I sneaked upstairs, squeezed into my super suit, and slipped through a window onto the roof.

The usual gang of six had suddenly swelled to thirty or so kids of all ages. “How can I fly in front of strangers? What if the suit doesn’t work?” I was getting a severe case of “cold feet.”

The roof grew higher with every breath as I inched my way to the peak. Looking down to the yard, it may as well be the grand canyon. I was shaking like a wet dog, and a dribble of pee leaked down my leg. A kid in the crowd yelled, ” What’s wrong kid…chicken.” That did it. I was by-golly flying today.

I crossed myself and ran down the slope of the roof. A millisecond before launch, my Mother yells from the window, “don’t you dare do that.” It was too late. My six-year-old super legs launched me into thin air. I hear theme music, feel the air under my cape and below, my pals, a look of wonderment on their faces, cheer me on to super glory.

Instead of gaining height and accelerating to supersonic speed, I made it twenty feet or so then dropped straight down, landing in the midst of the admiring crowd. Our thick lawn saved me from certain paralysis.

My Mother was on me like a duck on a Junebug. Jerking me up by my super cape, she proceeds to whip my little butt with a flyswatter; the only weapon she could find. I was mortified; young Superman receiving a whooping from his super Mom. The crowd dispersed, leaving me sitting in the grass in my super shame.

The next morning; miraculously recovered, I am sent out to play with my pals. Walking through the back gate, I noticed a bit of my super cape hanging from under the garbage can lid. My super days are over.


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Exploring the Beat Generation: Kerouac and Cassidy’s Road Trip


Jack Kerouac

Two Catholic boys, Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy, are on a road trip by car across the American West to find the meaning of life. The badlands of New Mexico held all the secrets that New York City would never have. It could be a great book are a movie. But, as it turns out, it was a book first. What could go wrong?

It was 1947, and half the country still lived in a Norman Rockwell painting, and the other poor souls struggled with keeping food on their table and a decent job. The war was a few years ago, and the scars were fresh and raw. As the movies would have you believe, not everyone had the good fortune to live in New York City and shop at Macy’s. The Hollywood boys covered everything in Fairy Dust and Unicorn Piss, and the commies were coming to your neighborhood. The two young men sensed the growing change and needed to find the “real America,” the wide-open, gritty, in-your-face, working man culture that made their country run on regular gasoline.

“On The Road” was published in 1951. The author, Jack Kerouac, a French Canadian American who didn’t learn to speak or write in English until he was six years old, became an instant literary celebrity and a reluctant prophet to the “Beats,” which would become the “Hippies” in the 1960s. He tolerated the Beats and the new intellectuals because he helped birth them, but grew to despise the Hippies before he died. He wrote many times that he was sorry they found his books and used them as their warped ideological, drug-addled bible that led to the near destruction of his beloved country. The “beat generation,” another term he loathed, wasn’t meant to survive past 1960. The writings and musings made no sense after 1959. He believed everything had an expiration date.

Ginsburg and Burroughs kept the plates spinning; the publishing cash and the adulation were too strong to walk away. So Kerouac moved on and became a drunkard and pillhead. Fame, and all that came attached, was not his bag.

The only comparison to the book that I can think of would be the “road” movies of the 1940s. Two pals and a gal road-tripping to Nirvana. Kerouac would have been Bing Crosby and Cassidy a bi-polar Bob Hope with his girlfriend a sluttish Dorothy Lamour. But, of course, their adventure was adults only. Weed, booze, Minga Minga, and foul language would not have made it with old Bing and Bob.

The two main characters, Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty, were the essential bad boys before it was cool. Their names alone were enough to make you buy the book. Every teenager who read it could easily place themselves in their universe for a while. Who knows how many ill-fated trips the book influenced?

My cousin and I toyed with the idea. First, to California and back to New York, then home to Texas in his Corvair; then the effects of the pot wore off, we ate a cheeseburger and shit-canned the plan.

James Dean was a disciple, as was Marlon Brando. They wore bad boy cool like a soft leather jacket. The movie boys jumped on it. “Rebel Without A Cause” and “The Wild Ones” sent parents screaming through their middle-class neighborhoods with hair ablaze. Ozzie and Harriet doubled down. Pat Boone turned up the heat. Art Linkletter had a meltdown. The fifties were dying before our eyes.

I may revisit “On The Road” again. It sits on my bookshelf, aging like wine, and needs to be jostled.

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Ask A Texan: Finding Joe Bee’s Father


Pretty Stable Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas And Can’t Get Here

The Texan

This Texan received a letter from Miss Sparkle, a business owner in Chattooga, Georgia. She runs the Papa Gus River Rafting and Fish Camp, which was made famous in the movie Deliverance.

My little boy, Joe Bee before he grew up into a man

Mr. Texan: I can’t get no help around here from nobody: it’s just a bunch toothless hillbillies sitting around drinking moonshine, so maybe you can shine a light on my predicament. I enclosed an old picture of my boy, he’s real shy and won’t let me take a picture now that he’s older.

Back in 1972, a group of Hollywood boys filmed a movie here on the river. It was all fun, and my family got to be in the movie. I enjoyed many an evening drinking shine with some of the actors and got to know one of them really well. Bless his heart, he’s passed on now, but I’ll always remember his funny laugh and how good he was with that bow and arrows. Now, in 1984, a bunch of rich big-shots from Washington, DC came down to ride the Chattooga like in that famous movie that was filmed here. They were nice men and treated me with respect, even though I was just a river rat. Daddy hadn’t been gone long, and I was really sad, so it was nice to have some company at the camp. One night, the bunch of us were sitting around the campfire drinking daddy’s famous shine, and this one fellow they called Joe B started sniffing my hair. I didn’t mind cause I had just washed it with lye soap, and it smelled pretty good. He was a nice man, in a creepy sort of way. Too much shine always gets you in trouble, and I’ve had plenty of it since then. Well, about a year later, the old stork shows up with this bundle of joy. I call him Joe Bee. He ain’t no kid no more and doesn’t want to do anything but sit in his porch swing all day long playing the same song on his damn-ole’ banjo. I’ll tell ya, it’s driving us all to drink more than we normally do, and that’s a bunch. We tried hiding it, but he always finds the darn thing. Little Joe Bee just wants to know who his daddy is. My two other boys, the twins, Smokey and Bandit, their daddy never comes to see them either, but that’s cause he’s dead as a shot squirrel. I’ll give him a pat on the back; at least he gave them each a black Pontiac Trans Am for their sixteenth birthday. At least Joe Bee’s daddy could send him a monster truck or something. He just wants to meet his daddy and have something with big wheels to drive.

The Texan: Miss Sparkle, I’m sorry to hear of your problem and Joe Bee’s fatherless miserable life. Like you, I couldn’t stand to hear a banjo picking all day long. At least you have some good moonshine to knock the edge off. Looks like your boy’s Pop might be found in Washington, DC, and shouldn’t be too hard to track down; the family resemblance to a former big-shot should help find his daddy. We folks down here in Texas believe that every boy deserves a big truck to drive. Keep in touch, and tell your son I’m sending him a DVD of the Smokey And The Bandit movie along with a month’s supply of Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream.

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Ask A Texan: Wife Tries to Sing Like Willie Nelson


Pretty Good Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas, But Wishing They Did

The Texan

Mr. ET ( Ernest Tom ) Home from Roswell New Mexico sent this Texan a long letter written on a McDonald’s takeout food bag. His wife is attempting to become a country singer and has gone to extremes, and he’s hoping I can help.

ET Home: Mr. Texan, about a month ago, the wife, Willowmina, decided she was going to become a country songstress. Well, that’s all fine and dandy, but the poor gal, bless her heart, sounds like Phyllis Diller when she sings. Both cats have left home and the neighbors are knocking on our door, a lot. She see’s old Willy Nelson on the View and he’s bragging about how he gave Beyonce some of his strongest weed and it turned her into a country singer. Well, that’s all it took. Next day, we drive to Ruidoso and visit the Miss Dolly’s Weed Emporium and Desert Shop. The wife asked the young lady manager what is the best and strongest stuff she has from old Willy. She leads us into a back room, then into a closet and down some secret stairs into another little room. She hands her a small box and says this is the best stuff on planet earth: Willy’s “Hide And Watch” secret stuff. I hear it can be a life changer, and not always in a good way. Well, we take the stuff and go back to Alien city.

She’s been puffing away on that stuff for a while now, and I hear her singing in the shower, and will admit, she is getting better. Then about a week ago, she put her long gray hair in braids, put a bandanna on her head and starts playing songs on our granddaughters Taylor Swift plastic Ukulele. She’s starting to look like old Willy, face stubble and all, and I think I must be losing my marbles. So’s, I calls the daughter, Little Tator, and she drives down from Raton Pass, walks in the house looks at her mother and says, “You ain’t crazy Daddy, that’s Willy Nelson in a Pioneer Woman house robe and Pokemon slippers.” Looking for an answer here.

The Texan: Well, Mr. ET I was at a loss on this one so I called a friend of mine, Dr. Scaramouche at the Fred Mercury Hospital For The Deranged in Queens, NY. He says this derangement is new and becoming more common thanks to entertainers like Taylor Swift and the Kardashian clan. Folks think that by eating, drinking, ingesting things, or dressing like their idols, they can glam off their talent and become a version of them. Willy was right, Beyonce is about as country as Martha Stewart. I would start out by taking away the weed. If that doesn’t change things, you might consider buying a used tour bus and going “On The Road Again.” I hear it can be a lot of fun. Keep in touch, and I am sending her a box of Little Debbie snack cakes.

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Ask A Texan 5.9.25


Plenty Good And Often Accurate Advice For Folks who don’t Live In Texas, But Wishing They Did

The Texan

This Texan received a letter from The Land O’ Lakes Fishing Camp and Vacation Cottages, Lake Minnetonka, Minnesota. Thanks to their rebellious daughter, Sassy, Mr. Franklin Kettle and his wife, Phoebe, affectionately known as Ma and Pa, are on their good Lutheran last nerve.

Pa Kettle: Mr. Texan, I’m not much on asking for or taking any kinda advice from anyone other than our Minister at the Shakopee Lutheran Church, but seeing that the root cause of me and the missus distress started in Texas, I thought to myself, by-golly-gosh, maybe this wise old Texan can save the farm, doncha know. Our daughter, Sassy, and her husband, Tiberius, and their brood of kiddos live here at the fishing camp and help run the place; it’s a family business passed down from my grandpappy. We have twenty nice and tidy cabins with kitchens and screened-in sleeping porches, and Ma and I run the tackle and bait shop at the main dock: there’s not a prettier slice of Heaven on the lake. We Minnesotans are nice and tidy folks, and we run a polite camp with no hard hooch allowed and only beer after five in the afternoon. A while back, Sassy comes to me and says, “Daddy, me and Tiberius are taking the kiddos and the dogs and are going camping out in the desert in far West Texas. We need to reconnect with God and we hear that the Big Bend area around Marfa is the preferred place. Besides, Tiberius likes the way my earrings lay against my skin so brown, and I want to sleep with him in the desert at night, with a million stars all around.”

I say, ” Golly-Geez, Sassy, we have millions of stars right over the lake here and you don’t need to go travel’n to Texas to see-um; that trips gonna be spendy.”

She said, ” It’s not the same, Daddy; the stars here don’t give us that peaceful, easy feeling, doncha know. ”

Next morning, they loaded up my 1965 Ford Fairlane 500 station wagon, with 25K original miles, and hit the road. I tried to give her some emergency money, but she said it was covered. Tiberius sold a kidney to the University hospital and has the option to sell both testicles and both pinky toes in the future. After three weeks, Ma and me are getting kinda worried. I’m pacing the dock, and she’s spending most of her time in the sleeping loft with a worry headache. Then, one sunny afternoon, they roared up to the main dock. My Fairlane looks like it got trampled by Old Babe The Blue Ox. The brood walks into the tackle store, and the missus and me have a conniption fit. The kiddos have long, dirty hair and are wearing nothing but JCPenney boxers and the two boys have fishing lures hanging in their hair. Tiberius is wearing a beat-up straw cowboy hat and has God Bless Texas tattooed on his bare chest. Sassy is wearing old cut-off dungaree shorts and one of her old nursing brassiere she dyed red. I’m thinking, Geez-Louise, what has happened to these folks in the name of Joseph and Mary?

Nowadays, the grandkiddos are going around the dock spitting on the floor, breaking wind and saying things like, “fixing to, Hide and watch, hold my Pop and watch this, and the worst one is, ” Let’s not get into a pissing contest about it.” When the granddaughter, Little Pebble, said that, that’s when I by-golly drew the line and said, ” Nobodies a going to be urinating in the tackle shop or on the dock for cripes-sakes.This is Minnesota.” My grandkiddos have turned into heathen children, possibly possessed by Demons from the Texas desert. Sassy and Tiberius are no help, they set up house in a Yurt down near the fish cleaning shack and the kiddos are scrounging meals from the dumpster. Ma wants the priest in Saint Paul to come over and exorcise the whole big bunch. Sassy wants us to move to the Texas desert with them and run a campground they can buy with the money from Tiberius selling his body parts. Looking for some help here, doncha know.

The Texan: Well, Mr. Kettle, I’ve never had such a lengthy or disturbing request, but sometimes when a polite culture of folks, like you have in Minnesota, intermingles with a less than couth culture, scenarios like yours happen. It’s common in Texas. I suspect the family may have wandered into El Cosmico, a big pile of old Airstream trailers, Yurts, teepee’s and tents. The place is a hotbed of young hipster hippie types that migrated from Austin and haven’t left Marfa in a good way. The kiddo’s are testing you old folks with their new-founded freedom of expression. Most of those sayings are harmless, except for then pissing contest one: those challenges can get really nasty real quick if there are weapons around. Trust me, The Texan has been in a few. Give it a few months, and if your brood is not back to Minnesota standards, pack them up in the Fairlane and send them back to Marfa. Better them than you, for, after all, that part of Texas is “No country for old men.” Keep in touch, and I sent the kiddos a box of cherry bombs, I hope they enjoy.

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Father Guido Sarducci’s Mistake Causes Vatican Confusion


Mass confusion at the Vatican today. After lunch, white smoke was spotted from behind the Sistine Chapel, leading to chaos among the holy followers. A Pope has never been chosen in such a short time. It was a big mistake. Father Guido Sarducci of New York, a first-time participant, was warming a frozen pizza at the Papal Outdoor Grill and left the pie unattended for a few minutes, resulting in the white smoke. He has been sent back to New York.