Tag: adventure

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Ask A Texan: Sing Me Back Home Again….


Somewhat Unsophisticated Advice For Those Who Seek The Truth instead of Smoke Being Blown Up Their Backsides…

This Texan received an urgent email this afternoon from Marfa, Texas. A Mr. Daddy-O-Of-The-Desert (that’s how he signed the email, not my idea) says his wife, Brushy Sue, has packed his Sears and Roebuck camping bag and is sending him and the dog packing into the desert because the dog keeps howling and singing all night long.

Daddy-O: Mr. Texan, I need some real-time advice, right now. I’m sitting here at a computer in the library and will wait until I hear from you. My wife, Brushy Sue, is a real hum-dinger of a gal. We met in high school, and it was love at first sight. Her having a full set of teeth and not being knocked up also helped our love to blossom. Snake Canyon, our hometown, is a small bump in the road located just outside of Presidio, where we grew up; however, we have been in Marfa for a long time. A few weeks ago, a buddy of mine and I were drinking beer at Planet Marfa, and he mentioned that he had a dog he needed to find a home for. He’s kinda wild and will need some training, but other than that, he’s really lovely. So, being a dog lover, I say yes, I’ll take him. I pick him up the next day, and the dog bites me three times before I can get him into the pickup, then he rips my leather seats all to hell and eats the microphone on my CB Radio, now I can’t talk to the truckers at night. After demolishing the inside of my Ford, he settles down, lays his cute head in my lap, and has a nap as I drive home. When I drag him into the house, Brushy Sue has a conniption fit; she doesn’t care for dogs. The dog, sensing she didn’t care for him, ate her Pioneer Woman house slippers and then chewed up her VHS copy of Dirty Dancing, and that was it. The dog and I are outside, I’m sleeping in a tent, and he’s barking and singing all damn night. I can’t take the dog back to my buddy, he moved during the night, and Brushy Sue won’t let me back in the house until the doggy goes. I’m a little worried because, around midnight, while he was singing in the back yard, a pack of Coyotes came to the cyclone fence to visit, and they all started singing the same song: it sounded like a scratched-up Taylor Swift CD. My buddy may not have told me the truth. Any ideas how to fix this mess. I’m waiting here at the library.

The Texan: Well, Mr. Daddy-O, which is such a cool name for a dude that lives in the desert. You have a problem, but it’s fixable. First, I think your ex-buddy sold you a rotten bill of goods. I grew up in Texas and know a lot about our critters. From your description, you likely have a half-wild, half-domesticated coyote, which is the worst kind: you never know when that wild streak is going to come out. One minute, he’s lying on the floor watching Lassie with the kids, and then he grabs little Susie by the throat and drags her out the doggy door in the kitchen. You can’t trust a Franken-dog. I suggest you let your dog loose and see how it goes with the coyotes. I’ve been to Planet Marfa a few times, and you folks are just too damn weird. I’m sending your wife a CD of Dirty Dancing and an autographed picture of Patrick Swayze dancing the Bug-a-loo, and of course, a box of Cherry Bombs to throw at the doggy if he doesn’t leave on his own.

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The Mooch-O-Matic life Meter


Life Is A Percentage Game

A few weeks ago, my buddy Mooch and I were driving to Glenrose on a little road trip. We often take an adventure when we hear of something worth investigating. The stranger the better to occupy our precious time.

Mooch heard from someone at the feed store that a lady owns a pig that recently received the “Purple Paw,” the most prestigious civilian award an animal can receive for bravery. We have to see this pig for ourselves since Glenrose is right in our back yard.

Two hours of searching, we find the lady and her pig living in the RV Park by the river. This one is a wild goose chase. It seems her little boy didn’t win a prize in the stock show, so she took a purple TCU lanyard and tied a large gold-painted Mardi-Gras coin on the lanyard, making the pig a medal. This satisfied the whining child and turned the pig into a big shot. Now the kid and the pig think they are hot stuff and are raising hell in the RV Park. The expedition wasn’t a complete waste of time, we ate barbecue at the “Squealing Piglet” and topped it off with some pecan pie and Blue Bell ice cream.

Driving back to Granbury, the oil message light came on warning me I had ten percent oil life left on the old Honda. I bragged to Mooch about how smart my car is, and it seems to know everything. I mentioned, jokingly so, that it would be great if some pharmaceutical company could invent a device to tell us, humans, how much life we have left. Mooch, ever the tinkerer, has a small invention lab in his shed and is always coming up with strange things. He said he would look into that. I knew he would.

A week goes by, and Mooch shows up at my door with a white box under his arm. We sit at my kitchen table, and he pushes the box over my way, urging me to open it. Before I could get the lid off, he yells, ” I did it, its the invention we talked about, its a Mooch-O- Matic Life Meter, we are going to be wealthy.”

I open the box and pull out what appears to be a digital children’s thermometer. On the back are a crudely installed USB port and a sticker reading Mooch Matic. I’m impressed that he could invent something like this so quickly. In my book, his rating just increased by twenty points.

Knowing Mooch was about to explode with pride, I ask him,”What’s in this thing and how does it work?”

Mooch proudly exclaims, ” I took a “Tommy Bear In The Summer Sun” children’s digital rectal thermometer, added two chips from a Nokia flip phone, the activation strips from a “Ellen’s Own”digital pregnancy test, a chip from a Martha Stewart Meat Thermometer, a few innards from my old Amazon Firestick and a USB port so you can save the information. Now all that’s left is to test it on a human. I tried it out on my dog Rex, and damn if he doesn’t have 35% life left. The cat saw me testing Rex and is hiding, so now it’s down to you and me. How about you be the next participant?”

I reluctantly agreed to be the first human to test the Mooch-O-Matic. I entered the bathroom, inserted the device into the proper orifice, and waited until I heard the three beeps that signaled the reading was complete. After straightening myself up a bit I exited the bathroom and gave the device to Mooch. He scrolled through a menu and then blurted out, “holy crap, you have 25% life left, you lucky S.O.B.”

Well, there ya go buddy, I’m going to be watching many more Super Bowl’s. Mooch then took the device into the bathroom to test himself. After ten minutes, I’m getting worried so I knock on the door.

In my best-concerned tone, I said, ” Mooch, you okay, little buddy, you didn’t fall and break a hip, did you?” Mooch opened the door, and his face is the color of snow-whites butt. With a shaking hand, he handed me the device. I looked at the reading and was shocked. Mooch has 1.5% life left, which translates to, he could assume room temperature any minute or by morning at the latest. We are both speechless, and Mooch has tears in his old watery eyes.

Without saying a word, he leaves the house, and me holding the prototype of our disappearing wealth. Just for testing sake, I pulled a previously frozen whole chicken from the fridge and inserted the Mooch-O-Matic into the deceased bird’s butt. Three beeps later, the soon to be chicken dinner that has been dead for who knows how long, reads 35% life left.

I thought for a moment about calling poor Mooch to tell him his device is faulty, but he owes me $200.00, so I’ll let him sleep on this until he pays up.

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Hello Dalai…


Dalai “Tex” Lama

My sainted Mother’s second cousin, Elfinian Keebler, owned one of the largest cattle ranches in Texas. Located between Mineral Wells and Ranger, Texas. It took four days to cover the width and another two days or so to ride the length. By Texas standards, it was a residential lot, but 3,800 acres ain’t what it used to be in the 1950s.

Elfinian’s daughter, Cookie, wasn’t into raising cattle, although she was the proverbial FFA queen. She had gone steady with every boy in high school and most of the ranch hands and had been riding horses since she could crawl. Her older brother, Chip, was a knock off the old Keebler block; he was a cowboy to the bone, raised on Roy Rogers and Gene Autry. His mama, Piddle, fancied herself as a debutant who married low and wanted her baby boy to be a doctor of some sort, but Chip was a dunce and had the IQ of a piss-ant: riding the range was about all he was good for, and his horse did most of the thinking. Cookie was the plucky little prickly one and decided she was taking the ranch in a different direction, creating a stink between her and Daddy Elfinian. Cookie wanted to raise Llamas and Highland goats. In Texas, anything but cattle and horses is considered blasphemy, and sheep and goats aren’t welcome except on the supper menu.

A year into her Llama plan, Daddy put the brakes on. One Hundred Llamas, forty donkeys to guard the Llamas against Coyotes, and half a dozen cow dogs to keep the donkeys under control were more than Papa Keebler could swallow. The donkeys and dogs had lost interest in the Llamas and had gone back to hanging out with the cattle. The critters were pretty, but they were no better than a cow: eat, spit, and crap.

A contingent of robe-wearing folks in limousines arrived at the ranch house on a Saturday afternoon. A realtor from Mineral Wells introduced them as followers of the Dalai Lama, most recently of Tibet, a tiny country in Asia. Elfinian had never heard of this Lama guy, but he invited them in for a set down, some of Piddles’s baked cookies, and a drink of Jack Daniels. The head robe-wearing spokesperson was the Dalai Lama’s sister, Deli Lama. She wanted to buy a piece of the Keebler Ranch so the Dalai could have refuge from the Chinese who had booted him out of Tibet, and he wanted to raise a Llama or some hairy sheep, his favorite spirit animal.

Papa Keebler sold the group three hundred acres, including the existing herd of Llamas and all the donkeys and cow dogs. It was a win-win deal. Cookie volunteered to help get the ranch workable and show the tinder-foots the art of Texas ranching.

Eight weeks later, the Dalai Llama arrived in a private helicopter, touching down on the new helipad next to the ranch house an army of Monks and Hari Krishna volunteers had constructed for his holiness. His sister, Deli, her daughter Carol, and The Keebler family were there to welcome him to Texas. He stepped out of the chopper wearing a white Stetson from Leddy’s Western Store over in Fort Worth. The multi-talented Monks also played many instruments, so they broke into a rousing rendition of San Antonio Rose and then The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You. The Dalai felt right at home and immediately asked for a “coldbeer.”

After an all-nighter traditional Texas BBQ and a dozen kegs of Pearl and Tibetian Beer, The Dalai Lama surprised everyone by mounting a horse at sunrise and touring the ranch with Cookie and Elfinian. He had picked up a pair of jeans, some Justin boots, and a 44 Colt pistol in Fort Worth, and like in the movies, he was itching to plug him some Hombres. He also had purchased a twin-engine Cesena T50 airplane like Sky King flew and wanted Cookie to be his sidekick. Elfinian managed to wrangle the pistola from the Dalai before someone wound up planted, and he damned sure didn’t want his daughter flying in a plane with this loco-Lama.

The Dalai’s sister, Deli, and her daughter, Carol, were huge fans of New York musicals, especially Carol Channing. Miss Channing was in Fort Worth appearing at the Casa Manana production of “Hello Dolly,” so the Dalai Lama arranged for Carol and the entire theater company to put on an open-air show at his new Llama ranch. A cast of a hundred, the orchestra and sets were delivered by trucks, rigged, and a portable stage was built near the Llama corral. Half the ranching community was seated on the tailgate of their pickups, beer coolers stocked with Pearl and Mama’s, and babies scurried around the grassy lawn in front of the ranch house. The sun went down, the lights came up, and Carol Channing, as “Dolly,” walked up to the mike and sang, ” Hello Dalai, it’s so nice to have you back where you belong.” This kind of stuff can only happen in Texas.