Tag: Books

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Ask A Texan: Wife Moves To New York City To Be A Social Worker


Advice For Non-Texan Husbands Who Are Hearing Impaired

This Texan received a letter from Mr. Bobby Joe Boudreaux from Chigger Bayou, Louisiana. Seems his wife is determined to go to New York City and work as a social worker for the new communist mayor, Mamdani.

Mr. Boudreaux: My wife of thirty years, Lolita Belle, says she is moving to New York City to work for that commie whack job, Mamdani. Since he is replacing the police force with social workers who will talk to the criminals instead of arresting them. Lolita Belle is a world champion talker. She starts in around 7 am and goes until after bedtime. She even talks in her sleep, so I have to wear earplugs or turn my hearing aids off. She’s worn our four iPhones in the last year, talking to her relatives over in Shreveport. She stops folks in the grocery store and starts telling them about the nutritional values of the food they are buying. The poor folks are cornered and can’t escape. Our preacher at the Chigger Bayou Fourth Baptist let her lead communion one Sunday, and she got carried away, talking for an hour about why the church should be using real wine and Ritz crackers instead of Welch’s grape juice and crunchy bread. Now the church won’t let us in the door. She got stopped by a policeman for speeding, and she gave the poor cop a thirty-minute explanation on speed limits and why his uniform didn’t fit properly, and he needed to get his teeth whitened. The poor policeman finally gave her twenty dollars just to stop, and he got on his motorcycle and took off. She thinks if she can talk a policeman out of a ticket, then she can speak a criminal into being a good guy, just like that socialist street rat, Mamadami, who isn’t even an American, thinks will work. She read that all his new staff will be women, so she can have some sisters to talk to. I need some help down here.

The Texan: I hear your pain. ( pun intended ). Some folks are born with a genetic predisposition to constantly orate. My late, late, late, aunt, Beulah, from Santa Anna, Texas, ran off three husbands and at least a dozen dogs and cats for the same reason. When her priest was giving her the last rites before she passed away, she wouldn’t stop telling him what to say, so he just left. Short of using a shock collar like folks do with those noisy Beagles, I would let her go on up to New York and work for that commie pinko rat. If she can talk a cop out of a ticket, the poor criminal will probably give up and beg to be arrested just to shut her up. I’m sending her a CD language course on how to talk like a New Yorker, and to help a brother out, I’ll cover the cost of the airfare. I’m also sending you a box of Cherry Bombs to help relieve your anxiety. There’s nothing like blowing up Fire Ant mounds to calm a man down. Keep in touch.

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Why Every Writer Deserves to Call Themselves an Author


A while back, an obnoxious blogger that fancied herself a serious author said that writers are not authors, and real authors are those that have been published and cut their teeth in academia, meaning a teacher or a professor of sorts. The rest of the poor souls plodded on through pages of typos and third-rate editing. I know that Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Capote would likely not agree with her observation.

Being the smart-ass that my mother raised well, I challenged the blogger on her assessment of the current literary scene and its “wink-wink” secret membership.

I knew she was a teacher right away because the following lecture and browbeating reminded me of high school. Much high-handed rhetoric and pontification without explaining anything. Sound familiar?

My measured response was that you must first be a writer to become an author. A writer is anyone that puts to paper a story of fact or fiction. It matters not if anyone ever reads your effort; it’s done and sealed. If your writing makes it to a publishing house or a website, you may call yourself an author, but you are still a writer. Nothing changes but a definition and perhaps a fat check.

My first writing was around ten years old and was on a Big Chief tablet. I was working my way to being the second coming of my beloved Mark Twain.

My uplifting teacher at the time had no problem telling me I would likely become a writer. Of what, I asked? She said maybe a book or a novel or a newspaperman; she thought I had a knack for the genre. She did encourage me to learn typing, which I did on a 1930s-era Underwood that occupied my parent’s dining room table. I was the only kid in our neighborhood that knew typing. My friends were google-eyed envious as if I had broken the enigma code or figured out the Orphan Annie decoder ring. I did gloat a bit, but not too much.

At 76 years old, I consider myself a writer; with over 200 short stories and interviews to my name, they attest to my efforts.

I have, over the years, been published a few times; Interviews about the rock scene in the 60s and early country music, so even though I received little to no money, I could, if I wished to, call myself an author. But it’s all a wordplay around egos. So, until I can come up with something as serious as Thomas Wolfe, Harper Lee, Truman Capote, or my beloved Mark Twain, I will remain a humble writer.

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Ask A Texan: All Taped Out…


The Texan

Somewhat Intellectual Advice For Folks That Don’t Have An Intellect Or Can’t Spell The Word…

I received a letter written on the back of a missing cat poster. I called the number, and the owner confirmed that the cat had come home, which is a good thing. The man who wrote the letter on the absconded poster, A Mr. Thurston Howell, claims his wife has lost her mind and is attempting a home remedy facelift.

Mr. Howell: Mr. Texan, I saw your article in the Wall Street Journal and thought you might be able to offer some sound advice. I ran out of printing paper, so I used a missing cat poster that I found stapled to my mailbox to print this letter. I hope you don’t mind. Besides, the lady put the posters everywhere in our upscale neighborhood, which is against our HOA rules here in Beverly Hills. It seems her cat goes missing at least once a month, and Elly Mae Clampett, the sweet girl down the street, searches and finds the missing furball. The crazy cat lady has around fifty cats, so missing one would be no big deal. I found three of them eating a mouse on the Cordovan leather backseat of my Bentley last week and had to trade the car in for a new one. Anyway, that’s not the issue I’m addressing.

My wife, Lovey, has been begging for a face lift. She says all the women at the country club are getting them. I told her no way because, since our banker, Mr. Drysdale, made some bad investments with our money, we are on a strict budget. She’s a big fan of that TikTok thing on her phone. She saw that an influencer in Hawaii has invented a do-it-yourself at-home facelift using Gorilla Duct Tape. I’m familiar with the benefits of duct tape. When Lovey and I were stuck on a deserted island a few decades ago when a tour boat we were on hit a reef and marooned us with a group of idiots, one of the smart guys used a roll of duct tape and some Palm Tree bark to fix the hole in the boat, and we were able to get back to Waikiki a few years later, just in time to see Elvis on the beach filming a movie.

Lovey came to breakfast this morning with her face wrapped up in Gorilla Duct tape. It frightened me so badly that I spat out my coffee and ruined my Lobster Pâté breakfast roll. Rosie Jetson, our robotic chef and maid, had to stop cleaning the pool and clean up our deck-side breakfast table. She had applied makeup and lipstick to her tape-face, and now she looks like the Bride of Frankenstein. Our little dog, Gilligan, was so scared that he hid in the pool house and won’t come out. Lovey claims that after six weeks, when she removes the tape, she will be as beautiful as her best friend, Ginger, the hot red-headed unemployed actress she hangs out with. I think she’s lost her coconuts. Do you have any recommendations on how I can put an end to this madness? I attached a picture of Lovey so you can see for yourself.

Lovey Howell

The Texan: Well, Mr. Howell, forgive me for being forward, but you can probably afford a good plastic surgeon for Lovey if you live in Beverly Hills, belong to the country club and drive Bentley cars. It sounds like you’re being a bit stingy. TikTok has messed up a lot of folks. My daughter-in-law followed an influencer’s advice and used Super Glue to style her hair, only to wind up in the ER, where the surgeon, with the help of a beautician, had to remove all her”Rapunzel-esque” mane. As a result, she is now as bald as Kojak. So, if your wife is stupid enough to do what some moron on TikTok advises, she may well need to see an expensive Beverly Hills shrink. I would first take away her smartphone and have Rosie, your robot maid, destroy it. Then, I would have Rosie hold Lovey down and rip off the duct tape. Tell Ginger to lie like a garage sale rug and tell your wife she is as pretty as that other girl, Mary Ann. Call Elly Mae Clampett to come down and style Lovie’s hair and loan her a tight pair of American Eagle jeans to accentuate her figure and make her look like Sydney Sweeney. If that doesn’t do the trick, it’s likely that Granny Clampett, Elly’s grandmother, will have some sort of possum belly-based cream to fix the damage from the duct tape. I’m sending Lovey a CD of a great TV series to watch while she recovers. “Petticoat Junction,” I’m also enclosing a box of cherry bombs so you can blow up the cats before they ruin the leather seats in your newest Bentley. Let me know how this all turns out.

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Why I Missed My Calling as a Writer


I was born too late to meet my calling as a writer. Instead of being birthed in 1949, I should have appeared in 1931, no later than 1933, then I may have had a fighting chance. By the time I began writing about serious topics, I was in high school, in the mid-1960s. We had the Vietnam War, Hippies, rock music, and pot to contend with. Writing about Hippies held no interest for me, but the war, music, and politics did, and so I wrote a few things for my high school paper and journalism class that brought instant grief my way. My mentor and writing coach, Mrs. Mischen, chastised me for the language I used, which, in retrospect, was a bit crude and too hip for a high school paper. However, she also gave me an “atta-boy” for having the courage to put myself out there. I wasn’t anti-establishment, anti-war, or anti-Hippie; I wasn’t anti-anything: only a rock musician playing in a popular band, and that’s about all I had to offer the world at that point. That’s why I should have been a writer in the 1950s, hanging out in the Village with Kerouac and Boroughs, and even Hemingway and Steinbeck in late-night bars, smoking unfiltered cigarettes, drinking whiskey, and arguing about the fate of America after the two recent wars that had led to a drastic shift in our country. I would have been a perfect cohort. Instead, I spent my childhood years writing in a Big Chief Tablet about neighborhood shenanigans and mailing my articles to the Fort Worth Press, hoping for a spot in the Sunday news, all the time, believing I was the incarnation of Mark Twain. Now, I’m too damn old to be the incarnation of anyone, and can’t remember what to write, and can’t find my notebooks full of ideas.

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Is This The Real Life? Is This Just Fantasy? Caught In A Landslide, No Escape From Reality


Me Before I Quit Smoking

Perhaps Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty had it right? Drive a beat-up car across the country, searching for the real America; find that touchable and believable reality. The young Marylou is along for the ride; she adds the angst to their search: a real woman, one to drive the two of them mad. Three is a tangled mess. Two recovering Catholic boys question their upbringing. Harsh realisms, self-flagellating, pot smoking, cheap liquor guzzling, teetering on becoming a criminal or a saint.

Roughians, hooligans, hipsters, Bohemians, and rapscallions. These were the self-educated beast shaped by the great depression that taught us that America isn’t perfect and never can be as long as flawed and greedy people make decisions for the masses. Lords and Cerfs; Alms for the poor, sir?

The late 1940s was a time of realism. Fantasy was for the dreams of children. The recent brutal world war ended the tragic depression years, and sacrifices and loss of human life in far-off lands all played out in real-time, not on a roll of film. There was no “escape from reality.”

The coterie of Bohemian writers and artists was forming. Jackson Pollock was dripping paint, Picasso was mutilating women on canvas, and Papa Hemingway, John Steinbeck, Alan Ginsberg, William Burroughs, Neal Cassady, and Jack Kerouac sat around small tables in dingy cafes and bars slamming down hooch, and writing the real stuff that made us smile, think, cry, or recoil in disgust. They took the American reality from the 1930s and 1940s and gave it to us with a backhanded slap to the face. It awakened some of us, the ones that paid attention.

Jack Kerouac and the rest of his group weren’t meant for literary sainthood; they were too stained, too fallible, and over-baptized. America was real; life was not always the astringed family of mom and pop, two kids, and a cocker spaniel. Sometimes it hurt. More often than not, it was damned good. Men were riddled with imperfections but still knew how to be male, and women were as perfect as they were created to be.

Somewhere on this trip, along the road, America lost its reality, and people turned to fantasy. Now, we are lost in a landslide, with no escape from a warped reality. The road goes on.

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Dispatches From The Cactus Patch, 8.14.25


Blue Jeans, And Chromosomes, And Boobies…Oh My!

Oh, help us, Sweet Baby Jesus, Taylor Swift is dropping a new album. Now, she believes she is a Las Vegas Showgirl instead of a tortured poet like poor Sylvia Plath, who met a tragic end. Makes one wonder if the swift one knew about her demise? More cartoon music for the young girl masses that follow her blindly into the abyss of pop-less music. One day, they will awaken and grow up to be mothers and productive citizens, just maybe. I guess it’s better than standing atop someone’s Tesla and twerking their asses to the public.

The former first son and all-around good American criminal fellow says the first lady met her husband through Jeffrey Epstein. She calls it a lie and slander, demanding a public apology; otherwise, she will sue the Hunted one into oblivion for a billion bucks. The petulant former boy wonder artist and meth aficionado says F…that and is refusing to apologize. I don’t think Daddy-o will be able to save him this one last time. The Trumps have more money than Bubba Gump, and he has zero. Dr. Jill needs to drug test her boy. What a moronic man.

I am a cancer survivor, so the latest news from the Cowboys camp bothers me. After fifteen years, Smiley Jones, their Arkansas hillbilly owner, comes out with news that he beat cancer via experimental drugs. Why wait so long to tell the world? Let me guess, the Cowboys got their butt’s handed to them in pre-season, the team’s star players are threatening to move on for more money, they haven’t been within sniffing distance of a Super Bowl trophy in 30 years, and Jones is playing the “pity” card on his fans, who are deserting in mass. Poor Jerry, poor Cowboys, show me some love and keep buying those high-priced tickets, absurdly priced memorabilia, and $ 15.00 beers at his giant stadium that needs curtains to block the sun to keep the teams and the fans from melting. I know, I’ve been to many a game there, and my son, unfortunately, owns two seats that he can’t unload.

Thanks to a young actress, Sydney Sweeney, white girls are back! I’m talking really back. Sororities are going crazy, girls are buying American Eagle jeans again. All American blonde, brunette, and redheaded young women are once again strolling the streets, driving their cars to the mall, going to the beach, attending public functions, and making a spectacle of themselves in public—all thanks to a cute little gal with ginormous boobs and an All American girl spirit.

Putin and Zelensky, who’s going to win? Who you gonna call? Not Ghostbusters, but The President, and he should enlist Dana White to host a pay-per-view event at Madison Square Garden, pitting Putin against Zelensky in a UFC-style cage fight. Whoever wins will get the land, either Ukraine, Russia, or both. My money is on Zelensky. He’s younger, and there are reports that Pooty-Poot wears a Depends.

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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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Ask A Texan 4.29.25


Decent advice for folks who might not live in Texas but wish they did.

The Texan

A fella sent me a note on a Tractor Supply postcard. It seems Mr. Leroy Buford of Chigger Bayou, Louisiana, has suffered the wrath of a vengeful wife.

Leroy: Mr. Texan, my wife, Lavernfullella, got mad at me for gambling away my paycheck on the Dallas Cowboys game. I’ll admit it was my fault; who in their right mind would bet on those boys to win. The case of Bud Light had something to do with it. Anyhow, I came home, and our house was gone. She had hooked up her pickup to the trailer and pulled that sumbitch out of the Chigger Bayou Trailer Park. I don’t have a home and am living in the old lady next door’s tool shed. Can you give me some advice on how to fix this mess?

The Texan: First off, Mr. Leroy, never bet or watch those washed-up Americas team again. That Hillbilly with a gold card ruined a great Texas franchise. Secondly, why didn’t you remove the tires from your home? You’d be sleeping warm and cuddly right now. This scenario reminds the Texan of his friend, the great white hunter, Bwana of San Saba. He had a nice Airstream on his hunting lease in the Texas rough country. He was sleeping good one night, dreaming of killing a Bambi. Some Cartel boys liked the looks of his fancy trailer, so they hooked up to it and pulled it away. He was sleeping soundly and didn’t know he was being hijacked. He woke up the next morning in a parking lot in Juarez, Mexico. He looked for a policeman, but he only found two little boys wanting him to come to meet their sister for twenty dollars. Lesson learned, take the tires off your home and hide them somewhere. Hope you find your Hacienda. Keep in touch.

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Chapter 17. Back Home In Texas: Looking For That Marble Angel


“A young man is so strong, so mad, so certain, and so lost. He has everything and he is able to use nothing.” Thomas Wolfe

There is no winter like one in Texas. The cold comes with a Blue Norther. It roars down from Canada into the panhandle, gathering tumbleweeds and dust as it goes. It marches south across the flat plains to the Gulf of Mexico. The wet cold cuts deep, biting like the sharp edges of a frozen North Pole. Eskimos would take the first train back home. It is a harsh welcome for a man with tropical-thinned blood.

Johnny’s train pulled into Fort Worth as an ice storm blanketed the city. He had intended to walk two miles from the station. But then he saw a man slip and fall on the ice, and he called for a cab. The ride was rough. It had been over a decade since he faced winter, and now he recalled why he had chosen warmer places to call home.

The house appeared forlorn in winter’s cold, pale light, smaller than he remembered. It was worn out, resembling a sharecropper’s shanty more than his childhood home. He scanned the front porch; no marble angel welcomed him home. Thomas Wolfe was right.

Johnny and his parents left Fort Worth twelve years ago. They set out for California in search of work, to rebuild their lives and forge a future for their children. He was a boy cast into the vast unknown, adrift on the winds of a long journey. This adventure would shape the man he would become. His parents were like ship’s captains, guiding their small crew. He and his dog were the sailors. Their Ford was a proud schooner, and California was the mythical land where treasures lay hidden. They never discovered the chest, yet the treasures came to them in ways they had not anticipated.

Standing on the ice-covered sidewalk, Johnny saw a light in the kitchen window. His father, John Henry, sat at the table. A mug of coffee in his hand. A cigarette slowly burned in an ashtray. His bowl of oatmeal was there too. His mother was absent. She never woke early. Johnny stepped onto the porch and knocked. His father opened the door, and warmth rushed out. After briefly embracing, Johnny settled at the worn table with a steaming mug. The table had seen much—his parents’ fights, their choices, celebrations of childhood, and now his reluctant return. His mother was not sleeping; she had gone to an aunt’s house months ago.

John Henry, sipping his coffee, gave Johnny a brief rundown. Norma, his elder sister, married a schoolmate and now lives in Albuquerque. A second baby was coming soon, or maybe it had already come. John Henry couldn’t remember. His words were hard, filled with the bitterness of a man worn down. Bertha fought with the drinks. The magical elixirs had returned. She wrote letters to their friends in California, a compulsion. Sister Aimee was the one she favored. Norma had taken as much as she could shoulder and left with her husband. Johnny did not expect a joyful reunion, but this was a sorry state of affairs.