Tonight, I discovered that my pitching arm doesn’t work anymore. Listening to the debate, I couldn’t tell who deserved my ire. Trump could have done better, and Harris surely had the questions, possibly weeks in advance, so it wasn’t really a debate but a corrugated yuk-yuk party. I started scanning my den for objects to hurl at my flat screen. My Dallas Cowboys honorary brick would go through the set and possibly the wall, so that was out. Maybe a vinyl record album, but then I like them too much. A music CD, nope, I like them too. Maybe a sandal, nope, might ruin the footwear. So I threw an old Texas Highways magazine, and it bounced off: no power in my throwing arm anymore. Trump did bring up the Haitians eating people’s pets, which got a yuk from the moderators, but folks, that is true. I read that one Ohio grandmother watched a hungry Haitian eat her little Yorkie while she still held the leash. Haitians have a new dish, Kitty Tacos, which we’ve likely eaten before if you lived in Texas. I can’t take any more politics, so this will be my last post about the subject. Chapter 10 on Wagons Ho to California is about in the can, so stay tuned for that. May the force be with you…well, maybe not; Luke Skywalker likes Harris. Why did he have to go and ruin my Star Wars memories?
Tall Tales and Ripping Yarns from The Great State Of Texas
Notes From The Cactus Patch 