I haven’t attended the State Fair of Texas in a decade or more, and I don’t intend to anytime soon. I don’t like crowds with guns and am afraid of getting caught in a gang crossfire. Eating a Fletchers Corn Dog ain’t worth the risk.
One highlight of my visit when I was young, besides watching the hoochi-cootchi dancers and seeing Bonnie and Clyde’s death car, was listening to Big Tex, the 55-foot-tall talking cowboy, say, “Howdy folks, welcome to the State Fair of Texas.” For decades, he wore Dickies western clothes, size “G” for giant, though now he wears Cavender’s western wear, and a Resistol Hat completes his wardrobe.
The picture above isn’t Big Tex; it is puny-assed James Talarico on his state fair day, thinking he’ll soon be the new Big Tex in town. In Fort Worth, I see a lot of young women and their mothers dressed like that: blue-jean too-short shorts or skirts, boots, halter tops, and hats; it’s a Texas thing: watch Taylor Sheridens “Land Man,” filmed in Fort Worth, and you’ll see. He’s not married, no girlfriend, no kids, no dog, nothing, and he drives a tiny electric Prius, except in his TV commercials, where he drives a rented pickup truck and wears jeans and boots, so he was likely alone or with someone on his staff, or worse. He would be a big hit in the Oak Lawn area of Dallas.
He is a confused Democrat running for the Texas Senate against Ken Paxton, who ain’t no angel either, and claims to be a New Age Christian, a New Age Pastor, a New Age man of God, plus a hero to working-class Texans. He throws around lofty claims, but not all of them hold up. He believes there are six genders, God is non-binary, and Christianity has got it all wrong; his way is better than God, Jesus, and the Bible. His way must be one hell of a book.
He was an educator for a time, then served in the Texas House, and then attended Divinity School and Harvard. He also graduated from the University of Texas in Austin, which says a lot about this weirdo and how the school and the city indoctrinated him. Even Wavy Gravy, the old hippy of Woodstock fame, said in an interview that Austin, its hipsters, and its old hippies, who came there in the 60s and never left, were too much for him, and that he and his Hog Farm group fed the folks at Woodstock and gobbled up all the brown acid Arlo Guthrie said to stay away from. I’m with Wavy on this one.
Most of us Texans don’t consider Austin, and its inhabitants, part of our state; Houston and Dallas come right behind it. I lived 30 or so miles north of Austin in Georgetown for three years, but the city had the good sense to erect a 10-foot electrified fence around it to keep out the Austinite Artistic Radicalized Whole Food fed Zombies; now they have made their way to one of my favorite places, Marfa, way out in the Chihuahuan Desert in far West Texas, and the folks out there make sure they don’t stay more than a few months: they have their ways to oust them, but keep it a secret. The fellow at the front desk of the Hotel Piasano wanted to tell me, but was skittish about it. I’ll find out from my buddy Sagebrush Sonny on my next trip to Planet Marfa, my favorite bar, if he’s still alive. The last time I saw him, those damn nucleurized, mean-as-hell Chihuahuas that inhabit the desert chewed off his good arm, and now he’s down to one good leg, a wooden leg, a gimp arm, and uses a straw to sip his beer. He needs to stay out of the desert. But no, he had to help that poor, misguided, dysfunctional family from Lake Minitonka, Minnesota, set up camp in the desert. I wrote about the incident in an earlier story.
I would love to see this Talarico cat debate my Pastor at church about the Bible and the Word, and try to explain the six genders and the non-binary God and all the LXJBQ crap he believes in. It would be as fun as a WWF cage fight against a confused Demon.
In my last post about “The Texan Heads to South Dakota,” I mentioned riding an ATV with the cowboys and cowgirls and the ill-tempered Bison; well, that didn’t happen: I blame that grandiose idea on my meds or age; both came into play, and Momo brought me back to reality. She’s a retired nurse, so she knows things we common folk don’t.
Momo and I don’t travel much outside of Texas, but this year we decided to take the trip to South Dakota to see the famous Mount Rushmore, the Crazy Horse Monument, and the annual Bison Roundup at Custer State Park. We don’t have much time left in our hourglass, so we figured this would be our longest adventure.
We are senior citizens, old people, to be exact, and didn’t realize we couldn’t have hours in one day and about the same the next. In our foggyds, we are still in our 50s and as robust as Jack LaLanne, who lived to be 97, and went through half a dozen Happy, the white German Shepherd co-host on his workout show. My late 1950s-oriented mother used to stand in front of the black-and-white television, working out with him while smoking a Winston cigarette and sipping black coffee. She worked out well between coughing fits. I neither smoke nor work out, so I might live a bit longer.
We stayed the night in Wichita, Kansas, at a great hotel on the university campus. As we drove through the Kansas farmlands, the famous song “Wichita Lineman” stuck in my head for a few hours. Jimmy Webb and Glen Campbell made a musical dream team. If only Glen had married Bobbi Gentry, his life would have been different. I swear that woman had the longest legs and the best head of hair in country music, and that’s before she ever sang a note. Glen had her as a guest on his Goodtime Hour show back in the late sixties and asked her how long it took to shave those legs, right before they sang a duet. She said it took a couple of hours and two stiff cocktails. Look it up; it’s on YouTube, just like everything else that ever happened.
From Wichita, we drove to North Platte, Nebraska: not much of a city, populated by people who don’t know how to coordinate their clothing or wash their vehicles, with all the men, and a few women, wearing their gimme caps backward, and Walmart is the main retailer in town. We stayed one night at a hotel there, then moved on to Keystone, South Dakota, home to Mount Rushmore, deep in the Black Hills of the Dakotas. A three-day trip that should have taken two, but our old bodies and weary traveling souls couldn’t keep up. I will give a shout-out to how much I despise using Google and Apple Maps on my iPhone. I would have done better with a folded paper map. Please, Elon, start a map service that actually works and doesn’t give you a mental breakdown.
When we got to our hotel, I realized that somewhere along the journey, my car key fob had fallen out of my pocket, probably while I was filling up our pickup with $4.99-a-gallon gas. We searched the pickup, the room, the suitcases, other people’s rooms, the parking lot, and the woods, but found nothing. Honda said we should take the car to a locksmith to change the vehicle code so the lost key fob wouldn’t work. We drove to Rapid City in the rain and fog, barely able to see the mountain roads. We got it done, got back to the hotel, and drove to our room in Keystone, $175.00 poorer. Then the day we leave for home, Momo finds my keys in the pocket of one of her thirty jackets and sweaters she keeps in the backseat of our truck. She is permanently freezing to death, even in 100-degree weather. Now we are down to one set of keys for the pickup, and we are both slipping into phase one of the derangement category. If nothing else, this trip gave us a grand showtime presentation of what old folks shouldn’t be doing.
But it ain’t over yet, dear hearts. While backing out of the handicap parking space at the 1880 steam locomotive train ride through the Black Hills from Keystone to Hill City, I backed into an illegally parked car behind us, which gave us no room to back out. So we left a note on the car’s windshield, as we do in Texas with the number and such, and finally, through the Keystone police deputy, tracked the owner down in Rapid City. She has a detached retina and shouldn’t be driving anything but a walker; her car had numerous damages from previous collisions, or had been purchased at a demolition derby, and she was parked in a narrow drive that was marked “No Parking.” A concerned elderly person called the cops on us: Bless their little heart. The deputy was very understanding, noting it wasn’t in a parking-lot-marked space, and said Barny Fife—was his hero. Now Flo and her gang have to fix her car and our pickup. What the hell can go wrong next? Car damage, lost keys, nothing left but a medical emergency. This was part of the preview I mentioned earlier.
Mount Rushmore is a wonder to behold. One of the most amazing things we had witnessed. Old George, Thomas Jefferson, Teddy Roosevelt, and Honest Abe, their faces carved into a granite mountain.
We met folks from all over our country and Europe. The folks in Europe like to come here for some odd reason, and Americans like to go there. Doesn’t make sense to me. My sister, a world traveler, hasn’t visited much of the US, except Seattle, San Francisco, the Gulf, and Oklahoma, and thinks you have to go overseas for a proper vacation. I told her she should move to Europe, but instead, she sold her home in Plano to a Muslim family with numerous wives and a passel of kids, and now lives in Broken Bow, Oklahoma, near her daughter and grandson. She says her old home is now a temporary neighborhood Mosque and “Learing Centre.”
I guess I’m just a Texas bumpkin with no taste in my mouth. I don’t give one silver dime about visiting Europe: they all drive on the wrong side of the road, the language is a hindrance, and the food is questionable at best. Give me a Whataburger Junior meal No. 1, with fries and a drink; now that’s fine dining. We did stumble upon a wonderful restaurant in Keystone, The Powderhouse Lodge. Best darn food I’ve had anywhere, except for Momo’s steaks. The hostess, an older lady named Sherrye, was a wonderful old soul, and it was obvious she ran the place like a drill sergeant with a velvet-covered baton.
The Chief Crazy Horse mountain carving monument blew us away. It was better than Mount Rushmore and twice its size. The Lakota Indian Nation is financing it through donations and philanthropy; Jean Kroc, the widow of McDonald’s founder Ray Kroc, is their main source of funding. Our tour guide was Lakota, and I, being part Cherokee, we hit it off. We made secret Indian brotherhood handshakes and whispered promises to take back the country one day. He told me he has a well-supplied secret band of Lakota warriors with Jeeps and big-assed pickups ready to go when the time is right. I gave him my email and phone number.
The high point of the trip, which is the proper name for traveling retired folks. Vacations are for those still working and getting a week or two off each year; the world-famous Bison Roundup in Custer National Park was the high point.
Custer National Park, named after the famous idiot Cavalry General, sits in the middle of the Dakota Black Hills and has about 1,500 to 2,000 Bison roaming around, doing as they please. At around 2,500 pounds, they own the place. It’s a beautiful part of America that everyone should see before we pass on. George Armstrong Custer might have had prestige, a nice mustache, goatee, and long, flowing hair, but the American Indians kicked his butt. Looks and stupidity buy you only so much time; ask any of those fools in Hollywood.
Texas also has herds of Bison. We can thank the famous cattle rancher Charles Goodnight and his hardy frontier Texas wife, Molly, for saving a handful of orphaned Bison calves, raising them, and establishing a large herd of the last of the Plains Bison in Texas. The large, surviving historical herd now lives in Caprock Canyon, near Goodnight Ranch, a Texas state memorial site.
Waking at 4 AM and heading to the park in the dark, we missed our GPS-guided turn and ended up on a dirt road that led us to a paved park road with the other 20,000-plus folks. We waited in a car line for over two hours and eventually reached one of the viewing areas along the steep hills surrounding the corrals where the bison are kept for vet checkups, branding, and a few auctions for ranchers and other state parks hoping to start their own herds.
Armed with our folding chairs and dressed in our best Bison-viewing attire — Stetson hat, western boots, and Wrangler jeans — pure Texan. We made our way across the hill and found a spot that wasn’t flat but was sturdy enough to keep us from rolling down the hill’s steep, rocky slope. We were at the south viewing area where the corrals are located, and I understand there were just as many folks at the North area of the park where the Bison had been gathered a few days before.
Cowboys and Cowgirls from all over the country are picked from thousands of applications to wrangle and drive the Bison. They are not paid a dime and do it for the love of country and our western heritage, and of course they get to herd the largest and meanest beast alive. No wonder the Indians had such a hard time with them. Bison aren’t cattle, not even as docile as a Longhorn, and they have a permanent mean streak, likely because Indians with arrows chased them around the prairies, and then white moronic hunters shot them for sport and their hides: it’s an inherited generational thing. You get too close to one, and you are done for: flipped in the air, stomped into the prairie grass, and sent home in a body bag. They ain’t pets in corrals at the Fort Worth Fat Stock Show. That’s the reason I decided not to take part in the roundup. A 2,500-pound bison is no match for a puny ATV driven by an old idiot.
Long before we could see the herd crest the hills, we could feel the vibration of their hooves pounding the South Dakota prairie through the ground and into our boots. We could see dust rising a few miles away. Thousands of people from every state in our union and Europe stood up, readied their cameras or phones, and prepared for one of the most majestic spectacles in our country.
The sun shone brightly, the sky was deep blue with thin, wispy clouds, and in the distance, over a few large hills on the prairie, we saw the herd emerge, not stampeding, but walking leisurely, with 60 wranglers on horseback keeping them together. A few tried to escape, but the wranglers chased them down and back to the herd. It was a breathtaking sight. Pure American western heritage. People cheered, clapped, wept, and celebrated as the historical herd of American beasts moved on the prairie to their temporary corrals. The spirit of America was alive and on full display that morning. People from every state in our country and Europe came together to witness the 8th wonder of the world. Momo and I will never forget that day.
The girl on the left on the horse is Beth Dutton; Roy Rogers and his dog, Bullitt and Trigger; and Dolly Parton playing the guitar on her horse. That’s me in the ATV.
This Texan and his Mrs. Texan, Momo, are heading to South Dakota next week for the annual cowboy and cowgirl event of rounding up the 1,400-plus Buffalo (Bison) in Custer State Park. No, there will not be another reenactment of the Little Bighorn, and Custer won’t be there. No arrows will be flying through the air. It’s a three-day affair with about 20K folks wandering around drinking beer and eating BBQ.
Most of my readers know I have a dropped right foot and a gimped-up right leg from a botched back surgery, so I can’t run, and on most days I do my best to walk a semi-straight line, which is usually two or three feet either way, off straight.
I want to be part of the roundup; it’s a bucket-list thing, a Texas thing. I grew up herding cattle sitting on a mule on my grandfather’s ranch, so it’s nothing new to me. I contacted a man in Keystone, SD, who is outfitting an all-terrain vehicle with a fully encapsulated safety cage, high-powered operational cattle prods, and GoPro streaming Starlink cameras mounted to the vehicle so I can run and live stream, or in this case drive, with the Bison, sort of like Hemingway did with the bulls in Spain in the 1930s. He was trampled twice, either by the bulls themselves or the terrified Spaniards, but lived to write about it: he was likely inebriated both times. Momo, the Mrs. Texan, refuses to ride with me and may have me arrested for something she can dream up before the Round-Up begins. I know my brain ain’t right; she knows it too, but it’s something I’ve got to do. I’m driven to the point of knowing I will likely be trampled. What is a lightweight all-terrain vehicle to a 2500 pound Buffalo, nothing but a gum wrapper on the ground. They are a bit mean and honary, and pay no attention to stupid folks. They do respect the cowboys and cowgirls on horses, but that’s it: it must be out of tradition. Pretty darn sure they will enjoy the ghost of Dolly Parton singing to them, as well as Beth Dutton and Roy Rogers, Trigger and Bullitt the dog: Dale and Pat or Sky King couldn’t make it this year.
We plan to see all the sites: Mount Rushmore, the Black Hills, Devils Tower ( minus the spaceship), Prairie Dog City, Marshall Dillon’s grave, Custer’s scalp mounted in a glass case, and so on. But mainly we want to be cool, cold, and comfortable. Momo has her new boots, I got a new Cowboy hat, and we are ready if the drive doesn’t kill us.
Texans Have Been Doing It For A Century Or More, And I Was One Of Them
I will admit to being ignorant about some things, and the term ” throwing shade” at someone or something meant nothing to me. Us’n Texans have been doing it for years. I recently discovered what it meant by accident, using AI.
All of my relatives were professionals at this so-called newest trend. My grandmother’s ” Well, bless her little heart,” was the favorite one. The side-eye glance, the eye rolls, the fart, and shaking your leg — all of them —were used around me since childhood. I had no idea it was a form of insult or mockery, just an old farm saying. I’ve done it myself, and to this day, I still say ” Bless their little heart,” which means they are plumb stupid as a dead rock.
Momo, my wife, is not a Texan: she was hauled down here from Pennsylvania for her father’s job at Texas Instruments. She has a few of her own. When you’re uptight about something, you’re ” wound up like a nickel rat.” That’s those cheap 1950s Japanese mice you wound up and let them scurry around the floor; the spring usually broke after a few times, so they became something of a novelty.
My good friend, Jarry Boy Davis, in our teenage rock band years, heard plenty of them from his mother, an in-your-face Southern lady from Memphis. ” He’s as crazy as a peach orchard squirrel; that guy is a stupid tool. Can’t pour piss out of his own boots.” If a girl was downright ugly, she would be called ” an unfortunate-looking little thing.” Same for the boys.
Now that I am old and have nothing to lose, I will participate in more “shading” events, especially when it comes to those “panty waist” men in Washington. Why do we senior citizens dislike our government so intensely? I’ll write about that another time.
The Ozempic crowd in Hollywood seem to be the worst, and the best at it. All of those poor folks, skin and bones, bulging eyes, failing organs, having to be helped to walk onto the movie set, they shade everyone, even themselves, without knowing it. ” Bless their little hearts.”
I dropped by Whataburger a few mornings back for a Taquito and O.J. I’m still not comfortable calling frozen orange juice OJ, considering what Simpson did, but sometimes I still do.
Sitting in his usual booth was Mooch, with Gravy, the clone Chiuauia of Giblet, strapped to his chest in the child carrier. There was an order of biscuits and gravy sitting in front of him with one bite missing. Gravy the dog had a bit of gravy on his little chin, and Mooch looked like he had lost his prized hog. He also appeared to have lost weight. I sat down with my aromatic Taquito and asked why he wasn’t eating. The smell of fresh eggs, sausage and a lucious tortilla wafting around us as if we were in a five star resturant. Gravy stared intently at the tatar tots.
” He says, Mrs. Mooch put me on those GPL-1 drugs, and I don’t have an appetite anymore, for nuthin. They’re gummies and taste real good, so Gravy likes them too, and now he’s not eating, and we’re both looking like Oprah, all skinny and bony.” I will admit, the dog looked worse, bulging eyes, that Ozempic face, and Mooch looked like he had been vacationing at Dachau.
” That clone cat, Here Kitty Kitty, is so skinny she crawled into a Dr Pepper bottle, and I had to call the fire department to get her out. I’ll tell you, we are wasting away here. My wife says she is going to audition for Taylor Sheridan’s new show, and has to have that Hollywood Ozempic look to get a part: the only part she could get now would be a corpse.”
He’s right, everyone in Hollywood looks about to die at any moment, and they are shooting themselves up and gobbling those pills as fast as they can get them from CVS or their favorite pharmady in Tijuana.
I wanted to be sympathetic with him, but my Taquito tasted too darn good, so I gobbled away as he drooled and tears ran down his cheeks. The dog passed out.
Did Fauci Put This Crap On Our Lettuce For Revenge?
A Mister Tom T. Soreass, from Wormdance, Michigan, wrote to me on a Walmart receipt that he and his whole family have come down with explosive diarrhea and the Cyclospoia bug from eating sprouts and iceberg lettuce from the local Walmart. We have it here in Texas too, but we drink whiskey and beer, and it helps kill the buggers.
Tom T. Mr. Texan, you have got to help me here. The family ate our salads the other night from Walmart, the kind they put in cute little clear plastic cartons that cut you to pieces when you try to open them, with a pouch of surprise dressing, and now we are crapping all over our once-nice-smelling home. Lucy, my wife, has about three hundred candles and incense burning, and the plumber has been called twice to unclog the toilets, but I never knew kids had so much crap in them. My kids could fertilize a farm in Somalia with the amount of human waste exiting from their sore little behinds. Lucy and I are suffering as well, as are the hounds, the chickens, the hamsters, and both cats. Our doctor gave us some pills but they don’t do a darn thing, were dying here, third house in the cul-de-sac, with what was once a nice yard. Our neighbors are no help; they don’t want to catch it from us. I think that little rich-assed turnd, Doctor Fauci, or the Rag Head Terrorist in Iran put all this stuff in our food chain. Help!
The Texan: Mr. Tom, I feel your pain. I had a touch of it a few weeks back from a Taco at Taco Bell. I lost ten pounds in two days, but at least my clothes fit better. Mexico uses human waste as fertilizer, and it’s possible that Fauci could have organized a clandestine attack via the hundreds of little secret squirrel labs he has all over the place, and yes, a Rag Head Terrorist could have also put it there, but it’s likely the unhygienic growing practices of the farms in Mexico that are the root problem. I’m sending you a case of that pink stuff and some cherry bombs to keep you occupied while you’re in the bathroom. Did you know a cherry bomb can blow up a bathtub? Fill it with water, light the bomb, and toss it in. It cleans the whole bathroom in a few milliseconds. Add Listerine to the bath water for smell and disinfectant. Dig some holes in the backyard for the kids and show them how we used to do it. They have their phones, so they’ll be ok. Keep in touch, The Texan.
I’m old enough to remember the drought in Texas during the 1950s; it cost my grandfather and every farmer in his township their crops until a small shower dumped almost 8 inches of rain one night. The town of Santa Anna, Texas, had prayed for a miracle, and it came. Just enough to save some of the crops, but many had already lost their farms to the banks, sold their cattle, and given up, moving to Fort Worth to work menial jobs.
My Grandfather was too much of an old hard-ass to do that. He figured Johnson grass was good for something, so he cut it and sold it for hay, at a discount to his friends. Cotton, grain, corn, maize, nothing would grow. No rain, no plants. It wasn’t the 1930s, but it was too close, and they survived those years as well.
Days of playing on the farm, 100-degree-plus temperatures, it was so hot the Rattlesnakes wouldn’t come out, or for us to shoot them with our BB Guns. The chickens weren’t laying, Granny wasn’t making money on eggs, and my grandfather, Papa, had crops that shriveled away like a neglected plant on a hot windowsill. The cows were constantly thirsty, which kept the windmill pumping the well full-time whenever there was a breeze. The stock tanks were dry and cracked; there wasn’t even enough mud for a crawdad to survive.
The farmhouse had no air conditioning; no one had that in those times. It was windows open, pray for a breeze to dampen the sheets at night, and hope to wake up the next morning without the Mountain Boomers stealing you from your sweat-soaked bed. It was a slice of hell on earth, but my cousins and I were young kids, and it didn’t affect us the same as it did our families. I didn’t notice the worry and desperation in my grandparents’ eyes as they went about their chores. I happily shot chickens and snakes with my BB Gun. Children are often clueless about adult misery.
To me, my grandparents were old. They were in their early sixties at that time, so that was ancient. They both looked twenty years older than their actual age: wrinkled, sun-baked, and worked to the bone. A hard life produces a hard exterior
I was six, on the forefront of my life’s journey. A city boy raised by a country mother and city father, playing country kid in the summer. It wasn’t Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, but it came close. They both worked from daylight to dark hoeing weeds, trying to keep what they could alive, suffered monetary problems that would drive a man to drink, and would count change to buy food at the small local grocery store that was less than any convenience store we have today. Whatever food they could grow was immediately canned for the winter or eaten that day. Those good old days, the 1950s, weren’t all that good, looking back now. At the edge of Seventy-Seven years old, I’ve outlived my grandfather by more than a decade. But he thought he was healthy until he wasn’t. Years of cooking everything in lard and saved Bacon grease took its toll on his system, and he died young from a long list of medical issues. Clogged this, hardened that, bad heart, diabetes, you name it, he had it. I personally thought it was all the chicken. All of their children were on their own with families, so no one wanted the farm. Granny sold it for a pittance, moved into a small public housing unit in town, and finished out her life there. The days of the farm and the misery of the drought years of the 1950s are all behind us now.
This relentless heat and drought in Texas give me pause to remember my childhood summers. I’m old now and remember the good times, but this heat and drought bring it all home. The good old days.
A Few Things I Did This Week That Make Sense To Me
The Texan before I gave up smoking
I deleted my Substack account. I found out that being contacted by people I don’t know with idiotic, maniacal rants from people on a keyboard that I would ever care to know outside of social media is not for me. It was supposed to be a site for serious writers to submit their short stories or articles, but it is really X, Bluesky, and Facebook hidden in a different format. Political hate, pure hate, impure hate, giddy hate, ignorant hate, and liberal white woman hate against us white guys who write are the worst kinds that I have found in my research. Socialism, communism, LGBTQ+ism, Muslimism, you name it, they are all there. So adios MF. Get a damn job and stop posting filtered or fake selfies of yourselves in fake places made with AI. No one under thirty years old has any real friends anymore; everyone they know is an AI-generated figure on their phone.
For now, I will keep my Notes From The Cactus Patch on Facebook because it publishes there automatically, and many of my old high school friends and the few family members who still speak to me follow it. I may or may not keep X; it does the same, but damn, people are flat-out Street Rat-crazy and evil on that platform. WordPress is where I will stay, even with all of its faults and liberal happiness engineers, who are a bunch of folks in India sitting at a keyboard figuring out a way to steal your identity and sell it to the Dark Web. I know, it happened to both Momo and me. We now have a service that watches and catches everything, and it is not Lifelock, but much better: meaner, with actual humans named Guido and Luiggi who will go to their home basement and break bones, or worse. The owner of the service is related to the lateTony Saprano.
Did anyone pay attention to the defeat of most of the Democratic Socialist Party candidates? Most of them got their pansy ignorant commie butts handed to them in a Red Mao grocery bag. And now, that smiling-Commie Rat Bastard Mayor in New York City wants his favorite goat, excuse me, I mean his wife, to have a security team the size of President Trumps when she visits her homeland of whatever the hell it is over there in Muslim land. They had better pack extra hay and oats for her meals. Within a few months, that demon has turned one of our great cities into a third-world shit-hole equal to Mexico or Somalia, and the entire state of Michigan is lost: might as well nuke the state and be done with it. There, now I feel better. Have a good day, and God Bless Texas and the Alamo. I wish Paul Harvey were still around.
As some of you know, I had, and now, still have a Rodent, Rat, Mouse, or something more vile living within the depths of my wife, Momo’s, favorite thing: her hot tub.
We’ve removed most of the foam from inside, found the tubes the little critter chewed to obtain water, and have a friend who is a plumber who plans to replace the damaged parts in a week or so.
Now the Hantavirus, or the Black Plague, is going around, Good Lord Almighty, another pandemic? Mouse poop is going to wipe out the country?
Those folks on that tour ship must have ingested some in their Ceaser salad while gorging at the buffet. There is a substantial amount of Rat poop inside the hot tub, so there must be more than one, possibly a family with relatives.
I did the inhumane, unthinkable, and poisoned the little Rat with some guaranteed tasty and effective bait. Yesterday, he was lying down, breathing hard, and in a spot I could reach with my wife’s Martha Stewart Cooking Tongs. I figured he was about to go to Ratland, so I would wait out the expiration, but this morning, he or she has vanished. It’s unlikely a Rat Rapture happened, so he is either deeper in the tub or has crawled away to croak in a more natural and serene setting in the woods that surround my home.
My cousin and I used to sit in my grandparents’ barn and shoot the Rats with our Daisy BB Guns, killing a few now and then, but developing a keen eye for shooting fast-moving targets. Now I’m back to square one: find the Rat, dig more foam, put on a Hazmat suit, and finish vacuuming up the foam pieces and the Rat poop. I’m seriously considering having someone haul the tub away, Rat and all, or purchasing a 410 Shotgun and gettin er’ done.
I’m turning 77 in a few months, and the only object made from fine wood that I want is a Gibson F5 G Mandolin. Banjo Ben in Mo. has a used one for 4900. bucks. I’ve contacted The Southwestern Medical Center about selling a kidney ( I only need one to pee), maybe a pinky toe, and both testicles, but no response just yet. My son is checking into a clinic in Martamoras, Mexico, that is willing to give me a nice sum for all usable parts, so I can purchase the instrument. I don’t need balls, a pinky toe, or two kidneys to play, so it may work out. I’ll keep you all informed on the negotiations, though my Spanish is limited to “more chips and salsa.” Pronto. How many testicles does a man really need?
