Tag: Food

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The Retail Rebel: A Fugitive’s Tale


A Wanted Man On The Run

I’d Like To Settle Down But They Won’t Let Me…A Fugitive Must Be A Rolling Stone…Down Every Road There’s Always One More City…I’m On The Run. The highway is My Home.

Years ago, when I lost my social filters after a fainting head-planting fall from our hot tub, my once kind demeanor has vanished in blocks. There are post office quality pictures of me in Lowes and Home Depot, saying ” Do Not Wait On This Old Man, He Is A Retail Verbal Assaulting Fugitive, Call Your Manager Immediately.” And, they do, if they recognize me. I’ve become quite good at disguising my appearance: caps, sunglasses, different beards, band-aids, creams, crutches, walkers – anything that will throw them off so I can do my shopping. Now, Walmart, my last bastion of shopping, might be adding me to their list of undesirables, rejects, lunatics, and mentally deranged. All because of an overcharge on Bird Peanuts.

Wallmart might be the best in reatail at miss-pricing their items. I found a large bag of Bird Peanuts, which I usually buy at H.E.B. mainly for the Blue Jays and Crows, who turn their black beaks up at anything other than good old Texas Roots Legumes. The sign beneath the box said $7.57 for seven pounds of Peanuts, a bounty of a bargain considering H.E.B. wants over $2.00 for one pound. My wife, Momo, checked out, not paying much attention to the ring up. Arriving home, she discovered the bag of peanuts cost almost $15.99, and that’s when my remaining filter evaporated through my right ear and blew out the back door like a vanishing fart.

It was a long, sleepless night of tossing and turning. Eventually, I drank two hot cups of Ovaltine, which usually calms my nerves and elicits sleep, but nope, not this night. I sat in the dark, planning my strategy for how I would confront the customer service representative about the outrageous overcharge. Common sense was non-existent, my Christian faith waned, and my carnal instinct took over; I was out for righteous vengeance, and it would be mine.

I awoke at dawn, fueld by caffine and what little testosterone is left in my body, I was anxious for battle. I arrived at Walmart as the senior citizen greeter unlocked the door. ” Good morning, sir,” she said in her four-pack-a-day rasp. I growled and headed for the customer service counter.

The young girl behind the counter was kind, sweet, doe-eyed, and wore a cross hanging from her neck. My vengeance and blood lust disappeared. How could I crawl from the trenches and attack this sweet child? I explained the problem, which now seemed embarrassingly insignificant, and she was kind and understanding, offering my money back without question and a big, toothy smile along with a “have a blessed day.” I did notice behind the counter many post office-quality posters of old people like me, who are prohibited from shopping at Walmart. I’m safe for now. But there is always next week, and I will be sure to give them one of my better photographs.

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Ask A Texan: Walmart And The Red Eye Special


Reasonable Advice For Folks That Don’t Know Their Butt From Fat Meat

The Texan

Mr. Don Limpet, a resident of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, writes that he had laser eye surgery at his local Walmart and has complications.

Mr. Limpet: Mr. Texan, I saw your advice column in the back of Bass Of The Month magazine at the Tractor Supply. You seem to be a down-to-earth fellow and have given some good advice to folks, so I’m hoping you can help a brother out here. My eyesight has been deteriorating for years, and it’s become so bad that I can’t distinguish a Yellow Booger Picker Bass Lure from a Purple People Eater Crappie rig. My lovely wife, Little Sheba, yes, that’s her real name, she’s a belly dancer who performs at Old Folks Homes and Funerals. Little Sheba said that Walmart has a special on Cataract eye surgery: $ 49.95 per eye, and you get to choose the color of lens after they suck out the cataract. So I say, ” Hell ya, with the money I’ll be saving, I can buy that new Evinrude motor for my Bass boat. The lady who was getting me ready couldn’t get the IV in the right vein, and my arm swelled up like a poisoned Possum. She finally called the gal over in the make-up department to get the sucker in the right vein. Little Sheba said I should go with the Paul Newman Blue Sparkles lenses since he was her favorite actor. I told her he’s dead, and so is his sidekick, Sundance, but she was insistent, so I went with the blue lenses. The procedure took longer than expected, and the boys in the produce department had to help out the tech suck out the cataracts with a Turkey baster. When I woke up, Little Sheba took one look at me and fainted dead out. The girl got the wrong lenses. Instead of the Paul Newman Blue Sparkles, she installed the Count Dracula Red Devil lenses, and now I look like Dracula or a Demon from Hell. The manager at Walmart says the operation is irreversible, and he is genuinely sorry. To make it up to us, he gave Little Sheba a $ 500 gift card to be used on Christmas Decorations. I look awful, and the preacher at church won’t let me in the door because I scare all the little kids. Can you help out a cursed man?

The Texan: Well, well, Mr. Limpet, you are either the biggest cheap-ass in New Mexico or a complete moron that doesn’t know your butt from a piece of fat meat. What did you expect for $49.95 per eye? Those folks at Walmart make $13.00 an hour and can’t even ring up a purchase correctly. As far as the red eyes, you can always get a job at those Halloween Spirit stores, or a spook house. I, too, once had a problem with red eyes, but it was the result of smoking too much pot back when I was hanging out at the Armadillo World Headquarters down in hippie land, Austin, Texas. Back then, everybody had red eyes, so it wasn’t a big deal. Try mixing some Murine and blue food coloring, or wear dark glasses and use a can like Ray Charles. I’m sending Little Sheba a 45 record of Ray Stevens’ big hit, ” Ahab the Arab,” the sheik of the burning sands, and of course a box of Cherry Bombs so you can set a few of them off in The Walmart. In closing, let me know how everything turns out, and you are the biggest dumb-ass moron I know.

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The Old Scotchmen of Port Aransas


I called them the Old Scotchmen; my mother had a few different names, none of which were complimentary.

In 1968, my father, John Strawn, and his friend Dexter Prince were known characters on the island of Port Aransas, Texas, which was an honor, considering the long list of other local characters that added lore and color to the quaint fishing village. Lawnmower Ted, Shorty Fowler, Spanny Gibbs, Carlos Moore, Captain Rick Corn, and the notorious but lovable Jack Cobb were a few, and the list changed weekly depending on their antics.

My parents had purchased a house on East Street in the winter of 1968 and planned to spend holidays and summers on the island. Our main home was in Plano, Texas, where my father was a custom home builder and developer. Saltwater and the island were part of my childhood, shaped by the journeys to Port A, which satisfied my father’s and grandfather’s love of saltwater fishing, which began when the family lived in Los Angeles during the 1930s. Dexter and his family had been coming to the island just as long and preferred to live in one of Gibbs’ Cottages, his home away from home. Dexter and my father were avid fishermen, competent tellers of tall tales, and aficionados of fine Scotch Whiskey. My father’s AquaSport fishing boat allowed them to fish until they were spent, and then manufacture believable lies about their catch to anyone who would listen, which was usually the patrons of Shorty’s Place, their favorite post-angling hangout.

Most evenings, when both were on the island, Dexter would swing by the house around ten-thirty. My father, already into his routine of watching The Tonight Show would be dressed in his pajamas and working on a nice tumbler of scotch. He would change into shorts and a T-shirt, and the two characters would take their drink and drive around the island in my folks’ turquoise dune buggy, making big plans and yapping. That was back when Port A was small and the police knew everyone in town, so they left the old Scotchmen alone. The strict DUI laws were years away.

One evening, Dexter dropped by around eleven or so, and the two jumped in the dune buggy and took off for their ride. About halfway through the exploring, they realized they needed more scotch, so Dexter recommended a stop at Shorty’s Place. My father balked because he didn’t change, and was wearing his red silk pajamas and barefoot. Dexter said it would be fine, the place would be empty on a Tuesday night. It wasn’t: it was full of locals and tourists. They strolled in and took a seat at the bar. Shorty, ever her sweet self, told my father he could sleep on the cot in the storeroom since he was dressed for bed. They ordered a nice glass of Chivas Regal scotch. A few other patrons made some smart-assed remarks, making my father turn as red as his attire. Even the local gal who wore nothing but a white satin slip on most nights complimented him on the cute red pajamas. After that, John always made sure to bring a bottle of Scotch for the ride around.

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Ask A Texan: The Wild West Days Of Gunsmoke And Cherry Bombs


Illuminating Southern Advice For Folks That Seek The Meaning Of Life As We Live It In The Great State Of Texas…

The Texan

A few days back, I received a letter from a Mrs. Hagan of Gunsmoke, Montana. It seems her husband, Festus, and his pals have gone plum Prairie Dog crazy since a family from Minnesota moved into town.

Mrs. Hagan: Mr. Texan, I saw your column in the back of The Farmers Almanac, and I’m hoping you can help me and my husband, Festus. The entire town has gone Prairie Dog crazy. About a month back, a family from Minnesota moved into the KOA campground outside of town. At first, they seemed friendly in a weird sort of way, but it was clear they needed some help. They didn’t wear much clothing, and their children were scraggly and reeked of an old can of Tuna Fish, so Sheriff Dillion, my husband’s employer, and his wife, Miss Kitty, took them under their wing. Gunsmoke is known as the safest town in the USA, probably because everyone in town packs a gun, either on their hip, in their purse, or their pickup. Even the service dogs with the little red vest have a pistol attached to their vest. I will admit that when the townsfolk celebrate, they tend to shoot into the air or the ground. After all, this is the last town of the old wild west. Sheriff Dillion is as guilty as he rest of us; he carries two pistols and likes to shoot out street lights and street signs after a few cold beers. Well, the scroungy kids of the Minnesota family started blowing up people’s mailboxes with Cherry Bombs, which is against the law ’round here. Then, the little pecker-heads began throwing them into folks’ business. Our local grocer, Little Bob’s Sure Good Market, had his entire produce section blown up by the kids with Cherry Bombs. Sheriff Dillion and my husband, Festus, can’t catch them in the act. The whole town is on edge and at each other’s throats. Festus and I are constantly arguing. Well, our big summer celebration is Wild West Days, featuring a big rodeo and a Carnival. We still have the original Miss Kitty’s Saloon in the old west part of town, so that’s where most of the action takes place. Festus and Doc Adams coordinate the whole shindig. After the rodeo, around dark, everybody was in the old saloon drinking hooch and having a good old time. Our local country band, “Little Junior One Arm And His Blasting Caps,” was laying down some great dance tunes. Festus, even with his limp and all, was dancing his best in years, and Sheriff Dillion and Miss Kitty were having a little too much fun. I guess the sheriff got too excited about a song the band played, and he pulled out his 44 and fired a few shots into the ceiling, which is already full of bullet holes from the old wild west days. One of the shots threw a spark into Miss Kitty’s lacquered-up hair, and it caught fire. Festus, quick on his good right leg, threw a beer on her head to extinguish the blaze. She looked real bad, half her red hair was gone, and her mascara was running like a river. I guess that was her last nerve, and she pulled out a derringer from under her skirt and shot Sheriff Dillion in the foot, making a considerable hole in his Justin boot. The Sheriff, drunk and now enraged from the cheap hooch, pulled out his other 44 and shot off Miss Kitty’s pinky toe, which was bad because it was the toe she wore her dead mother’s wedding ring on. The toe and the ring fell through the cracks in the old wooden floor and down to who knows where. During all this confusion, the mean little Minnesota kids sneaked in and dropped a bunch of Cherry Bombs down the knotholes in the wooden floor. The explosions rocked the saloon like a bomb, and the floor started to collapse. No one knew there was an old tunnel underneath the saloon that had been there for over 150 years. Some idiots back in the gold rush days dug it to catch the falling gold dust from miners and cowboys paying for their drinks with gold. The saloon floor fell into the open tunnel, taking half the dancers and all the band with it. The fire department rescued everybody, and Miss Kitty and Sheriff Dillon were taken to the hospital. A fireman found her toe with the ring still attached, and a foot surgeon sewed it back on. The local hoodlums packed up the Minnesota family in their old station wagon and ran them out of town, good riddance. The Fire Department boys found an old sign in the tunnel that said “Wandering Star Gold Mine,” of which the town paper has no record. Miss Kitty played the Tammy Wynette “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” song for the sheriff, who was fired, and Festus is now out of work and sweeping the sidewalks for tips, and his limp is getting worse. I’m looking for advice on how to get the town and my marriage back to its glory days.

The Texan: Well, well, Mrs. Hagan. This is going down as the wildest west tale I’ve had the honor of reading. It’s a riveting read, and I will likely frame it to hang in my tool shed. It seems your troubles began with the folks from Minnesota and a town that is lost in time. I will admit, I am familiar with that family. The father of the daughter wrote me for advice some months back, and he was a jiggered as you. I assume that since they ended up in your quaint town, he heeded my advice. The old west days, cheap hooch, guns, cowboys, bad tempers, and Cherry Bombs are a sour mixture in a bad cocktail, of which, after reading your letter, is what I need. My advice is to take Festus and move about a hundred miles away to a little town called Rawhide, Montana. I’ll make a call to their sheriff, a nice fella by the name of Rowdy Yates, who would likely hire Festus, even with his limp and all. I’m enclosing a U-Haul gift card, a bottle of Excedrin PM, A VHS copy of the great movie, Paint Your Wagon, and, of course, my usual gift of a box of Cherry Bombs. Let me know how this saga of the old west turns out, and when you see Sheriff Yates, tell him to head ’em up and move ’em out. He’ll get it.

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Ask A Texan: The Magic Of The Yeti Cup


Illuminating Advice For Folks That Seek It

The Texan

Another old friend of mine, Bwana of San Saba, wrote me with a question. Like our other mutual friend, Mooch, Bwana refuses to talk on the phone because he won’t wear his high-dollar hearing aids. He’s also forgotten the art of texting and avoids computers. At this point in our lives, I attribute all unusual behavior to old age. He writes that he is losing sleep over knowing how his Yeti cups and ice chest work; the technology is foreign to him.

Bwana Of San Saba: Mr. Texan, I need help in the worst way. I can’t sleep, eat, or drink my hooch, and my wife is about to banish me to the Deer lease in San Saba because I’ve gotten her last nerve. I’ve owned and excessively used Yeti cups and ice chests for years: I use only the best when it comes to hunting gear. My man trailer on the lease is full of Yeti stuff. Did you know they make a Yeti iron skillet, pans, forks, knives, hunting clothes, and a darn good Deer rifle? Neither did I, until my wife stocked my hunting trailer with the gear, which makes me uneasy because I’m thinking she is baiting me, and wants to get rid of me. Well, I was sitting on a rock in a dry creek bed waiting for a Bambi to trot by so I could nail his little white-tail ass. This is the same creek bed where I killed the 1,000-pound wild pig with my Yeti pocket knife. I told you about that battle many times. It’s damn hot, too hot for Deer, so I reach in my Yeti backpack and pull out my Premium Ultra Yeti Tumbler for a drink of water. Mind you, that tumbler had been in my pack for half a day in 100-degree Texas heat, and when I pulled a swig, the water was so cold it gave me a brain freeze, and that’s when my sleepless nights and obsessive behavior started. I was so discombobulated that the Bambi I was waiting to shoot walked up to me to see if I was alright. I’m sitting there thinking about that damn Yeti cup and the biggest 20 pointer I’ve seen is in my face begging for a drink of water or a Granola Bar. I poured a handful of cold Ozarka water into my hand and gave the Bambi a sip or two. He turned, wagged his white tail at me, farted, and trotted off. I need some advice here. How does this Yeti thing work? I’m having a nervous breakdown here.

The Texan: Well, Bwana, I can see how not knowing how mystical, magical technology works is causing you to lose your marbles. When I was a young’un, right about the same time you were in the 1950s, my mother bought me a genuine Davy Crockett lunch box. In the tin box was a Davy Crockett Thermos Bottle. It was a dandy, with a coon-tail attached to the lid. I took that box to school every day, and my milk was always icy cold, which baffled me. Why would Yeti make a rifle? Does a gun need to remain at a specific temperature to work correctly? Now I’m confused. I used to feed the Deer in Ruidoso watermelon and Nabisco Granola. They loved it and would almost sit on my lap to get a treat, so it’s not surprising the Bambi in San Saba approached you. Even a thirsty Deer knows a quality product. I believe Yeti has used the same magical technology in its products as Davy Crockett. I’m no scientist, and am as jiggered as you on this one. The answer to your question is: ” It keeps hot things hot and cold things cold…how do it know?” I’m sending you a package of Deer Of The Month trading cards and a box of Cherry Bombs to help you unwind and relieve your anxiety. Let me know if you figure the Yeti thing out.

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Ask A Texan: Raising A Heathen Child


Somewhat Good Information For Those Unfortunate Folks That Live Up North

The Texan

A Mrs. Lee, of Rebel Yell, Virginia wrote that her son has been hanging around a bunch of contractors and has picked up their bad habits.

Mrs. Lee: Mr. Texan, there’s a convenience store being built on our block, and my six-year-old son, Robert, and his little pals have been hanging around the jobsite watching the construction. The tradesmen are friendly to the boys and have been giving them Pops and sharing their food with them at lunch break. A few days ago, Robert and four of his little pals tore down our backyard storage shed, and they are now using the lumber to build a fort in our two-hundred-year-old oak tree. My husband, Jefferson, thinks it’s okay, they are just being boys, but not only did they destroy our shed, which we bought at the Home Depot, but now they are cussing and yelling nasty things at the neighborhood girls. I’ve heard foul language in my years, but these little boys are using disgusting terms: ” **** this and **** that,” “you’re a dumb ass,” “hand me that ******* hammer, you know, the kind of foul language tradesmen use. I’m a Christian woman, and I can’t bring myself to tell you all I’ve heard from my little boy. Well, this morning, Robert told his sister to get out of his “damn way or he will kick her ass.” Well, that did it for me. I told him to go to the backyard and get me a switch so I could spank his little behind. He looks at me and says, ” Hell no! That’s the electrician’s job.” I don’t know what to do, my son is a heathen.

The Texan: Well, Ma’am, your problem is not as dire as you think. Boys love to demolish things and then build stuff with hammers and nails. Contractors often use colorful language because there are no women on the job sites. I wouldn’t be too concerned, it’s a phase and will pass. The good news is that Robert may have learned some valuable hands-on skills that can be used later in life, like carpentry and such, and some darn good curse words that will come in handy as he grows older. I was cussing like a Hun by the time I was his age. Let me know how he turns out, and I’m sending him a gift card to Home Depot and a box of Cherry Bombs.

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Ask A Texan: Preaching And Peaches In Lonesome Dove


Substantial Advice For Folks Outside Of Texas

The Texan

This Texan received a letter from Mr. Augustus McRae of Lonesome Dove, Montana. It seems that his middle child, a wealthy TV Preacher, has abandoned him and his wife, leaving them to fend for themselves in their old age.

Mr. McCrae: Back in 1978, I was doing some cowboying on a big ranch in South Texas and grew tired of everything. I hooked up my horse trailer to my Ford Pickup, loaded my horse, Hellbitch, up, and headed for Montana, where the water runs cool and the weather is nice. I made a stop in Albuquerque, New Mexico, for some chow and decided to go into this topless bar called “Mamery’s Are Made Of This.” I was sitting there drinking my Schlitz and eating a juicy burger when this topless lady comes up behind me, pecks me on the neck and sings, ” Blow up the TV, throw away the papers, move to the country build you a home… plant a little garden…eat a lotta peaches…try to find Jesus on your own.” I was young and naive and figured that topless lady had something up her sleeve. She danced around that ballroom, and she did the Hoochie-Coo, she sang that song all night long, telling me what to do. Well, it worked. She gave me a big old smackeroo, grabbed her little suitcase, and hopped in my pickup, and the three of us headed for Montana. We built us a little log cabin, no TV, no papers, planted a great garden with Peach trees, raised a lot of children, and they all found Jesus on their own. That’s where my problem starts, Mr. Texan. Our middle child, Baby Face Joey, took to religion and preaching like a duck to a June bug. He preached to anyone who would listen and began healing the ranch’s livestock and the garden veggies: we had the nicest Peach orchard in Montana. When he turned sixteen, he left the house and found himself in Houston, Texas. He preached a lot, built a large congregation, and relocated his church to an old basketball arena. Now he has about twenty thousand people in his church, and he’s raking in money like there’s no tomorrow: wealthy can’t describe the amount of cash this little chiseler stuffs in his custom-made suit pockets. Me and his momma are old and don’t have much these days, so I call Preacher Baby Face Joey and ask him for a little financial help. He sends us a $50.00 gift card to The Walmart and a membership in the Jelly Of The Month Club. I’m as mad as a hungry wolf and the wife is ready to whip his little butt with a Peach tree switch. Do you have any suggestions on how we can manage this situation without disrupting the entire familyThe Texan: Well, Mr. Gus, I’m sometimes at a loss for words, but this isn’t one of them. When I was a young and hungry man, I too did some cowboying down in South Texas. I got bitten twice by Rattlers and stomped by a bull, and that was it for the wrangler days. I’ve been in your part of Montana and there ain’t a more beautiful place, cows and Peach trees all over the place. Those TV preachers get pretty full of themselves, and I believe I know the one you’re writing about, and he’s about as obnoxious as they come. I suggest taking your wife and any kids left at home, go to Houston, dressing in some ragged clothes from the Goodwill, and walk down the aisle begging for some help. If that doesn’t get Baby Face Joey to cough up some cash, then nothing will. Keep in touch, and I’m sending you an album of John Prine’s Greatest hits and an autographed picture of Gypsy Rose Lee for the wife.

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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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Ask A Texan 4.29.25


Pretty Good And Sometimes Worthless Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas But Wish They Did Because Everything is Bigger and Better In Texas

The Texan and Notes From The Cactus Patch will be offline starting tomorrow, April 30, 2025. Here’s the reason why:

I was pulling up some dead plants and pesky weeds in my landscape, and I reached over a little too far and jerked on a pesky dead plant. I heard a “pop” and felt the rotatory cuff muscle and bicep detach from my shoulder. And, of course, it’s my good arm, the one I use for playing the guitar, painting, writing, shaving, brushing my teeth, and holding my whiskey tumbler. I wouldn’t be so upset if it was my left shoulder. Dr. Pepper, my young surgeon, says he will fix me up, and I’ll be able to use my arm after eight weeks in a special sling. He explained he would be using a small Robot controlled by his Atari game controller, so no humans would be touching me. I’m concerned that the small Robot might make a mistake and go rogue. The little fella looks a lot like R2D2. Dr. Pepper says no worries. The robot will be scrubbed in, and a mask and surgical gloves will be on his little mechanical hands. They had him worked on last week to fix the glitches. I asked what the glitches were? It seems the Robot had malware in his little chipped brain and removed a lady’s liver instead of her gall bladder. That made me feel really warm and fuzzy.

The little Davinci Robot

I had a similar experience when I had cancer. The surgeon needed samples of my poor prostate gland, so he used a robot called “Davinci.” It was larger than this R2D2 and wore a purple cape and a matching Italian Beret. The little fellow got his samples, took one, and put it in an Italian cut-glass jar. It’s sitting on my coffee table.

I’ll be back writing and giving worthless advice soon. God Bless Texas, The Alamo, and Davy Crockett.

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The Sky Is Not Falling


My backyard, a few years ago during Easter week.

Preacher Little, to the left, addresses his small congregation with a firm reminder that the sky is not a-falling and that it’s high time they get a grip on the wild ride we call life. An hour later, a raucous band of Fire Ants laid siege to the squishy Peeps, and thus, the service came to an untimely end. My wise old Grandfather, or maybe it was an old-man neighbor, once opined, “Son, you can’t go traipsing about with your head aimed at the clouds, waiting for a disaster to drop from the sky. Best keep your eyes peeled to the ground, lest you unwittingly find yourself knee-deep in a nest of Fire Ants.”