Tag: It's A Wonderful Life

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Ask A Texan: When Life Ain’t So Wonderful


Contemplative And Often Serious Advice For Non-Texans

The Texan

This Texan recieved a letter from a Mr. George Baily of Bedford Falls New York. It seems his oldest son, Tommy has become a Performitive Male.

Mr. Baily: Mr. Texan, I read your advice column in my uncle Billy’s copy of the Police Gazette, so you, being a wise old fellow, might be able to help me out.

My oldest son, Tommy, has been away at college in New York City. Mary and I haven’t seen him in about 6 months, or so. He came home a few days ago, and we almost lost our breakfast right there in the foyer when he walked in the door. He was dressed in checkered pajama pants, a see-through black tee-shirt, and a pink fuzzy sweater. He was carrying a tote bag from Macy’s, had a Nikon camera hanging from his neck, and was wearing some pink Phyllis Diller-looking glasses. And to make it even worse, he also had one of those man buns on his head. His younger sister Zuzu took one look at him and called him a little sissy-man.

Mary spent three hours in the kitchen making him his favorite supper of Pork Tenderloin, mashed potatoes, and steamed Broccoli-Tomato medley. When he came downstairs to eat, he threw a fit and said he no longer eats meat or nightshade vegetables because his sensitive digestive system makes him moody and melancholy if he eats the wrong food. He only eats Kale salad, Tibetan rice cakes, and drinks a Mocha Latte from Starbucks. Just looking at the supper made him whimper and cry. He told us he has embraced his sensitive feminine side, doing away with his male toxicity. He is now what is known as a Performative Male.

Zuzu, our stout, no-nonsense daughter, lost it and punched him out with a haymaker to the face, right there in the dining room. She then threw a handful of rose petals on him as he lay there on the rug with a dislocated jaw and bleeding from his nose. Mary is so upset, she pleaded with me to call my Angel buddy Clarence to see if he could talk some sense into our little Performative sissy man. Got any suggestions on how we can handle this predicament?

The Texan: Boy howdy, George, I can see that your life ain’t so wonderful right now. We don’t have many of those feminine men here in Fort Worth, Texas, they all stay in Dallas and Austin. Down here, men are real men. We wear manly footwear, Stetson hats, and Wrangler jeans from Cavender’s. If your son took a stroll in the Stock Yard district, he wouldn’t last five minutes before some cowboy put a large can of whoop-ass on him. Your daughter Zuzu sounds like a keeper. Let her handle her brother; a few more butt-whippings might do him good. There’s something about getting your butt kicked by a girl that gets the old male hormones going. I’m sending him a CD of George Strait’s greatest hits, a pair of Justin cowboy boots, some Wrangler jeans, and a box of Cherry Bombs so Zuzu can blow up all his girly stuff. Tell Clarence howdy for me, and stay away from bridges.

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Weekends Are Meant To Be Relaxing. Right?


Weekends are made for chilling out, napping, reading, yard work, gardening, listening to vinyl records, and other mundane pursuits. To start off a lovely sunny Saturday, I find banks are failing in California and other branches across the US and Europe.

Tech upstarts and shady banking boardroom skullduggery are the culprits, and they remind me of the classic movie, “It’s A Wonderful Life.” The banking boys in California are like the greedy Mr. Potter and his henchmen. After the run on the banks, George Baily’s Building and Loan may still be open for business, but that one dollar in his safe will not save him. Potter will, in the end, own Bedford Falls, even though the movie doesn’t show that. There should have been a sequel, but Frank Capra and Jimmy Stewert weren’t up to it. Finding out how Clarence the Angel made out after he received his wings would have been nice.

Is my IRA and retirement safe? Not in the least. Our current administration wants to add a higher tax, steal more from Social Security, and in general, cause the economy to implode and make life miserable for us seniors. I don’t care to live on the streets in a tent under a bridge, smoking crack and pissing on the sidewalk. Seniors now were the 60s generation of protesters, so why can’t we organize, protest in DC and facilitate change to save our own butts and those of our children and grandchildren. I, for one, would be willing to risk a bit of teargas and hard rubber bullets. I would use my sturdy aluminum Walmart cane as my weapon of dissent, burn my Cigna Plan D prescription card on the steps of the White House and chain myself and my personal scooter to a light pole. I can recruit my friend Mooch and his pals, the Granbury “Plowboy’s,” to come along. They’re continually pissed off at everything, so this would be a nice excursion for them, as long as a Waffle House is within walking distance of the march.

I read this morning that the American Red Cross organization, the ones that are there when tornadoes and floods hit the south, is distributing leaflets, maps, cash, credit cards, and investment advice to illegal immigrants in Central America and Mexico, showing how to cross the border in style and obtain free services once they break into our country. Come on in, free stuff for everyone, except American senior citizens, and our homeless. You might as well put Biden on the international bridge with a bullhorn shouting directions and other demented nonsense. No more donations from me and the missus to this traitorous group of wokies. I would say they are now more “Red” than “Cross.”

I am considering withdrawing and depositing my legal tender in the Bank Of Sterns and Foster.