Tag: Kinky Friedman

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Ask A Texan: When Religion Ain’t No Fun Anymore


Down Home Advice To Folks That Watch Too Much TV And Can’t Keep Their Faces Out Of Their Cell Phones…

The Texan

This Texan received a letter from Mrs. Olsen of Folger, Minnesota. Her grandson is having religious issues and needs some advice before he makes a big mistake.

Mrs. Olsen: Mr. Texan, I saw your page in the back of our church magazine, The Protestant Presbyterian. I figured a wise old man like yourself could help me out, don ‘cha know.

I was over having a hearty breakfast with my son and his family a few days ago, explaining to my daughter-in-law how to make a good pot of coffee, when their twelve-year-old son, little Rudy, announced that he wanted to become Jewish instead of Presbyterian. Well, by golly, by gosh, this set us all back on our heels for a moment. He recently attended a classmate’s Bar Mitzva and saw all the gifts and cash his friend received, saying it was around twenty grand or so of cash and such, and he wants the same. He said Jewish kids have more fun than we Protestant ones. Well, I’m not so sure about that. I had plenty of yippy when I was a Hippie, attended Woodstock, and dated every boy in the neighborhood. A few days later, I see him and his little pals at the mall, and he’s wearing a yarmulke and a Star of David necklace, telling all his buddies he is now Jewish and will be announcing his Bar Mitzvah soon. Now I don’t know skiddy-do about religion, outside of our little church in town, but I believe there is more to it than that. How do we get this little nimrod to listen to us?

The Texan: Well, Mrs. Olsen, a good cup of coffee is hard to find nowadays. I prefer a percolator and have been in a Starbucks only once. I will agree with your grandson, Jewish kids tend to have a lot of fun, that’s if they live in Texas and not near Palestine. I don’t have a lot of experience with that religion, except that a good friend of mine, now deceased, was Kinky Friedman, the famous, talented founder and leader of the Texas band “Kinky Friedman And The Texas Jew Boys.” Great western swing music in the vein of Bob Wills. I contacted Kinky’s good friend, Little Jewford, who carries on the band these days, and he says for little Rudy,” If he wants to be happy for the rest of his life, he should make a Jewish girl his wife.” “Little Jewford is a lifelong Jewish fella, so he knows his Matzo balls and is a wise old fella. Little Rudy will have to marry a Jewish girl and convert to Judaism, but by then, he will be too old for a Bar Mitzva, so he’s SOL. Tell him to stick to being a good, boring Presby boy, go to church, listen to his Pastor, get his education, read some Garrison Keillor books, and move to Dallas or Houston to find a nice Jewish wife. I’m sending him a CD of Kinky’s Greatest Hits and a box of Cherry Bombs to add some excitement to his life. After all, like Kinky says in his biggest song, ” They Don’t Make Jews Like Jesus Anymore,” and that’s a fact. Shalom and adios.

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Scooter Adventures: Not Your Grandma’s Ride


The day after Thanksgiving, I made my usual trip to the grocery in search of any food item that didn’t resemble a turkey. I came away with ice cream sandwiches, Corsicana Fruitcake, and Kinky Friedman Salsa.

As I was leaving H-E-B, I noticed a gathering at the far end of the parking lot, so I wandered over to see what the gathering was about. Being close to Sun City, a throng of seniors usually means a medical condition or someone got mashed by a car. 

There, gathered under a brightly displayed “Scooter Town” sign, was a throng of senior citizens, milling about a display of personal electric scooters, or as I call them, ” fancy wheelchairs.”

I squeezed into the mob to have a better view and was surprised at how beautiful this “new generation” of personal scooters were. The throng was “oohing and ahhing” as if they were witnessing the unveiling of the new Cadillac at the State Fair car show. One old-timer commented to his wife that “these new scooters made his one at home look like a Model T.” I had to agree; they were light-years better than the one my Aunt Beulah used to ride around Santa Anna, Texas.

One scooter caught my eye, so I shuffled over to check it out. As I was bent down, admiring the tires, the salesman, standing behind me, said, “go ahead, sit in her, crank her up and take a test drive.”

” Aren’t these supposed to be for use in the house and grocery stores?” I asked.

The salesman, in his best excitable voice says, “Heck no, these aren’t your Grandma’s scooter boy, these are the new generation of senior transportation. You can drive these babies anywhere. Take them to the store, the post office, the gym,  Luby’s, the doctor- where ever. They are 100 percent street legal, and the best part is you don’t need a license. So…when the kids think you’re a vegetated pabulum sucker and take away the car, you can get one of these beauties and keep on trucking.

He was in full salesman mode now, and continued to explain in further detail, “Take this model you’re looking at here, this is our newest one, The 1967 Summer Of Love Retro. Notice the authentic tie-dye seat, the leather fringe appointments, and the custom paint job, that is an exact copy of Janis Joplin’s psychedelic Porsche Roadster. Upfront here, we have the hand-tooled-Tibetan copper bull horn, and in the back, there is a 2500 lb wench with a carbonized cut-proof chain. The tires are reproductions of the legendary Goodyear Redline radials wrapped around these special little Cragar Mags. To finish the package, we’ve included a Lear-8 track tape player with Bluetooth, a leather stash bag, if you’re so inclined for that scene, and that cute little bird sitting on the guitar decal”.

“Why would you need a bullhorn and wench?” I asked.

He exclaimed, ” The Bullhorn,is for yelling at people that get in your way, such as punk-ass kids or anyone disrespectful to old folks, and,  if you’re still feeling frisky like back in the day, it can be used to voice your opinion when protesting at Walmart or the Social Security Office. The wench and chain have come standard on our California and Oregon Protest models for years are for attaching you and your scooter to tree, gate, power plant, or structure of your choice. That cut-proof chain makes it tough for the police to get you unhooked. How about taking her out for a little test drive?

I agreed and eased onto the cushy seat.

After a few minutes of instruction, I was ready to roll. I turned the ignition key and felt the hard bump of the powerful transmission lighting up.

” Go ahead, gun the throttle, listen to those pipes,” said the salesman.

I gunned the throttle, and the digitally-reproduced sound of a Harley Davidson chopper roared out of the side pipes. He was right, this was not my Aunt Beulah’s  scooter.

The salesman warned me to take it easy because the controls were extremely touchy, and don’t touch that red button below the seat. With that warning clearly ignored, I pulled the sleek little scooter onto the parking lot and accelerated down to the exit. This baby was smooth and fast. I racked the pipes a bit and folks stared at me like I was an old Hell’s Angel that escaped from the nursing home.

The salesman didn’t say anything about “not” driving in traffic, so I figured it would be alright to at least cruise down the street and take a spin around the Dairy Queen.

While waiting at the exit to merge onto the street,  I thought some tunes would be cool, so I reached down and pushed the button on the Lear 8 Track, and Steppenwolf blared from the two Bose side-mounted speakers. I also mashed a small button next to the sound system labeled “Turbo.” The one the salesman told me to avoid.

“What the hell! Let’s see what this baby can do,” I yelled into the wind.

With “Born to Be Wild” blaring at 250 DB’s I gunned the throttle.

I figured the scooter would react like an old-folks ride. I didn’t expect that sucker to raise straight up on its rear wheels and do a “high-ho Silver” wheelie across Highway 377.

With zero control of the beast,  I shot down the busy street like an NRA dragster, narrowly missing a bread truck, an eighteen-wheeler, and three Cadillac’s by mere inches.

I roared by a Black Cadillac, and the lady behind the wheel crossed herself and showed me her rosary. With that sign, I figured “What the hell, I’m going to die.”

Pinned to the back of the seat by the G-Force, hand frozen on the throttle, I somehow made a hard right turn into the parking lot of the Dairy Queen, spewing gravel onto the cars waiting in the order-line, as I did a rubber-burning 360 and came to a stop.

The “little beast” expelled a  tiny raspy -cough from the shiny side pipes, shuddered a few times and died.

Stunned, disoriented, and shaking like a dog passing a peach pit, I dismounted the scooter, and on shaky legs, walked back to H-E-B to retrieve my car, leaving the little beast where it died.

Driving home, I decided that I ever need one of those scooters, I’ll buy something safer, like a Harley.