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Ask A Texan: Dealing With Those Pesky Californians


Good Downhome And Often Practical Advice For Those Folks That Think They Know Everything..

The Texan

This Texan received a letter written on the back of a Braum’s paper grocery bag. Braums has the second-best ice cream ( Bluebell is the top dog) and A2 milk in Texas, and a lot of folks shop there just to collect the sturdy, no-nonsense retro brown paper bags with sturdy handles, me included. It seems that a Mr. Oliver Douglas of Waco, Texas, has a problem with his new neighbors, who moved from California after purchasing the ranchette next to his farm, Green Acres.

Mr. Douglas: I saw your advice column advertised at the local H.E.B. in the grilling section next to the charcoal bags. The full-size cardboard cutout of you looked really nice, and I thought if you use and endorse that brand of local charcoal nuggets, then I’ll try them too. Anyhow, that’s not why I’m writing to you. My new neighbors, Chip and Brie Romero, moved in next door about two months ago. Chip, the husband, is the great-grandson of Ceaser Romero, the famous dead actor. They, like thousands of others, fled that third-world commie country of California and came to our blessed state of Texas to start a new life, and who could blame them? I mean, that governor with the Clint Eastwood hair and the Robert Redford smile has ruined what was once a pretty good place to take a vacation and stare at the movie stars. My wife, Lisa, and her friend Lisa Ziffel spent a week of vacation out there in L.A. a few years back, trying to see Paul Newman and get his autograph. She was plum bummed out when she found out he had been dead for quite a while. But she did get to see two of those big butted Kardashian women on Rodeo Drive. She asked the most famous Kardashian woman how much she paid for those big butt cheek implants, and the bodyguard sprayed her with paparazzi pepper spray. Anyway, enough of that small talk.

Our neighbors want to be Texans in the worst way, but they are annoying Californians and will never be able to assimilate into our Texas culture. They drive a Tesla Cyber truck instead of a King Ranch pickup and have a fancy electric tractor for mowing their lawn.

They asked us over for supper: they called it a dinner party, but I call it supper. They served us white wine, some sushi(which is really catfish bait to me), some ugly, undercooked organic vegetables, tofu meatless patties, and almond milk ice cream on top of a gluten-free rice and kale shortcake. I tried to feed most of it to Verdell, their little weird-looking designer dog that hung out under their custom-made Himalayan wormwood outdoor kitchen table, but he took a few bites and puked it up on my new Justin boots. I gave the little pecker-wood a little kick with my boot for doing that, and Chip lost his crap and threw his glass of expensive white wine on my new Lucase pearl snap button shirt and was shrieking like a little girl, accusing me of trying to kill Verdell. His wife, Cheese Girl, is filming it all on her iPhone and calling their attorney back in La La land. My wife, Alma, doesn’t take crap from anybody, so she grabs Cheese Girl and throws her into their fancy Tibetan Monk-inspired meditation pond full of these big-assed Japanese meat-eating goldfish, and the fish start chewing on Cheese Girl. Eb, our farm hand, hears her screaming and comes to the rescue, throwing her a rope and pulling her out of the pond with his John Deere tractor. He had to drive it through their fancy bamboo fence to save her, and that sent Chip over the top. The meat-eating gold fish were still hanging onto her legs and torso and chomping on her, so Eb shoots them to pieces with his Colt pistol, and she’s screaming that those darn fish cost ten grand each and now he’s gonna have to pay for them, even though they were eating her like a rack of pork ribs. Things got worse. With the big hole in the bamboo fence, their herd of midget horses got out and took off into the woods, and haven’t been found yet. Arnold Ziffel, our intelligent farm pig, picked up their scent and tried to find them, but no luck yet. They have some of these exotic little Watusi Cows from Africa, and when they get scared or excited, they stand on their hind legs and dance the Watusi, which they did and danced right into the fancy meditation pond. The meat-eating goldfish got hold of them and left nothing but some bones and horns. Now we’re being sued by their fancy lawyer for replacing the cows, the horses, and the goldfish. Mr. Haney, our friend, is acting as our lawyer. Got any suggestions on how to handle these two morons?

The Texan: Well, Mr. Douglas, it appears that Green Acres is the place to be, and those Californians with all their valley speak and weird ways couldn’t resist moving to Texas and bringing their genetic baggage with them. A good friend of mine lived in a little town called Petticoat Junction, not too far from where you live. A family of Californians moved in by him, and the lecherous husband kept trying to get my cousins’ three gorgeous daughters out of that water tank and into his hot tub for some bubbly California fun fun fun. His cousin, Jethro Bodine, finally had to shoot the sucker, and the rest of the family got the hint and moved back to Beverley Hills. Californians are akin to folks from the Middle East: they just can’t assimilate and don’t get how we Texans live and the code of the West. I’ll send you Jethro’s cell phone number, and he might be able to help you out. I’m also sending you a CD of one of my favorite movies, ” High Noon,” and two large boxes of cherry bombs so you can use them to make those Californians scat back to La La Land. God Bless Texas and Davy Crockett.

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Ask A Texan: The Craze for Dubai Chocolates Is Taking Over The Country


The Texan

This Texan received a letter from a Mr. Atticus Finch from Greenbow, Alabama. Seems his wife, Maudie, has discovered Dubai Chocolates and has gone off the deep end.

Mr. Finch: Mr. Texan, I saw your article in the back pages of Flower of the Month Magazine at the hardware store that Miss Mayella runs. My wife of forty years, Maudie, went to The Walmart, bought some of these new Dubai Chocolates, fell in love with them, and now that’s all she eats. She’s bought about fifty boxes of them, and won’t eat anything that Calpurnia, our cook, made, so she quit. Now I’m down to eating supper from Chicken Express. Not only is she gaining a bunch of weight, but the doctor also said she now has type 3 Diabetes, a fatty liver, and a big brain worm. But that’s not the worst of it. Since these candies come from Dubai, one of them Arab countries, she now thinks she’s a Muslim. She loves her Walmart, so she buys a Pioneer Woman bathrobe, dyes it black, then some Martha Stewart scarves, wraps them around her head, pokes holes in them for eyes, and goes around town dressed like a Muslim woman. We were driving to church down Maycomb Blvd the other day, which is the busiest street in town, and she jumped out of the truck at the stoplight, threw her new Pioneer Woman bath mat onto the street, knelt down, and started chanting all this gibberish while eating a box of those Dubai candies. I’m afraid she might do something rash and become a terrorist woman. Our two grown children, Jean Louise and Jem, won’t bring the grandkids over anymore, and our two neighbors, Dill and Boo, won’t come out of their house because they’re scared of her. Needing some help here in Alabama.

The Texan: Well, Mr. Finch, you’re in a “dill pickle” of a mess there in Maycomb. I’ve heard those chocolates are causing some scary behavior among folks. I called a psychoanalyst friend of mine, Dr. Harper Gump, and she says that these new candies contain a concentration of a special nut oil that’s engineered to make folks want to be Muslims. I think it might be a plot by Al Qaeda to take over the country, one candy-loving woman at a time. My late father’s late, late uncle Orem, back in the prohibition days, drank a whole case of moonshine, and it affected him so bad that it turned him into a Baptist. So I guess sustenance and libations can affect folks adversely, turning them into something else. I would find a Priest to perform an exorcism and get that pesky brain worm demon out of her, and get rid of those candies. Buy her some of those Lady Godiva Chocolates. I’m sending ya’ll a CD of my favorite movie, “To Kill A Mockingbird,” and a box of cherry bombs so you can blow those Dubai candies up. Keep in touch.

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One Day After: The Parade Of Slovenly Zombies And The Flannel PJ People


The hype season is upon us. Thanksgiving is in the rear view mirror, and everything is Christmas, and it started in October. Walmart skipped Thanksgiving and Halloween and went from summer to Christmas. Which is fine by me. I only visit that store when forced, and I was forced against my will a few days before Thanksgiving to accompany my wife for prescriptions and a few last-minute grocery items for the Turkey dinner with the family on Tuesday instead of Thursday, which we spent eating lunch with her brother, who is living in a rehab center in Dallas.

Every person in Granbury seemed to be there, thinking they were saving money, which is the big trick that the Waltons pull on the public. They mark some things way-way-bottom down low, and then raise the price on others, tricking the poor shopper into believing they are getting a great deal and saving their hard-earned money, or EBT money, which is really mine and your taxes financing all those overflowing baskets of junk food, hair extensions, and fancy dragon-lady fingernails.

I did notice more young women in full bedtime attire this year: jammy-bottoms and tops, along with fuzzy house slippers; some of them should have at least combed their hair and brushed their teeth. One girl had a long string of toilet paper dragging behind her PJs. What is wrong with women these days? They think it’s fashionable to come to a public place in their sleepwear? They look like morons. One older lady was wearing a Pioneer Woman house robe, a shower cap, and hospital socks, the kind with the little rubber bottoms so you don’t slip and fall. She was pushing a basket full of Pork Rinds and Dr Pepper, which, here in rural Texas, are considered one of the survival food groups, along with coldbeer and baloney.

Thinking back, decades ago, in the mid-1950s, I would accompany my mother to the grocery store, Piggly Wiggly, which was her favorite haunt. I would see women with their hair in rollers, peddle pushers, KEDs, and nice blouses. There was always a cigarette hanging out of their mouth, which made them look a bit sleazy, but back then, everyone smoked and used hair rollers. My mother loved to smoke; she was a world champion and would have a burning one in her mouth and one in each hand, ready to replace the other. She had a lot of big hair, so there would be at least two dozen rollers of all sizes shaping her follicles into a work of art. It seemed that these women all knew each other. They would stop and say, “Look at yeeew, how’s your mama and them? Did you get a new dress, or is that hair color just darlin, makes you look ten years younger and as cute as a Christmas puppy?” This went on for hours, as the ice cream melted and the meat grew dangerous E. coli bacteria, and I lost a large part of my childhood that could never be reclaimed. At least they didn’t wear pajamas.

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A Performance to Remember.. Cookie Becomes A Beatnik


In the fall of 1958, the first Beatnik-style coffee house opened its doors in Fort Worth, Texas. Calling itself “The Cellar.”

Fort Worth did not welcome its presence or the inhabitants it attracted. Conservative city fathers asked, “Where did these people come from? Have they always been here?” It was a cowtown of shit-kicking cowboys, Cadillac-driving oil men, and country club debutants wearing Justin boots. My cousin Carmalita, who preferred the name Cookie, was a perfect fit for the coffee house and secured a job as a waitress at the new establishment.

Being seven- years younger than Cookie, the other cousins and I had limited interaction during her teenage years. Still, I know from the family stories and the “almost out of earshot whispers” that she was a real hellion of a girl. Her mother, a rosary-clutching Catholic, believed her daughter to be mentally disturbed and demon-possessed. She was neither, just a rebellious girl born twenty years too early who refused to fit into the conservative society of the 1950s.

Immersing herself in books by Kerouac and Ginsberg that glorified the new lifestyle of the “beat generation.” Cookie began dressing in the style of “the Beats.” She envisioned herself traveling west with Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise as they motored their way to New Mexico in search of God and the meaning of life fueled by Marijuana sticks and two-dollar-a-bottle liquor. Jack Kerouac was her hero.

Waist-length black hair and a resemblance to a young Ava Gardner didn’t endear her to the Sandra Dee-loving girls’ club at school. She was labeled an outcast. She dropped out of Paschal High School at sixteen to live in sin with her next-to-worthless greaser-hoodlum boyfriend, a motorcycle-riding teenage hubcap-stealing thief from the north side of town. This decision resulted in her instant banishment from the family.

Polled by a phone-in family vote, she was christened the “little trollop.” Her name was not to be spoken at gatherings, and her mother requested all photographs containing images of Cookie be returned to her for proper disposal by fire in the backyard BBQ pit. Her father was brokenhearted by her rejection. Unable to watch her sweet sixteen birthday present, a Ford Fairlane convertible, sit abandoned in his driveway, he sold it. The rebellious type was not tolerated well in the 1950s, especially in Texas and our extended family.

“The Cellar” grew in popularity, and crowds of unwashed self-appointed poets and deep thinkers found their way to the dark, smokey den.

Cookie grew tired of the bland poetry readings from ancient books and tried her hand at writing. Her heart was full of self-induced resentment, and it didn’t take long for her to dish on everyone and everything she felt had “done her wrong.” Her parents were number one on her list. She asked the club owner to let her perform a personal poem about her life, and he agreed.

Saturday evening is reserved for the serious night-dwelling “hip beats.” They convene and hold literary court to anyone who will listen. Mixed groups gather around small tables, arguing about poetry, politics, religion and the meaning of life. Old Crow adds the extra kick to the strong coffee. An occasional strange cigarette might be passed around.

Sensing the time is right, Cookie takes the stage, cradling a cardboard box under her left arm and a large pair of sewing shears in her right hand. She sets the box on the floor next to a tall stool. Tears stream from her eyes, forming dark streams of watery mascara onto her peach-pale cheeks. A thin tinsel string of snot drips from her left nostril, resting on her upper lip, and glitters in the spotlight, bathing her face in an ethereal glow. She sniffs and gags a few times, composes herself, and begins her poem.

She retrieves her favorite childhood doll baby from the box and lays it on the stool top. She grabs a large meat cleaver from the box and beheads the poor toy. A gasp erupts from the crowd. Earlier, for maximum effect, she filled the doll’s plastic head with Heinz Ketchup and potted ham to simulate blood and brains. The ketchup-splattered patrons recoil in horror when the doll’s head is guillotined and bounces onto their table by the stage.

Next, she pulls a beautiful 8×10 glossy photo of her parents from the box and cuts it to shreds with the sewing shears. She pulls a Girl Scout uniform from the box and rips it to pieces, throwing the all-American remnants of the uniform into the audience.

Cookie leans into the microphone, takes a long drag from a Pall Mall, and in a low growl, says, ” I never liked dolls or toys, but you made me treat the little fakes like real people. I fed them imaginary food, bathed them in imaginary water, changed their tiny poopless diapers, and dressed them in stupid clothes, and for that, I hate you and cut my hair.” With that statement, she grabs a chunk of her beautiful lady Godiva’s length hair and removes a six-inch portion with the sewing shears.

She continues, ” I didn’t want to be a Bluebird, but no, I had to be like the other girls on our street, you know, I don’t like the color blue, and for that, I hate you, and I cut my hair.” Then, whack, another large section falls to the stage. ” you hate my boyfriend because he is a bad boy, and he is all that, but I love him and want to spend my life on the back of his ratty-ass motorcycle holding a nursing baby in each arm as we travel west to find the meaning of life.” She then whacks the left side of her hair to within inches of her scalp.

The audience is on the verge of bolting for the door, fearing her next move may sever an artery and expire in front of them. A voice from the back of the room yells, “This chick is crazy, man.”

Cookie ends her act and exits the stage, leaving a pile of black hair mixed with ketchup and photo paper. The crowd of poets and hip cats give her a lukewarm reception. This performance was too unhinged for the normally unshakable.

That performance at the Cellar that night was the debut of what would become known as “Performance Art.”

Cookie got her wish. Less than a year later, with a baby in her arms, she and her boyfriend made their way to California, and that’s another story.

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Ask A Texan: Texas Chili Cookoff Tips for Beginners


Downhome And Humble Advice For Folks That Live So Far Out Yonder They Don’t Know Nothing About The World Except What They Hear At The Feed Store and The Septic Tank man
The Texan

This Texan received a letter pleading for help from Mr. Pico de’ Gallo of Bandera, Texas. Seems he is considering entering the world-famous Terlingua Chili Cookoff for the first time and is being forced to use his wife’s old family recipe, and has concerns.

Mr. Pico de’ Gallo: Mr. Texan, I’m entering the famous Terlingua Chili cook-off, and my wife, Conchita Bonita Maria, wants me to use her old Mexican family recipe. Her family is from San Antonio, and her great-great-great-grandmother was the cook for the defenders of the Alamo. Her name was Chile Conchita Madera, and history credits her for making the first batch of Chili, so the dish was named after her. She was also Davy Crockett’s girlfriend, and he and Jim Bowie got into a ruckus over her, and Davy shot off Jim Bowie’s pinkie toe with his famous rifle, Old Betsy. She and Davy were tight, but then he didn’t make it, and she left with the other women after Santa Anna won the battle. Santa Anna wanted to hire her as his personal cook, but she wouldn’t have any of it. My problem is my wife wants me to go out and get the fresh meat, the same stuff her great-great-great-grandmother used. Now I’ve got to go kill a bunch of Opossums, a few Skunks, some Rats, three or four Rattlesnakes, and a cow that got blown up by a cannonball during the fight. I’m not a hunter and don’t even own a rifle, only a .44 Magnum pistol, and I’m pretty sure if I shoot those critters with that Dirty Harry gun, it’s gonna blow them up to a pulp and won’t be of any use. And, to top it off, she also wants me to go to Marfa, Texas, and search the Chihuahuan Desert for the rare Chihuahuan Death Pepper, which grows near the mountains at the base of Cacti, and is really hard to find. I’m in a pickle here. Why can’t I just get some Wolf Brand canned chili and add some stuff to it? Help a brother out here.

The Texan: Well, Mr. de’ Gallo, I happen to be somewhat of an expert on Chili. My two son-in-laws have won the Terlingua Chili Cookoff twice in the last five years, so by osmosis and relations, they turned me into a Chili expert. I can tell right now, you don’t need to shoot all those road kill critters and blow them up, just go to HEB and get some pork, steak, ground beef, and other meats, and tell her you shot the critters. She won’t know the difference. I’ll email you my special recipe for my award-winning Chili. I use my special hot sauce, called Davy Crockett’s Colon Cannon, because it’s made with the Vietnamese Death pepper brought back to Texas from Vietnam in 1969 by my buddy, Tex Stiles, the famous BBQ Chef. He was fighting the Cong over there, and an old Mama San turned him onto the pepper. It’s the hottest one in the world, and one pepper could kill two or three folks, so you’ve got to use only one or two drops in your batch. I’ll send you some Cherry Bombs and a CD of John Wayne’s famous movie, ” The Alamo.” Your wife’s granny might be in there somewhere.

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Ask A Texan: Wife Moves To New York City To Be A Social Worker


Advice For Non-Texan Husbands Who Are Hearing Impaired

This Texan received a letter from Mr. Bobby Joe Boudreaux from Chigger Bayou, Louisiana. Seems his wife is determined to go to New York City and work as a social worker for the new communist mayor, Mamdani.

Mr. Boudreaux: My wife of thirty years, Lolita Belle, says she is moving to New York City to work for that commie whack job, Mamdani. Since he is replacing the police force with social workers who will talk to the criminals instead of arresting them. Lolita Belle is a world champion talker. She starts in around 7 am and goes until after bedtime. She even talks in her sleep, so I have to wear earplugs or turn my hearing aids off. She’s worn our four iPhones in the last year, talking to her relatives over in Shreveport. She stops folks in the grocery store and starts telling them about the nutritional values of the food they are buying. The poor folks are cornered and can’t escape. Our preacher at the Chigger Bayou Fourth Baptist let her lead communion one Sunday, and she got carried away, talking for an hour about why the church should be using real wine and Ritz crackers instead of Welch’s grape juice and crunchy bread. Now the church won’t let us in the door. She got stopped by a policeman for speeding, and she gave the poor cop a thirty-minute explanation on speed limits and why his uniform didn’t fit properly, and he needed to get his teeth whitened. The poor policeman finally gave her twenty dollars just to stop, and he got on his motorcycle and took off. She thinks if she can talk a policeman out of a ticket, then she can speak a criminal into being a good guy, just like that socialist street rat, Mamadami, who isn’t even an American, thinks will work. She read that all his new staff will be women, so she can have some sisters to talk to. I need some help down here.

The Texan: I hear your pain. ( pun intended ). Some folks are born with a genetic predisposition to constantly orate. My late, late, late, aunt, Beulah, from Santa Anna, Texas, ran off three husbands and at least a dozen dogs and cats for the same reason. When her priest was giving her the last rites before she passed away, she wouldn’t stop telling him what to say, so he just left. Short of using a shock collar like folks do with those noisy Beagles, I would let her go on up to New York and work for that commie pinko rat. If she can talk a cop out of a ticket, the poor criminal will probably give up and beg to be arrested just to shut her up. I’m sending her a CD language course on how to talk like a New Yorker, and to help a brother out, I’ll cover the cost of the airfare. I’m also sending you a box of Cherry Bombs to help relieve your anxiety. There’s nothing like blowing up Fire Ant mounds to calm a man down. Keep in touch.

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Ask A Texan: All Taped Out…


The Texan

Somewhat Intellectual Advice For Folks That Don’t Have An Intellect Or Can’t Spell The Word…

I received a letter written on the back of a missing cat poster. I called the number, and the owner confirmed that the cat had come home, which is a good thing. The man who wrote the letter on the absconded poster, A Mr. Thurston Howell, claims his wife has lost her mind and is attempting a home remedy facelift.

Mr. Howell: Mr. Texan, I saw your article in the Wall Street Journal and thought you might be able to offer some sound advice. I ran out of printing paper, so I used a missing cat poster that I found stapled to my mailbox to print this letter. I hope you don’t mind. Besides, the lady put the posters everywhere in our upscale neighborhood, which is against our HOA rules here in Beverly Hills. It seems her cat goes missing at least once a month, and Elly Mae Clampett, the sweet girl down the street, searches and finds the missing furball. The crazy cat lady has around fifty cats, so missing one would be no big deal. I found three of them eating a mouse on the Cordovan leather backseat of my Bentley last week and had to trade the car in for a new one. Anyway, that’s not the issue I’m addressing.

My wife, Lovey, has been begging for a face lift. She says all the women at the country club are getting them. I told her no way because, since our banker, Mr. Drysdale, made some bad investments with our money, we are on a strict budget. She’s a big fan of that TikTok thing on her phone. She saw that an influencer in Hawaii has invented a do-it-yourself at-home facelift using Gorilla Duct Tape. I’m familiar with the benefits of duct tape. When Lovey and I were stuck on a deserted island a few decades ago when a tour boat we were on hit a reef and marooned us with a group of idiots, one of the smart guys used a roll of duct tape and some Palm Tree bark to fix the hole in the boat, and we were able to get back to Waikiki a few years later, just in time to see Elvis on the beach filming a movie.

Lovey came to breakfast this morning with her face wrapped up in Gorilla Duct tape. It frightened me so badly that I spat out my coffee and ruined my Lobster Pâté breakfast roll. Rosie Jetson, our robotic chef and maid, had to stop cleaning the pool and clean up our deck-side breakfast table. She had applied makeup and lipstick to her tape-face, and now she looks like the Bride of Frankenstein. Our little dog, Gilligan, was so scared that he hid in the pool house and won’t come out. Lovey claims that after six weeks, when she removes the tape, she will be as beautiful as her best friend, Ginger, the hot red-headed unemployed actress she hangs out with. I think she’s lost her coconuts. Do you have any recommendations on how I can put an end to this madness? I attached a picture of Lovey so you can see for yourself.

Lovey Howell

The Texan: Well, Mr. Howell, forgive me for being forward, but you can probably afford a good plastic surgeon for Lovey if you live in Beverly Hills, belong to the country club and drive Bentley cars. It sounds like you’re being a bit stingy. TikTok has messed up a lot of folks. My daughter-in-law followed an influencer’s advice and used Super Glue to style her hair, only to wind up in the ER, where the surgeon, with the help of a beautician, had to remove all her”Rapunzel-esque” mane. As a result, she is now as bald as Kojak. So, if your wife is stupid enough to do what some moron on TikTok advises, she may well need to see an expensive Beverly Hills shrink. I would first take away her smartphone and have Rosie, your robot maid, destroy it. Then, I would have Rosie hold Lovey down and rip off the duct tape. Tell Ginger to lie like a garage sale rug and tell your wife she is as pretty as that other girl, Mary Ann. Call Elly Mae Clampett to come down and style Lovie’s hair and loan her a tight pair of American Eagle jeans to accentuate her figure and make her look like Sydney Sweeney. If that doesn’t do the trick, it’s likely that Granny Clampett, Elly’s grandmother, will have some sort of possum belly-based cream to fix the damage from the duct tape. I’m sending Lovey a CD of a great TV series to watch while she recovers. “Petticoat Junction,” I’m also enclosing a box of cherry bombs so you can blow up the cats before they ruin the leather seats in your newest Bentley. Let me know how this all turns out.

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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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Jesus Got A Mainline..Tell Him What You Want


Southwest Texas in the 1930s was its own special kind of hell. It wasn’t better or worse off than most of the state, but it was way out yonder and then some. Most Texas folks never ventured that far.

You could find a hundred preachers and ask them if God was punishing Texas farmers, and they would all praise the Lord and tell you times are hard, but we are blessed. Preachers back then were good at blowing smoke up folks’ backside, and then blessing them after the plate was passed.

One main highway, US 377 from Fort Worth, led to Stephenville, Dublin, Brownwood, Coleman, Santa Anna, and on to San Angelo, then farther out to desolate West Texas and the Chihuahuan Desert Big Bend. Small crop and cattle farms along the route, made up of God-fearing, gun-toting, worn-down, and dirt-poor families, faded into heat waves and obscurity as the fence post clicked by. The WPA was new to road and highway repair. Craftsmen and skilled labor were scarce, and what was available was assigned to building and repairing buildings, schools, bridges, and parks. The last place our government wanted to send its money was to the South to make living conditions better for poor southern white folk. Not much has changed in Washington, but we folks in Texas figured it out.

My grandparents, during those years, were cotton farmers in Santa Anna, Texas. A good crop of anything was a dream, a decent one, a miracle. Johnson Grass and Thistle Weed ruled the rows, and if a family could keep them at bay, a sellable crop of cotton might be picked: that’s if rain fell, and like miracles, there wasn’t much of either available.

My mother, Mozelle Manley, one of four children, lived on her parents’ farm and suffered through those hard-scrabble times. These are her recollections as told to me over many years. Sometimes over a glass of wine, or a late-night conversation, or just a visit while she prepared dinner. She didn’t keep a diary or put her thoughts to paper, but she was exceptional in her oral history, and I, if nothing else, was a devoted son and an apt listener.

Around late September, the cotton was getting ripe for picking. My grandfather, a miserly old goat, used his children as unpaid farm labor, which was the custom back then: the more kids you had, the less labor you paid. My mother, a delicate young girl, wanted to write poetry and stories, but her pen was the wooden end of a hoe, chopping weeds in the cotton rows. I learned this after I was an adult in my forties, and she finally gathered the courage to tell me about her childhood years. I played the part of the good son, listener, and historian.

Pickers would come to their area around harvest time to pick the cotton for the families they knew needed the help. They mainly were black folk from around San Angelo, or farther west. They had their own farms, but could make a good buck picking sacks of white gold, enough to hold them over for the winter months and beyond.

One family would come to Santa Anna every year: a large black family from San Angelo. The patriarch was an old snow white haired man folks called “Preacher.” He was an actual certified man of God with his own small country church, but had a passel of kids that worked to keep the family afloat. My grandfather never knew much about the man, or the brood, but always paid them in cash money, and trusted him enough as to not quibble over the weight or his sacks of cotton weighed at the gin at the end of each day. Preacher always said he had a “mainline to God.” No one doubted that, ever. You could see it in his eyes, his face, his demeanor, and his spirit that traveled with him like a treasured handbag. Men of God have a discerning spirit and a glow about them, even in the dark of night.

Every summer, my mother and her siblings would chop weeds in the cotton rows. Pesky little growths that kept the poor soil’s nutrients from feeding the precious cotton bolls. By harvest time, the entire group of children was worn down to a nubbin and ready to catch the first hobo freight out of town for Fort Worth or Dallas. My grandfather was a hard-assed father who used his children as day labor and often treated them the same way. In his later years, he found Jesus and softened a bit, but only enough that you could spread his soul like hard butter on a two-day-old biscuit.

Preacher and his family would show up about the time grandfather was pacing the wood off of the back porch floor. They would pitch a few tarp tents, sleep in his barn and eat a few of granny’s five-hundred or so Chickens. The cotton was picked, weighed, and the Preacher and his clan got their cash and went home to San Angelo and their church. This went on for years, maybe a decade or more.

As my mother and her siblings aged and graduated high school, they knew what they must do: leave the farm to forge a life for themselves. My uncle joined the Navy, fighting in the Pacific theater against the Japs. My mother and her two sisters caught the train to Fort Worth and built bombers and fighters in the aircraft plants for World War II. The days of free labor were over, and grandfather switched from cotton to maze, corn, and Johnson grass for hay. Preacher came back once, but seeing that the end was there, never returned. He knew the things that could kill a family’s spirit, and he didn’t care to see this one end. He truly had a mainline to God. I found it amazing and yet amusing what a few glasses of wine and a few hours with my mother taught me about her family.

Having a mainline to God is a special gift. My mother knew this and always kept Preacher in her prayers and thoughts.

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Sharing My Desktop Challenge 10.15.25


Many years ago, as I was starting my landscaping and building my side yard fencing, the Polar Vortex, which caused temperatures to drop to -2 degrees for many days, accompanied by ice and snow, took out many of my plants, and I had to start over.

The Polar Vortex arrived.

The disgusted gardener having to start anew…