Tag: Taylor Swift

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The Endearing Connection: Ozzy and Ozzie. Pass Me That Burning Guitar…


When old Rockers check out, they do it in style. Ozzy Osborne did one last concert the week before his ride up to meet Saint Peter. TV preacher, Joel ( Money Bags) Olsteen, said that Ozzy, upon being stopped at the gate by an Archangel, told God that the whole black satanic Satan thing was just an act, and he never liked the taste of Bats. I haven’t heard anything yet about whether that worked. Alice Cooper had more fun with the makeup and outfits, and Alice is a Christian, so he will likely make the cut when his time is up.

I was not a Black Sabbath fan, and couldn’t name you one tune they did, but I did watch the Ozzy and family show a few times and found it sort of entertaining and depressing at the same time. I was accustomed to the original Ozzie show, the one with his wife, Harriet, and the two nice-looking sons, and a street full of nicely dressed neighbors. Everyone cooked hamburgers on their charcoal grills every night because the weather on the back lot at California’s Desilu Studios was always so perfect. That’s the Ozzy I connect with. Much like Ozzy Osborne, Ozzie Nelson was also a musician and a television producer. Big Band music, large-scale orchestrated numbers featuring blaring horns, doghouse bass players, and hep cat drummers. Then his son, little Ricky, grew up and had twinkling blue eyes and perfectly styled wolfman hair, a nice Martin guitar, and sang teenage songs that made the young girls all jelly-legged and instantly fertile. So, the dull Ozzie could have related to the outrageous Ozzy, as he had raised a rebellious teenage musical son.

I made a list of deceased musicians and read it to Momo. She is adept at correcting me when I make a social or personal mistake. She asked for a rundown, so I gave it my all, but all was wrong. I had no idea Bruce Springsteen, Spinal Tap, Stills and Nash, Neil Diamond, Diamond Lil, Joni Mitchell, The last Monkee, Paul Simon, Simon and Garfunkel, Dave Clark and his Five, Peter the Hermit, Freddy the Dreamer, and Sir Paul were still alive. What a shock. Ringo is now a member of The Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, so I guess that “They’re Gonna Put Me In The Movies” tune paved the way. I told her to put the list in her desk drawer and check it in a few years to see if I foretold the future. The sad reality of old musicians and singers passing on is, who will pick up the torch and replace them? Please don’t even consider Taylor The Swifter and that group of cartoon music morons she spawned. I’m waiting on Dylan and Baez to go on tour.

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Beware Of False Idols


Taylor Swift is back in the news—not that she ever left. I was hoping that her knuckle-dragging boyfriend would have married her by now, moved to a tar paper shack in Appalachia, and kept her barefoot and pregnant. No such luck. The millions of her lemming-like young fans have been breathlessly awaiting her choice for president. The anointed swift-one dropped it on social media. She is supporting the Harris Walz duo. Does she not understand that more than half of America is conservative and controls the purse strings of their children, her fans. Ali wants the new Taylor Swift album priced at forty dollars. I think not. Crafty marketing has turned her into a money machine. She knows the power she wields with the pre-teen and teenage girls. They have made her a billionaire. A tall, leggy blond who writes and sings cartoon music, perfect for a Saturday morning children’s show. Millions of young girls hang on to her every word and march like soldiers to her orders. Say something wrong about their golden idol, and they will unite and come for you in the middle of the night.

Somewhere in Kansas

A quiet suburban street, older homes, well-kept with tidy yards. The car in the drive is going on at ten years old, and the pickup parked next to it is a year older. The mother works at Walmart, and the father is an auto mechanic and a volunteer fireman. Blue-collar, over-taxed, middle-America Christians. Their thirteen-year-old daughter, a swifty, which is what her cult following calls themselves, walks into the kitchen where her parents are seated at the breakfast table, shuffling the monthly bills in two stacks: pay and don’t pay. They are counting their dollars and now counting coins, hoping to have enough to pay for the groceries for the week. In a snotty know-it-all tone, typical for her age, the daughter, in a demanding tone of voice, tells her parents that they must vote for Harris because Taylor Swift endorsed her, and they need to give her five hundred dollars for a ticket to her show next month because Taylor says all Swifties must unite.

Her father looks at her and says, “We are in a financial squeeze, young lady, so to pay the bills and buy food, I will need your iPhone right now, and I am canceling your subscriptions to Spotify, iTunes, your phone service, and the internet. You will also need to get an after-school job, or drop out and work full time, your college fund is no more, we had to use it to pay the mortgage and for your braces. That nice car you wanted for your sixteenth birthday, well, that’s not going to happen. Now, since you are united, call Miss Swift and ask her to send you a check.”

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Grifter Swifter


The original Tortured Poet

After reading all the glowing, foot-kissing reviews of Swifter’s new album, “The Tortured Poet’s Department,” I take back a few of the skews I gave her, but only a few. I had no idea the poor dear had lived such a sad life. I doubt her feet touched the ground until she was five years old, and every spoon in the house was pure silver. A downtrodden, entitled little rich girl confined to her Barbie bedroom writing little kid songs on her half-size Martin guitar. She never played in a bar, a club, or anywhere for that matter, except for her doll babies. Pop’s paid millions to get her into that Nashville brotherhood, which shows us how far that once holy ground has slipped. Did the poor waif have ever have a decent relationship with a male, not counting her current knuckle dragger? Doubt it, so the tortured poet title might fit her, even though what she writes is far from good poetry.

There have been many before her who qualified for the title: Harry Nillson, John Lennon, Bobbie Gentry, James Taylor, and Willie Nelson are a few. The original Homeric tortured poet, Bob Dylan, still holds the title: Swifter is no more than a grifter.

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Warnings From The Cactus Patch


Don’t Do It..Don’t Press That Cute Little Button With Your Mouse!”

Who wouldn’t want to see what an AI generated Barbie Doll for each state would look like..right? Well, I was on MSN, the evil 1984 computer software owned by “Steve Jobs rip-off-boy and Mail Order Doctor, Bill Gates, and the article was there with a cute picture of a Barbie doll. She was wearing a woodchopper shirt, staring all dead-eyed with that perky little nose and luxurious plastic hair, so I clicked the read. First Barbie for the state of Alabama popped up, a chirpy little southern belle, very racist in her frilly debutant outfit, holding a mint julep; I kept looking for “the help” doll that came with her. Cute, I wouldn’t buy it for my granddaughter, who never liked Barbie anyway; she was into the American Girl high-dollar dolls. Then I hit the continue button, “Bammo…. call 800 Microsoft, and all these scanning windows come up on my screen, ” your PC is infected with a Virus of lethal origin, your information will be lost in space and your laptop will melt into a puddle of plastic unless you call this number.” Lucky for me, I have a great anti-virus called Webroot, and that caught the little basement-dwelling culprits, likely some Chinese dudes living in Shang-Hi or Bali Hi, with their mothers serving them Fung Chow tea and eating fried bats with Raman noodles all day. This is the tech-savvy security checks that MSN gives its users. I’d be safer using Alta-Vista on a dial-up modem.

Her New Album Is Coming…

The Swift One, The Anoited Ambushiness Blond, The Long-Legged Succubus, so many names, so many men to write songs about. Now, poor Neanderthal raw meat-eating Kelce is her focus. His attack on his coach told Tay-Tay that she probably shouldn’t marry this Transformer, who has no control over his testosterone-fueled madness. So, in a secret recording studio, somewhere in deep Europe, the album has begun in secret. This signals the end of her partnership with the NFL unless she can steal Patrick Mahomes from Elle May. I know my post a few days ago said no more Taylor stuff, but this is just too good to pass up. Gimme a hall pass on this one.

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New York Gives All The Key’s To The City To Thankful Zombies


Jaques Coustou holds Mayor Adams’s Voodoo Doll

Not that Momo and I plan to visit New York in our lifetime, which has shortened considerably in the last three years due to calculated circumstances. Today, I read in the New York Press that Mayor Adams is begging fellow New Yorkers to house migrants/invaders in their private residences. What..are all the four and five-star hotels full? It’s reported by untrusted and misinformed sources that the hordes of illegal river rafters have trashed most of the hotels in New York to the point that they will need total reconstruction if the verminatosious are ever evicted.

One well-meaning moronic family in Long Island, feeling all warm and fuzzy after a Saturday morning trip to Starbucks and Barnes and Noble Bookstore, offered two rooms of their luxurious home as a safe haven for a poor migrant family. They called the appropriate agency, and within an hour, a family of four from Haiti was knocking at their door, ready to move into their new “forever home.” The Haitian family needed a few extra rooms for their goats and chickens, which would be used in voodoo ceremonies, and one of their children, a certified living dead Zombie, ate the family’s pet cat, Doonsbury Jr. After a week of torment, finding voodoo dolls in their likeness all over the house, and fearing for their lives, B.D. and Joanie Caucus and their two children, Zonker and Lacy fled in the dead of night from their 2.5 Million Dollar abode and are now staying at the Fredrick Mercury homeless shelter in Queens. The Haitian family has had the locks and the alarm code changed and has run up a $2,000.00 DoorDash bill using Mrs. Caucus’s credit cards found in a desk drawer. Bet they’re feeling all warm and fuzzy about now.

Tay-Tay Kicks Kanye’s Ta-Ta…Elly Mae Jets In From Beverley Hills

This will be my last paragraph about Tay-Tay Swifter. The Super Bowl did me in. Momo and I went down in flames. Eleven times, the cameras cut to the “anoited one” and her entourage of hangers-on instead of showing the game. Now, I learn that she had poor, old, downtrodden Kanye West barred from attending the event after he had purchased seats in front of her private suite. “Like…you know….like…ain’t nobody gonna…like…. steal my camera time,” she was overheard saying to her new bestie, Elly Mae Mahomes. Poor old Travis, her knuckle-dragging fiance, has been forced to move out of his home because manic packs of young “Swifties” invaded his residence and are refusing to leave until Tay-Tay comes to the house and gives them a blessed Swiftie communion. There’s a song in there somewhere.

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The Swifter Bowl Has Arrived To Save Las Vegas


New Just In From Las Vegas; The NFL has issued a statement that says they will postpone the start of the Super Bowl ( swifter bowl) until Taylor Swift is seated with her entourage in her million-dollar suite.

It’s also reported that a crowd of ten thousand Swifty Fans will greet her at the airport and carry her on a river of fans to the stadium, her feet never touching the pavement. Once there, she will be seated on a throne and carried by young Swifty pre-teens to her suite. The Mehomes chick will have to find her own way up there.

Personally, if they show her more than twice in the first quarter, I will switch to Yellowstone. But then again, I may not watch the Super Thang at all.

Something to ponder: Why is it called the Super Bowl, and the winners are the World Champions? No one in the world except Canada plays American-style football. Imagine a team from Somalia or India playing the Chiefs; then they might earn the title of World Champions. The dudes from Africa would be great receivers because they can outrun a Lion, and that’s quite a feat.

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The “Swifter Bowl” Is Coming


Yes, Dear Hearts, she has now taken over the Super Bowl. It’s not about football anymore; it’s about a singer with an average voice who knows four chords on a guitar and always holds her microphone near her rear end. What is up with that? We can be assured that the camera will show her face every few minutes; maybe they can catch her squeezing a zit. Poor Kelce, there will be a song about him in the near future, and he knows it: what an unlucky schmuck. I have no plans to watch the “Swifter Bowl:” there are too many good movies on Netflix and Amazon.

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January Dispatch From The Cactus Patch


Don’t Look At That Sun..You’ll Go Blind

I’m ready for the Eclipse in April. That’s me back in my 3-D days. I walked around for months wearing my cheesy glasses. Everything looked better in the beautiful hues of red and blue, so I saved them in my Roy Rogers lunch box with the original Thermos that held my cold Ovaltine and kept it cold for half a day. How did it know? I figure these specs will work just fine for the Solar Eclipse.

The Beat Goes On…And On

My father’s late cousin, Mail Order Preacher, Little Jimi Bob Fender of Fort Worth, Texas. He started out playing that “Devil music,” rock-a-billy, and jive-assed jumping-around stuff out on Jacksboro Highway. After getting knifed a few times, then shot up real good by the jealous husband of some old hairy-legged gal, he glammed onto religion and started the “Church Of What’s Happening Now.” He had the rocking-ist church music in Texas, and many of the great musicians, such as Delbert McClinton and Willie, stopped by on Sundays to jam. As you can see, he was a snappy dresser. Dig that guitar and that blue suit.

When It’s Round-Up Time In Texas

Back in the 1950s, long before there was the Dixie Chicks, there was my late 14th cousins’ trio, “The Texas Fried Pies.” They played most of the grocery store openings, school assemblies, parades, Tupperware parties, Avon get-togethers, rodeos, The Fat Stock Show, and select funerals. Left to right: Peach E. Keen on the doghouse bass, my cousin Apple Coreby on the banjo, and Cherry la’Tartness on the squeezebox.

The Gospel According To That Person of The Year

Good Lord, help us, please. Now she has her own religion and a bible? It was bound to happen, given she has around ten million young zombie followers. I read from a former swiftie-cult member that when she turned 21 years old, her brain hit reset, and she became a normal woman and started listening to George Strait. There is hope.

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Welcome To Crazy Town City Limits


Are we not living in “Crazy Town?” Fifteen Thousand clean, well-fed, cell phone-carrying invaders are on their merry way to our Texas/Mexico border, most of them adult military fighting-age males, ready for action. ” Come on down, free everything for life,” and our government does nothing, which they do well, to stop this invasion of our once sovereign land. Since our National Guard, hands tied to their waist, can do nothing, I suggested sending thousands of Boy and Cub Scouts to the border equipped with Daisy BB guns, ” the BBs won’t kill anyone, but damn, they hurt.” This may or may not stop the hordes of brain-eating Zombies, but maybe our folks in DC will get the message. Really, I’m kidding; this is a dream I had while under the influence of my pain meds. Sounds good though.

The NFL is experiencing a boost in game attendance when Taylor Swift is holding court in the owner’s luxury suite. Thousands of her young “Lemming Swifites” are in the bleachers, holding up ” We Are Here For Taylor” signs, clutching her CDs to their breasts, and praying for a glimpse of the anointed one. There is talk on the street that she may run for President. The country will need the “Auto-tune” app on their phones to understand what she is saying. Isn’t social media a grand thing?

I believe she just wet herself. Poor Travis

28 miserable years since my once wonderful football team, The Dallas Cowboys have made a Superbowl appearance, and now the owner, a Rummy-Eyed, jabbering, scotch-pickled Beverley Hillbilly from Arkansas is about to give his quarterback a 60 million per year contract to keep the team in their mediocre bubble. To Jones, it makes perfect sense; if the boys win a Superbowl, then they will be expected to produce a winning team every year, so just give the fans a smidgin of hope, enough to keep his Deathstar stadium full of hungry pilgrims, there to witness mediocracy at it’s best. I can’t bear to watch this trainwreck; at least our Texas Rangers delivered a World Series after receiving their new stadium. Please send Tom back down to Earth for one season.

Saint Tom

Momo is roaring back from her bionic knee replacement, sort of. We went shopping in Fort Worth yesterday, hitched up the wagon, and trekked to the big city. She’s happiest when spending money, so Old Navy, Acadamy, and Half Price Books got a token of her appreciation. I did notice that HPB’s is now carrying re-issues of the old classic rock albums. Back in the 60s, we paid around six bucks for one; now, they cost around twenty to forty bucks, and the vinyl is paper thin. I purchased a reissue of Bob Dylan’s “Nashville Skyline” to replace my long ago stolen original. Who thought that digital engineering of music would sound better than old-school analog. Wasn’t me, and it doesn’t.

Dylans Maximus Opus

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One More Semester, Please! I Promise I’ll Do Better!


To all of you, parents and grandparents, who are totally paying for or supplementing your children’s and grandchildren’s college education, In case you haven’t heard, many universities in the Northeast and Washington State are offering accredited classes on “Taylor Swift.” yes, that one. There is no planned curriculum or testing, just hysterical discussions and listening to her screeching music. Students must bring their own auto-tune devices so the rest of the class can understand the coded “swift-ease” language. As for the folks paying for the little darlings’ education? Well, your daughter is a moron and will likely be living at home in her childhood bedroom until you pass on and leave her the house and your 1996 Buick. At least the Dixie Chicks and Alanis Morrisette could actually sing.