Tag: Texas

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Me And My Buddy, J. Robert Oppenheimer


I made it through another year of not watching the Oscar thing. I did see “Oppenheimer” which was a darn good picture, even with the out-of-place icky sex scenes. Did he really have time for all of that humping about? No, the poor, underfed man was trying to build the ultimate vaporizing weapon, so I doubt he had time for all that Hollywood ya-hoo. This leads me to another story related to the atomic bomb.

Back in 2019, when I found out the “Big C” had taken up residence in my holy temple, the doctor at UT Southwestern in Dallas suggested a radical new treatment of Ultra high-dose radiation delivered by a robot-type device. The word radical caught my attention.

Doctor Hanan said it’s mainly used on brain cancer but had recently been used on maybe three folks with my type of Cancer, and two were still around, so it showed all the signs of being safe except for the one major side effect; death. Well, I had two choices; expire at the hands of a radioactive robot or die by cancer, so I chose the robot that was affectionately known at UTS as SBRT.

Weeks of pre-treatment torture left me weak, discombobulated, and begging for mercy, but none of the techs or nurses would accommodate my plea. I must have given gallons of blood and tissue to the labs, and not one of them could answer why they needed all of my sacred blood when one drop was all it took. I came to the conclusion that all nurses, including my nurse wife Momo, like to stick people with needles and other sharp objects.

The first inquisition-style treatment was on a Wednesday in April. The perky nurse at the front desk told me it would be a simple MRI with contrast.

I asked, ” Like the contrast on my TV?” I couldn’t believe myself to be that backwoods, but I was. ” No you silly man, we stick a real big needle in your arm and pump radioactive dye into your body and it lights up all the cancer stuff so we can see it better.” That was my first encounter with radioisotopes, but not my last.

Gown on, little yellow footy socks on my feet, escorted to a hard metal table leading into a large magnetic tube. IV inserted, joy juice running through my body, and then the tech pulls out this scale model of the Hindenburg Blimp. I am not joking; this was about the size of a Wilson Professional Football, evil-looking with a glowing red twirly thing on the end. “Where is that going?” I asked. The tech snickered and said, ” Where do you think?”

I must have puckered pretty well because he said that wouldn’t do any good; I have a Craftsman tool that will take care of that; and he used it. The last thing I remember was him saying, ” I won’t lie, this is going to hurt like a sum-bitch.” and it did, then I went off to LaLa land without drugs.

Limping back to the dressing room, I felt like a Chihuahua that had been locked in a cage with a dozen Great Danes. A few more procedures were required to protect my other innards, and they were almost as traumatic. At this point I was thinking the alternative might be the better option. The day of the “big show” arrived.

My cancer doctor met me in the hallway as a nurse rolled me into the special room. ” Are all these straps necessary?” I asked.

He said, “Yes, we don’t want you trying to escape once the robot hits his stride. And by the way, you look just marvelous.”

I was rolled into the “special room.” My nurse technician, dressed in a radioactive suit, rolled me into position. The SBRT Robot was more of a machine from a 1950s Sci-Fi movie. A large ring with multiple robotic arms that sported tiny laser guns on the end of each appendage. I was scared shitless, but the giant elephant enema a few hours earlier had taken care of that.

My nurse was a comforting soul. She explained there would be a lot of noise and flashing lights. I would hear something like a zapping sound, and the doughnut part of the machine would rotate around my body while the SBRT Robot administered the high-dosage radiation. I strained against the straps.

I asked her, “How high of a dose is this radiation?”

She replied, ” Well if you know anything about the 1945 Atom Bomb, it’s the same nuclear isotopes that Oppenheimer used at Los Alamos Labs, where we get a shipment from every week. We are assured it is the top shelf “Good Stuff,” so no worry, it’ll vaporize that nasty old cancer. You’ll lose some hair, maybe some minor damage to your internal organs, a few hundred million brain cells that might affect your memory and motor skills, and your pee will glow in the dark for a few years, but other than that, you’ll be just marvelous.”

Holy crap, the same stuff used on the first bomb. I asked for a bottle of Valium, I got three pills that killed my anxiety attack, and I went to LaLa land.

This too personal recount explains why I identify with the movie “Oppenheimer.” I feel J. Robert and I have a connection of sorts. He may have invented the bomb that killed thousands, but that same stuff saved this old guy.

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Dispatches From The Cactus Patch 3/9/24


My late cousin, Chumly, is pictured above after he found his calling in shark training. Steven Speilberg employed him to wrangle his pen of sharks used in the movie Jaws. This is the last photo of Chum after he thought he had made friends with the lead shark. The only parts of Chum recovered were the sneakers and sunglasses.

My mother’s late uncle Zap was considered the inventor of the family. His most famous contribution was the ” Home Personal Hair Removal Wand,” which was the forerunner to Nair and other hair removal products that became household staples in the 1950s. Zap and his lovely wife, Yippie, a Harpers Bizzare hair model, are pictured here, demonstrating the device for the Fort Worth Press in their backyard pool in 1957. Her hair from the waist down was zapped away, but when she fell backward into the pool, she was rendered bald as a cue ball. The divorce came shortly afterward.

Pictured above is my cousin’s niece, Fifi, who, since the age of 16, has identified as a dog. After years of expensive therapy, her parents gave in and presented her with a custom-made Serta dog bed. The last report is that all was going well except for letting her out to pee twice a night and holding an umbrella over her when it’s raining.

Pictured above is my grandson’s Boy Scout Troop 33 1/3 of the Texas Longhorn Division, arriving at the Texas/Mexico border to support the National Guard. After arrival, they were issued Daisy BB guns and a towsack full of chunkable river rocks to fend off the invaders. Jesus Navidad, an illegal, after crawling through the razor wire, said, “Those Boy Scouts are mean little shits, and man, those BB guns and rocks hurt, I texted all my relatives and told them to stay home until they can catch a free flight to New York.”

My childhood neighbor, Mrs. Mister, in 1956, posing for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram after becoming the only female swimming instructor at the parks and recreation’s Forest Park Pool. Swimming lessons hit an all-time high that summer and the pool had a record year. I’m the goofy kid, bottom right, second up behind our right fielder, Rhonda.

Pictured above, around 1954, is my neighborhood milkman, Mr. Rock Pint. He was a swell guy who gave all of us kids free chocolate milk and ice cream sandwiches during the hot Texas summers. All the moms loved him, and many of the younger kids resembled Mr. Pint; must have been something in the milk?

Pictured above is a crowd photo from the Texas International Pop Festival, August 1969. I am in the center of the crowd, about thirty people back; Momo, my wife, is just to the right of the center, about forty people back. My buddy, Jarry, is the blond guy with the severe sunburn that required hospitalization, but the paramedics wouldn’t transport him until the Grand Funk Railroads set was over. I survived one-hundred-degree temperatures for three days and got to meet Janis Joplin one late night when this nice gal with a Texas twang asked me if she could cut in line as I was waiting to buy a hot dog. It took a minute for me to realize it was her, but I was cool; it was the sixties, man. That night, ole Janis “took a little piece of my heart, now baby.” Momo and I still get a good laugh and a few wheezes when we revisit those times. Our children and grandchildren will never be as cool as we were.

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Hey Kids! Let’s Watch The Newest Sitcom…”All In The State of The Union Family” Show


Momo made me promise to write less politically charged posts, and for the better part of a year, I have struggled but accommodated her request. There have been maybe two that I sneaked in under the radar during the wee morning hours under my assumed name, which I can’t divulge for fear of repercussions or worse. Only Mooch and Hi-Ho Steve-A-Reeno know my secret squirrel identity. A few of my blog non-regular readers ratted me out via the WordPress comments boxes, threatening to reveal my real name and where I live. The address on my blog, personal information, and stats are fake, so take your best shot, little Deputy Dogs. I will admit that since I have become a political newt, I sleep better when I manage to sleep. My appetite has returned to my favorite diet of tomato soup and chocolate pudding, so there is an upside to depriving myself of the joy of skewering, defaming, harassing, extorting, and embarrassing all politicians, especially the ones in my home state of Texas.

I watched the State of The Union sitcom tonight, one eye covered, no hearing aids, and a triple Jim Beam on the rocks. I was hoping for at least forty-five minutes of ranting, lying, clenched fists, frothing, spitting, and deranged behavior, but I was surprised when I got a one-hour and seven-minute performance that met my recently lowered expectations. The gal from Georgia, the blonde that is fit, with a cutting witt, and possesses Bull of the Woods size gonads, was a breath, or maybe it was a yell of fresh air. Over the decades, I’ve watched many of these “rah-rah” pep rallies, and this one took the tiny trophy of being the most pitiful and lamest of them all. The newest, so far, Speaker of the House may have a career in comedy when he leaves politics. His facial expressions were brilliant, with Lenny Bruce’s reincarnated sense of timing. The man has sad eyes, bright eyed bushy tailed eyes, rolling eyes, smirky smiles, sad teary trembling lip smiles, hang-dog head down, side glances, serial killer stares; Yoda, the force is with me smiles, and drill baby drill looks into the back of old Joe’s hair plugged head; he’s the best I’ve seen. Plus, he is a coon-ass from Louisiana…ahhh yeee.

I felt bad for the Supremes, sitting there, all dressed in their tailored black gowns, looking all professional and deliciously judicious. If looks could maim a man, then all nine of them had the same expression for old Joe when he told them he was going to reverse their constitutional decisions, scolding them like naughty schoolchildren caught cussing on the playground. Hey, Joe, those folks know where you and Hunter live, and now they are pissed off.

Why did most of the Democratic women representatives wear white pantsuits? Are they now re-born virgins? Are they Hulu Hand Maiden’s? Anna Rittenour should phone and remind them you aren’t supposed to wear white after Labor Day; I’m an old guy, but I know that bit of fashion sense. And why are these youngish, sour-faced women holding little personal cardboard signs to their chests when the camera pans them? I thought that behavior and personal protest were prohibited in the chamber. Well, I guess since Rummy Eyed Ice Cream Queen Pelosi tore up an official State of the Union address, which I believe is against some sort of arcane law, any type of behavior is acceptable. If so, the house speaker should have set off a cherry bomb behind old Joe and see how long it would take for Jill and the clean-up crew to make it to the podium. Now that would have been funny.

I figure I’ve got about four or maybe five summers left, then it’s adios, little doggies, and I’m heading to the last roundup up there in them-thar clouds. Momo and the rest of my extended family will have to understand when something as good as we watched tonight comes along, I gotta do what I do. I promise, no more politics until at least November.

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“Come And Take It” The Story of The Alamo Brisket


This Tall Tale is from 2021. With the anniversary of the final battle of The Alamo upon us, I figured a re-visit might be welcomed.

Tex R. Styles learned the art of grilling at a young age. His father, an expert, medal-winning griller, and smoker, proudly and meticulously teaches six-year-old Tex the art of cooking everything from burgers to ribs on his cast-iron Leonard Brothers charcoal grill. The family lineage of grilling over an open flame can be traced back to the British Isles and their ancestral home of Scotland, where a Styles family member cooked meat for Celtic warriors, the King of England, and Mary, Queen of Scots.

When Tex turns eleven, his father conducts a tiki-torch-lighted ceremony in their backyard and passes the sacred grilling tools to his only child. Father Frank, the local priest, attends the party and lays down a righteous blessing on Tex and the family grill.


When young Tex fires up the charcoal on summer evenings, the neighborhood gathers in his backyard to watch the boy genius at work.
Once he has entered his “Zen-cooking zone,” he serves up a better T-Bone than Cattlemen’s, and his burgers are known to bring tears to a grown man’s eyes. Around Fort Worth, the word is out that some little kid over on Ryan Ave is a “grilling Jesse.”

Tex receives a bright green Weber grill for his thirteenth birthday and a professional cooking apron with his name embroidered across the front. The Star-Telegram newspaper takes his picture and writes a glowing article that appears in the Sunday food section. Over on Channel 5, Bobbie Wygant mentions him on her television show and sends him a congratulations card. He is now a local celebrity. Dan Jenkins, the hot-shot sports writer at the Telegram, does a piece on Tex for Sports Illustrated, and just like that, young Tex is officially a “big deal.”

When Tex turns sixteen, like his father and grandfather, he is inducted into the “Sons Of The Alamo” Masonic Lodge. To become a member, your family tree must include one direct family member who fought and died at the Alamo. Tex’s great-great-great-grandfather was a defender and was killed in the siege. He was also the head cook and griller for the Texian Army and a rowdy drinking buddy of Jim Bowie and Colonel Travis.

New members must speak before the lodge elders, recounting the siege from their family’s history. Since childhood, Tex had heard this family story a hundred times and can repeat it word for word, but tonight, he is drawing a blank on some critical details and decides to wing it a bit. In the mind of a sixteen-year-old, his modernized recount of the battle makes perfect sense.

He stands in front of the assembled elders, leans into the microphone, and begins;
“In late 1835, my great-great-great-grandfather, Angus Styles, traveled from the Smokey mountains of Tennessee to the dangerous plains of Texas with David Crockett and his band of long-rifle toting buckskin-clad rabble-rousers. Angus was in the dog house with his wife most of the time, so he figured a year or two in the wilds of Texas would smooth everything out with the Mrs.

Before immigrating to America, Angus was the chief griller and top dog chef for the Duke and Duchess of Edinburg in Europe. David Crockett knew Angus was a master griller and wanted him to travel with his men so they would eat well. Crockett and the men killed the meat, and Angus grilled it to perfection.

Arriving in Texas, Crockett tells Angus they are making a stop-over for a few days at a mission called The Alamo in San Antonio De Bexar. A buddy needs help fighting off a few Mexican soldiers; it shouldn’t take more than two days.

Once at the Alamo, arriving in the dark, entering via the back gate, Angus realizes Crockett was wrong in his evaluation. The rag-tag Army behind the walls would be no match for the thousands of Mexican soldiers sitting on a riverbank a few hundred yards away, eating tortilla wraps and polishing their long bayonets. Mariachi music floating on the breeze gave the scene a weird party-like atmosphere.

Angus locates and converts an old Adobe oven to a smoker griller, working on some chow for the Texians. Brisket, ribs, and sausage, along with his secret sauce, will be on the supper menu.

A young pioneer woman from northern Texas is there with her father, a volunteer. Veronica Baird is busy baking bread and cinnamon rolls in another adobe oven and lends Angus a hand stoking his fire. A prominent German fellow, Gustav Shiner, wanders over and offers Angus a mug of his homebrew beer. It’s looking like the Army will eat and drink well tonight.

A chilly March wind is blowing toward the Mexican Army camp, and the troops smell the delightful aroma of cooking meat and baking bread. Having marched 1500 miles with little food, they are famished, and the wafting perfume makes them salivate like an old hound dog.

General Santa Anna and his officers also smell the same heavenly aroma and, having not much to eat in the past few days, hatch a scheme to get their hands on that meat and freshly baked bread. Santa Anna sends a white flag rider with a note to the gates of the Alamo.

Standing in the courtyard, surrounded by hundred-plus fighters, Travis reads the letter, ” Dear Sirs and Scurrilous Rebels, on behalf of our large and overpowering Mexican Army and of course, myself, General Santa Anna, we would be willing to offer you a general surrender of sorts if you would share your delicious meat and bread with my troops. Looking forward to a good meal. Yours until death, General Santa Anna.”

The men, in unison, yell, “hell no,” we are not sharing our chow. Being a bit smart-ass, Travis orders two 20-pound cannons to fire a rebuke into the Mexican camp.

The first cannonball destroys the Mexican’s chuck wagon and what beans and flour the troops have left. The second cannonball blows up the cantina wagon, vaporizing numerous cases of tequila and wine. Now, the officers and troops have no food and no hooch. Santa Anna is as mad as a rabid raccoon and screams, “that’s it boys, we are taking the mission pronto.”

The battle started that evening, and as we all know, it didn’t turn out well for the Texians. Veronica Baird survived the massacre and said that Angus Styles and Gustav Shiner fought off the advancing soldiers with carving knives, a keg tap, and her sizeable wooden baker’s Peel. They fought to their death.


As the women and children of the Alamo were escorted out of the mission, Veronica Baird spots Santa Anna, sitting on his black horse, about to take a bite from one of her captured Baird Cinnamon rolls. She chunks a rock and knocks it out of his hand. General Santa Anna’s Great Dane dog, Mucho Perro, gobbles it down before it hits the ground. Sweet revenge.

She later wrote a book about the battle, which sold pretty well here in Texas. Not only is the Alamo our sacred national treasure, but it was also the first BBQ joint in Texas. Thank you, and I hope you enjoyed the story of my grandfather Angus dying at the Alamo.” And with that, Tex takes a seat next to his stunned father.

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God Bless The Alamo


A few more days until we solemnly recognize the fall of the Alamo, March 6th, 1836. It’s not a day that will live in infamy like Pearl Harbor, the battles of Gettysburg and Yorktown, but for us native Texans, it’s a day of retrospect that deserves the reverence we bestow upon it.

The blog-es-phere is chock full of opinions about Travis and his men; poor old Santa Anna only wanted to get along, move along and be friends, but had to kill all the defenders because he was forced to. Bullshit, he was a murdering dictator and knew full well what he was doing. Three thousand plus soldiers against less than two hundred poorly equipped pioneers and farmers. Not much brotherly love was present in San Antonio that February and March. There are even stories, one of which I read today, that swear black slaves were picking Texas cotton outside the gates of the mission before the Mexican army invaded. If it’s on the internet, it’s got to be true. Right?

Starting in the first grade, I was taught the history of the Alamo. My teacher made sure my classmates and I knew the story of the battle, the events that led up to it, and the aftermath at San Jacinto. Mrs. Edwards, my teacher, was a native of San Antonio, so she was a bit “ett” up with the whole thing. Us six year- olds, although slightly lacking in historical proficiency, understood the enormity and the importance of the battle. We regularly staged a neighborhood reproduction of the battle a few times a month, using my parent’s garage as the besieged mission.

Walt Disney and his television series Davey Crockett, King of The Wild Frontier, turned every boy, and most girls, in my grade school into a rabid Texian defender, ready and willing to fight the battle a second time using our Daisy BB guns and Cub Scout knives for arms. Having a native Texan and hometown boy, Fess Parker, in the role of old Davey didn’t go unnoticed in Fort Worth. Fess, dressed in full buckskin and coonskin cap came to Fort Worth to promote the show and the schools had to declare a holiday because they were empty. That is how serious we are about our history. Yes, we are all braggarts, insufferable most of the time, and onery as a Honey Badger, but pound for pound, put us against any enemy, and we will get the job done. My fellow members at The Sons of The Alamo Lodge, of which I am a member in good standing, can attest to our state of readiness.

Keep your powder dry; God Bless The Alamo, Goliad, San Jacinto, William Travis, Sam Houston, Juan Sequin, Davey Crockett, Bob Wills, Willie Nelson, and George Strait.

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WordPress Is Now Facebook, Twitter And Instagram


Oh My! Say it ain’t so, Sheriff!

Yes, Dear Hearts, the best blogging site out there, has been discovered by the cancel crowd. They now think WordPress is Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and all the other platforms where they can hide behind a keyboard and burn down the mission with hateful, moronic verbiage. In the past 14 years I have been blogging, there have been only a handful of inappropriate comments thrown my way; some I responded to, others got the trash can symbol. My most recent post, ” High Noon At The Border,” must have caused folks to lose some brain cells and hide in their safe rooms.

Sure, it’s comedy; anyone with half a brain can see that, although I now know there are folks out there who take it seriously. I received one comment from a former Texan who was dragged to California at a young age. She wrote an alternate scenario about the border, which was snarky, well-written, but full of venom. I can picture her at her Apple laptop, tapping away, sipping on a latte’ in between sobs. You can bet she is a Garrison Keillor fan and listens to NPR. I hope the crazed woman doesn’t have access to an assault rifle, most folks know I live in Granbury, Texas, and I wouldn’t be too hard to find. Out of respect for my readers, I ditched her cute little reply, as well as a few others that started with an F and ended with a k..you get the message. I must be on the right path if it offends the ones that cause all the trouble in this country. I’m rather enjoying this.

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High Noon At The Border


Flash update 2-29-24. One way a blogger can tell if they are on the right track is from the comments received. I must be on the electrified center rail because some of the comments regarding this post are not approved for viewing and will never be. It seems some folks out there think WordPress and its blogs are like Facebook, Instagram, and X, where they can freely and anonymously throw their little fit full of venomous, snarky, and juvenile remarks and then trot down to Starbucks for a well-deserved woke-a- latte’. Keep them coming, kiddies, and please leave an address so I can mail you some Christmas cookies with pretty sprinkles and a participation trophy.

I hear Tex Ritter warbling, ” Do not forsake me oh my darling,” as the sheriff walks down the dusty street, about to slap leather and melt the barrel of his 44. High Noon is one of the best westerns of all time.

Texas, the border, February 29, 2024. The motorcade arrives at Eagle Pass. Governor Abbott is there, the Texas National Guard is present, and the Texas Border Patrol surrounds the throng of greeters. The black SUVs roll in. Out steps former president Donald Trump, dressed in black; a 44 hog rests in a black leather holster on each hip, and a stetson sits atop his head. The theme from High Noon plays through the PA speakers. The sheriff is in town and ready to do some business.

Brownsville, Texas, is not quite the border, but it is close. February 29, 2024. The mayor of Brownsville is present, as well as a few city council and Democrat Senators from Texas and Washington. The motorcade of black SUVs rolls up, and out steps President Biden in a blue suit, wearing Rockport sneakers; his wife Jill (not a doctor) leads him to the podium and slips a notecard in his shaky hand. In bold black letters, it reads, “ITS ALL TRUMPS FAULT, get the Republicans, kill all Christians and conservatives, burn down the mission if we want to stay alive ( Elton John, Tumbleweed Connection), and we love Mexico and Ukraine. We need money for Ukraine so our beloved criminal immigrants can vote for me. I’m honored to be here at the Alamo, I love Davey Crockett.” The blonde grifter leads him from the stage to the presidential SUV. The media day is over.

Well, it could happen this way.


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Dispatches From The Cactus Patch Feb. 28th, 2024


One of the by-products of becoming a senior citizen is the onset of boredom. I can only watch so much Wheel of Fortune, although Momo would sit for days watching a pre-recorded loop of the same episodes and keep guessing all the puzzles, waiting for old Pat to send her a check or a vacation voucher to Ukraine. I want to slit a vein.

The Beatnik thing didn’t work out; I was too old, forgot all the best verbiage, and couldn’t stand to wear turtleneck sweaters anymore. Revisiting “On The Road” stirred an interest, but then I took a nap and forgot about it. When I have a good idea, it’s best to avoid daytime naps; they tend to act as a mental reset button for us folks.

Momo suggests I try my hand as a social influencer on TikTok or YouTube. She might be onto something. I have an abundance of white hair, much like those TV preachers from the 1980s when a person could lay their hands on top of their Motorola console color unit and be healed, but only after you gave the call-in number person your credit card number: no donation, no cure. I have the schtick and the suaveness to pull it off. I imagine it would be more like a Brother Dave Gardner comedy album. Speaking of, Brother Dave was my idol back in the late 50s and early 60s. But then, the portable record player broke. My comedy stint was over before it started. But I have the hair: you be the judge and let me know; my phone number is BR-549. A coinsedense how much I resemble Brother Dave.

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Oddities In The Cactus Patch


Things That Can Only Happen In Texas

Pictured at the Larado Railway Station, circa 1958, is my father’s uncles, brothers 15th cousin seven times removed, Little Tex Twitter, with his good buddy from across the border, Teenie Lopez, not to be confused with his older brother, Trini ( If I Had A Hammer) Lopez, a famous pop musician out of Dallas, Texas. Before Tex took him under his armpit, Teenie had been a tire scrubber at the “La Bamba Car Wash And Strip Club” in Nuevo Laredo. Cheech Chong, owner of the business, said that Teenie never missed a day of work but was a “little” late occasionally. Tex, seeing a possible Hollywood connection and possibly a movie or two, convinced Teenie to hit the road with him and his pet Coyote, Wiley. Tex had been on the rodeo circuit for a decade doing rope tricks and wrestling doggies; he had a new act planned for Teenie.

A small saddle was made to fit Wiley, and Teenie would ride the Coyote around the arena wearing a mariachi suit, singing and playing a small guitar. The act lasted only a few weeks when Wiley, doing what Coyotes do best, spotted a Roadrunner darting across the rodeo arena and gave pursuit, which ended in tragedy when Wiley and Teenie, in the heat of the chase, ran into the bullpen and were “hammered flat as a tortilla. “

Tex sent Teenie’s older brother, Trini, the small mariachi hat and what was left of the suit for remembrance’s sake. Trini, in his few moments of grief, penned his first hit tune, ” If I Had A Hammer,” as a tribute to the passing of his little brother. Bet you didn’t know any of this, did you?

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Strange Things Happening At The Whataburger..A Texas Tale


Whataburger draws old folks like a moth to a porch light. Besides having the best burgers in God’s universe, the breakfast are scrumptious and affordable, which is the big draw for us Texans. I stopped by the old orange and white building a few days back for lunch and ran into old pal Mooch and, of course, his constant companion, Giblet the Chihuahua.

I believe Giblet to be the most spoiled and entitled dog on record. He spends most of his time in the converted baby chest carrier strapped to Mooch; the only time the dog sets foot on the globe is to potty, and the rest of the time, Mooch fusses over him like he’s little king Tutukamen.

I qued in line behind Mooch. He tells me Gib has been to doggo school and learned a new language that allows him to communicate with humans. Today is the first dry run of Giblet’s communication skills.

Mooch walks up to the counter and makes his order: a number 1, all the way, extra pickles, jalapenos, no onions, fries, and a Dr Pepper, the old Texas standby. The counter lady, past middle-aged, has that “don’t give me any crap” aura about her.

“Will the pup be having lunch today?” she asked, with a slight touch of sarcasm in her three-pack-a-day croak.

” Mooch asks Giblet what he’ll be ordering. The tiny mensa dog barks eight times. The counter lady seems to understand. ” That’ll be a number eight, right?” Giblet barks once for yes.

She asks, ” will that be the meal with fries and a drink?” Gib barks once. ” Do you want it all the way?” Giblet growls. Mooch asks him, ” you want onions and pickles there Gib?” The dog snarles and bares his teeth. The lady says, ” No onions or pickles. You want a drink with that little doggy?” Giblet barks once for a yes. ” He likes Dr Pepper, mam, in a styrofoam bowl if you please.” says Mooch. The nice lady repeats the order and asks about payment. Giblet sticks his snout into the carrier and extracts a tiny ATM card, holding it in what’s left of his teeth; the lady takes the card, swipes it, adds a tip, and sticks it back in Giblet’s mouth.

“Never seen a dog with its own ATM card before; now I know the world has gone street-rat crazy.” An adoring crowd surrounds Mooch and Giblet, taking selfies with Giblet on their iPhones.

I’m standing in line, forgotten, so I exit and head next door to Wendy’s for a number 3, no onions, extra mustard, with a chocolate shake.