Tag: Texas

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Tall Tales And Ripping Yarns From The Great State of Texas


In the past few weeks, I have received comments from folks who are not frequent followers of my blog. I enjoy hearing from new bloggers, no matter the platform they find me on. It’s good to know how the pulse of the country beats. I welcome all comments and have only trashed a few inappropriate ones over the last fourteen years. Lately, some folks write, “That can’t be true; you made this up.” Well, yes, I did make it up, but there might be a smidgen of truth that sparked the fire. Mark Twain wrote many fictitious tales based on real folks he knew. A kid’s dream found me wanting to be the next Mark Twain, but then, he had already claimed the prize and the glory, and I had to settle for John Steinbeck as my hero and mentor. A good choice.

The heading for my blog clearly, in bold letters, states that it’s ” Tall Tales and Ripping Yarns From The Great State of Texas.” Most of my stories, and some rants, are true and are real recounts from my childhood into adulthood. I trust my longtime readers can tell the difference. My wife, Momo, my perfect muse, to this day, will still ask me if this is a true story or one of my weird ones.

In Texas, we are called Storytellers, Dichos, and raconteurs. My grandfather was a raconteur of the whittle and campfire variety, often playing salty licks on his fiddle while he entertained the family with his yarns. Two uncles on my mother’s side were world-class storytellers and the best liars I have known. They missed their calling by not becoming writers or folklorists like our American legends, Will Rogers and J. Frank Dobie. Genetic tagging from my mouthy relatives to me may have something to do with this malady that keeps me awake with a burning brain. Momo says I am touched in the head; she may be right. I do remember a fall from my mother’s arms to a kitchen floor when I was a wee-one. The result is quite clear.

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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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Remember The Alamo, The Sequel


Risking blasphemy and a quick trip to Hell by evoking one of our sacred cows we Texans hold so dear, I believe this picture says more than any news blurb. Yeah, I know it’s fake, likely done with AI, but it represents how we feel and how much of our country feels. This time, we have more than 200 defenders, but the invading force numbers are in the millions, and the lawless folks in Washington are added. I’m not a violent person, but I will admit that I own firearms and am not afraid to use them, so I guess Momo and I might be open to joining these fellas on the banks of the old Rio Grande to protect our state and country. Just to make things right, before I wrote this, I ate two Whataburgers and offered a prayer to Saint Willie, so I should be good to go and forgiven of my trespasses and all that.

“Remember The Alamo,” the battle cry that changed the course of American history. “Come and Take it,” the flag that solidified Texas’s place in history. I don’t expect a body from New Hampshire or Deleware to understand our heritage; those states have the revolutionary war to wax about. If Texas seceded from the United States, we would have the tenth-largest economy in the world and could easily sustain ourselves as a republic without the interference of those grifters in Washington. What’s evolving by the hour at our border is a preview of things that might be coming. Yeah, we are all braggarts bordering on insufferable assholes at times, but everyone wants to live here. Wonder why? God Bless Texas and Davy Crockett.

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All Hands To The Border…


Scouts heading to Eagle Pass, Texas.

To do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law; To help other people at all times; To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.

I was a Boy Scout; before that, I was a Cub Scout. My sons and grandsons were, and are, Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts, so the tradition runs deep in my family. We are not an army, one that can bear arms and fight the enemy, but if pressed, we could, with the right arms, cause our invaders to re-think their decision. Send some scouts to the border, give us some Daisy pellet guns, and hide and watch. Pellets may not wound them, but damn they hurt.

Father Frank, my priest at The Lady of Perpetual Repentance, has mobilized the Holy Sisters to the border. Mother Agnetha and the ladies have had the honor of winning the state rifle range championship five years running, and they are putting their Winchester prowess to work on the border, defending their home state. When things get tough, call in The Nuns With Guns.

My 24th cousin, Annabelle Oakley. She’s been shooting things since she was a wee-one after joining the Barnum and Baily Circus, so now she is heading for the Texas / Mexico border to do some trick shooting through razor wire.

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“You Want Wire? Well Hoss, We Got Some Wire!”


There’s a sanctified saying that’s been used in Texas for at least 40 years, ” Don’t Mess With Texas,” and we damn well mean it. Our governor, Greg Abbot, has the cajones of a penned-up bull, giving the middle finger salute to those elitist som- bitches in Washington. Old Gov is now known as the “Crazy Texas Wire Dealer.”Here’s an excerpt from his commercial that’s running on the radio down by the border.

Hey folks, It’s Governor Abbott here; I’m now called The Crazy Texas Wire Dealer! You want wire? well hoss, I got a wire. I got me some Razor wire, Constantina wire, Barbed wire, Hog wire, Horse wire, Rabbit wire, Chinchilla wire, Chicken wire, prickly wire, smooth wire, Viet Cong wire, wire with little bells on it, wire with $ 50.00 ATM cards hanging like ornaments, Bud Light wire, Amnesty wire, Biden Wire ( it’s invisible), Go to Jail wire, Cartel wire, Terrorist wire, wire with little bombs attached, 10,000-volt electric wire, poisoned wire, Telegraph wire, Western Union Wire, Walmart Wire, Taco Bell wire, wire with little Don’t Tread On Me flags hanging off it, I got wire for every occasion, and if I don’t have it, I can get it. We also got Alligators, Nile Crocodiles, Nile Pirahna fishes, Electric EEls, little remote-controlled submarines that shoot missiles, swimming Dingo Dogs, Scuba Pit Bulls, Wives with guns going through The Change, Crazed Teen Girls with guns having their period, Swimming Zombies, Air Boats with machine guns, Armed Boy Scouts, Cub Scouts, Girl Scouts, Indian Guides, The Boys Choir, The Highway Patrol, George Strait and his band, John Daley, The Neighborhood Patrol, the Shooting Grannies, the Proud Boys, the Ploughboys, The National Rodeo Association, Nuns With Guns and every armed Texan that can make it to the border. Come on down; it’s gonna be some kind of fun.

Momo and I are leaving in the morning.

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In Remembrance


“In Remembrance.” How many times have you rolled your eyes at that phrase? Obituaries, Eulogies, sympathy cards, and Life Celebrations all bring it to mind, but to me, it feels like a worn-out catchphrase from the past. Not the most fitting expression, but it has that eye-roll-inducing charm. My grandparents, bless their hearts, were professional funeral attendees. They never missed a chance to show up for the bereavement and raid the potluck table – family, friends, neighbors, and even strangers. Their dedication to mourning and food was truly unmatched. Some months, my grandmother didn’t cook a meal; they lived on leftovers from the family gatherings after the service. Ham, roast beef, tater salad, rolls, they ate better than anyone in the family. Death is final, but it comes with good food.

I’ve taken that old phrase, “In Remembrance,” and revamped it to perfectly encapsulate my childhood adventures. It has nothing to do with shuffling off this mortal coil, pushing up daisies, biting the dust, buying the farm, ashes to ashes, or any other worldly farewells. It’s all about the good ol’ days, mischief managed, butt whooping, and the epic tales of my early youth. I’m an old guy now, so time is of the essence, and my keyboard is hot. My punch card could run out at any time, anywhere.

There will be a flurry of “In Remembrances” hitting my blog. I figure a small novella broken into multiple chapters will about do it. I will, because of being blessed with a crazy-assed family, be using them as fodder and foils in many of the recounts. To protect the guilty, I will change some names because a few of them are still among us.

My direct family, Mom and Dad, are floating around in the clouds now, so what I write about them will be respectful and kind, even though my dear Mother whipped my little kid’s bony rear thousands of times with everything from Tupperware to a Mimosa Tree switch. My neighborhood pals and, of course, my mentors, Mr. and Mrs. Mister, played a large part in my development into what I am today. According to my wife, Momo, I should get into a time machine, return, and start it all over. I’ll give H.G. Wells a ring.

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The Three Mouthkateers Ride Again


Pictured are my three Texas rootin-tootin-cowboy cousins circa 1956. Right, to the left are “Little Bit O’ Lunch” Lunch Kit,” and “First Aid Kit .” I believe the horses are Butterfinger, Twigger, and Furi’ous. The Daisy BB guns they carried are not shown in this photo.

My grandmother was the original Texas chicken lady, calling her farm the Chicken Ranch of Santa Anna: not to be confused with the infamous Chicken Ranch and the best little whore house in Texas.

In 1955, after consuming half a dozen Pearl Beers, my uncle counted, more or less, 1500 hens and 50 noisy, aggressive Roosters. The cousins rode the chicken ranch range all day keeping the fowl in line. Any chicken employee not doing their only job of laying eggs got a BB to the rear end. Grandmother was thankful that the little cowpokes liked to ride the chicken range because they constantly ran their mouths about everything and nothing at all. She called them the “Three Mouthkateers,” not to be confused with the kids wearing the mouse ear hats also while singing and dancing about nothing.

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Dirty Hairy…Make My Day


What was once cool, then not, is now cool again. Back in “the day,” meaning the 1960s, some of the flower children went a bit too naturally. Hairy armpits, legs, and other areas were part of the “back to nature” movement. I was not a fan, nor was Momo. The most back-to-earth she got was making her own bread, which she still does and does quite well.

Momo and I were in H.E.B. a few days ago, and a hippish-looking young lady in an Armani sleeveless top had so much armpit hair that it looked like she had Buckwheat in a headlock. As Momo walked past her, she couldn’t help saying, “Otay.”

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The End Is Near


Well, dear hearts, it’s official: another Polar Vortex will be in Texas by Sunday night, about the same time the Dallas Cowboys kickoff against whoever in the hell they are playing for whatever, something, or another position in the NFL universe. I’m very over my former home team. My son, Wes, the rabid family Cowboy fan, is coming in from Corpus Christi for the big game and is taking an entourage of family and friends to the game: he owns seats at the Death Star, and instead of selling them for enough to retire on, he actually attends games, pays $18.00 for a BBQ sandwich, $20.00 for a warm beer, and $150.00 to park, and then walks two miles to the stadium. I watch it on TV and enjoy my own food and my Barc-o-lounger. He’s young and has the stamina and the chutzpah.

We do experience winter in this part of Texas, but damn, in 2021, we had ice and single digits for a week: Momo and I were stranded in our hilly community and were cooking frozen wieners over the butane firepit.

This cold snap, as we call it in Texas, will be about the same. H.E.B. was a crazy town today: No baskets, people snarling and slugging each other over a loaf of Mrs. Baird’s bread, and then, I ran into my buddy Mooch at the frozen pizza case. There he stood, fifty or so Red Baron Frozen Pizzas in his cart, thirty bags of Pork Rinds, and two cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer. He is ready for the apocalypse. A young boy, around the age of six, stood staring at his cart. Mooch had taken all of the Red Baron Pizzas, and it was obvious that they were also the kid’s favorite. Mooch is a gruff old fart, but that little boy, staring at him with those Puss-In-Boots watery eyes, broke the man down. He handed the kid a twenty dollar bill and told him to go buy some Paul Newman’s Pizzas. What a humanitarian. The kid took the bill, gave him the finger, and took off to find his momma.

Momo paid an old lady some cash for her empty cart and loaded the baby up with milk, what was left of the bread, some produce, a few Boston Market Pot Pies, yogurt, eggs, ground turkey, ground Chipmunk, Ostrich steaks, Emu-On-A-Stick, bacon wrapped jalapenos, bacon wrapped Gerbils, bacon wrapped chicken wings, smoked cheese, smoked smokies, aged corn beef hash, Betty Crocker Elf Cookies, ten bags of tater chips, two cases of ginger-ale, three bottles of wine, a dozen jars of Ovaltine, Terlingua Chili Mix, three dozen cans of Tomato soup and a large bottle of Tums. We are ready for the Vortex, so bring that Canadian baby on. The “Police” patrolled the aisles to keep the peace, and I thought I saw “Sting” over by the deli counter signing autographs; there is a rumor he now lives in Granbury with his crazed wife and their fourteen children.

I’ll keep my Cactus Patch pals appraised of our survival as the weather deteriorates. If you don’t hear from me by Tuesday, you know Momo and I didn’t make the cut.

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Dispatches From The Cactus Patch…A Few Things You Might Not Know About


Pictured are my late father’s late cousin, Bell, and her husband, Alexander, showing off their 1952 invention, the “Head Phone,” which was the predecessor to the modern mobile cell phone. It was an awkward unit to use. The phone is attached to your head, and the braided phone line is carried in a backpack. Cell towers weren’t invented, so the unit and the lovely couple were tethered to the home plug by a five-hundred-yard cord roll. She eventually sold her phone ideas to some hot-shot princess in Monaco who came out with her own line of cute little bedside phones. ” Besides”, Bell said, “every time the damn phone rang, it gave me a massive headache.” Alexander, on the other hand, was unable to speak, smoke a ciggie, or drink his nightly cocktail, which impacted their social life.

Pictured is my first real grown-up science experiment kit, Christmas 1955. I asked our neighborhood mentor and mad scientist, Mr. Mister, to tutor me in the art of scientific experimentation. He brought home a few viles of Plutonium X3 from his job at Carswell Air Force Base, and with parts and dangerous minerals from the kit, an old Waring blender, and a Betty Crocker pressure cooker, he and I constructed and tested a small nuclear device right there in our neighborhood. Our garage was totaled, and we were all puny and hairless for a few months, but the family got over the effects of the radiation and, seeing they had a small genius in the family, awarded me a second kit the next Christmas. See Below.

Christmas 1956, I received my second kit, like the one above. I had no idea what Meth was, and the instructions were in Spanish, so frustrated with making 9 Love Potions and disappearing inks, I gave the kit to my cousin, Jock, who set up a cute little lab in his family’s camper trailer parked in their backyard. After blowing up their trailer and suffering non-life-threatening injuries, he was sent to the Juvenile Dope Farm for six months. The last I heard, he opened several pot shops in Ruidoso, New Mexico, after retiring from the Texas Senate.

Who knew that Lard was so good for you? My grandmothers would not have been able to cook a meal without a tub of Crisco, White Cloud, or Puffy Stuff lard. They also kept a soup can full of used bacon grease next to the stove, so if they were out of that soft, luscious lard, they could still fill our bloodstream with massive doses of saturated vein-clogging fat. My grannie soaked her chicken mash feed in Puffy Stuff and then fed the hens her secret mixture. She claimed it made the eggs bigger and better, and when she wrung the head off of one of the greased-up hens and cooked it for supper, the chicken was already basted and fried to a golden brown. Yummm. Gotta love that country cooking.