Tag: Texas

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“I Love The Smell Of Cayenne In The Morning”


The “Dillo-Cong” is on the run. I strafed the yard with a mixture of water, dish soap, and Cayenne Pepper. It wasn’t Napalm, but it appears to have worked, and I didn’t torch the whole neighborhood.

In the process, I damn near ruined my respiratory and sensory systems. I can no longer smell or taste food or drink; everything tastes like Cayenne Pepper. My Oatmeal is chemical mush, and to top it all off, my Irish Whiskey has no taste whatsoever. I’ve ruined my body attempting to rid my property of a pestilent placental mammal. For what? To save my lawn and a few landscape plants? Well, hell yes! I worked hard installing that grass and plants, and I will not allow that little digging shit to defoliate my landscape.

If the pepper spray fails, then I will try plan B. It’s widely known in Texas, that Armadilloes enjoy a beer and a toke once in a while. We can thank the cowboy-hippies down in Austin for turning the critter into a lush and a weed addict. I will put a few cold bottles of Lone Star around the yard and once he is inebriated, I will transport him to a new locale. Beats shooting the little beast.

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“Armadillo Dream Wrecker”


A few days ago I approached an Armadillo that was nosing around in my backyard. Having lived here in the country for over two years, it’s the first one I’ve seen on my property.

Last night, the little tank dug up a few plants and excavated a two-foot deep hole in one of my flower beds, then rooted around in my lawn, leaving nose holes like Swiss cheese. I am not pleased with nature at this time. But, I am respectful of nature and the animals that live around me. I still like Armadillos, but barely.

A trip to Home Depot arms me with a sure-fire critter deterrent. A shaker full of granules that resembles the classic Twenty Mule Team Borax; the product mined in Death Valley and was the backdrop for a great western television show in the 1950s starring Ronald Reagan. I also picked up a few shakers of Cayenne Pepper powder for an added kick; Dillers hate pepper powder.

Two hours later, I am gagging from the Cayenne Pepper powder that somehow got up my nose and in my eyes, which are blood red and producing copious amounts of tears, along with streams of red snot flowing from my burning nose. So this is what it was like to be gassed by the Krauts in WWI? Not a shot fired, and the little critter is kicking my butt.

My trap is set; the war is on. The chemical attack is imminent. My battle plan had better work because I am faring worse than the critter. I think for a moment that my Savage 12 gauge might be a better option, but then I would need to console my wife, then plan a funeral and say a few words, possibly invite a few neighbors over for the service and such, so I will stick with the deterrents for now.

01200 rolls around and my eyes are open; no sleep or sweet dreams for me. I roll out of bed, disarm my security system and sneak onto the patio, LED lantern in hand. I smell a skunk and hear frogs croaking; a rustle in the woods behind my shed startles me; it could be Sasquatch, or worse, a Haitian invader. We have night snakes around here; Copperheads and rattlers like to bite, so I am careful where I step in the grass. No Diller to be seen. No evidence of digging as of yet, but I will launch another reconnaissance mission around 3 AM. Wish me luck.

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“Natures Little Excavator Pays A Visit”


Photo by Marlin Perkins

We have critters in Texas; lots of them, and they all have the potential to do damage to our landscape in one way or another. My favorite demo-critter is the pugnacious determined Armadillo. Nature’s natural tank.

Thanks to the cowboy-hippies down in Austin during the 70s, the “Diller” is now our state animal. I can’t drink a Lone Star beer without thinking of the Armadillo World Headquarters and all the great music played there.

My wife calls me to our back door this afternoon with a ” lookey here at this, there’s a diller in our back yard.”

Well, I’ll be sprayed in Unicorn piss, rolled in fairy dust, and made into a Tinkerbell biscuit, it is one, and in the daylight, which is unusual since they are known to be nocturnal. Covid has thrown nature’s time clock off by a few hundred hours, so I presume our little visitor is Covid bug disoriented or just oblivious.

We watch him for a while as he travels around our lawn, nose down, sniffing for grubs, of which there are none because I murdered them all with poison a few months back. There is nothing quite as satisfying to a gardener, as the screams of grub worms dying a painful death. The same goes for fire ants, armyworms, and mosquitos.

The little guy is not digging up my lawn so I let him be. After a while, I step outside and approach him. He is too busy searching to notice me, and I walk within a few feet of him, fully expecting a quick exit. Nope, not interested in my presence, too busy thinking about bugs and stuff. He lifts his head, and we briefly make eye contact, human and critter mind-meld type of contact. I catch a glint in his beady little eye that says, ” hey man, it’s cool, I’m just shopping.”

After a while, he meanders over to a flower bed and exits through a stand of Canna Lillys. All of God’s creatures got to eat too.

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“Tubing The River With The Haitian’s”


I ran into Mooch and Mrs. Mooch at the gas station yesterday. He was filling both tanks on his Ford 250 pickup. Behind the truck was a 30 ft trailer loaded to the top with inner tubes and coolers. I should have known better, but I had to know.

” What’s with the trailer and all the tubes, you going tubing on the Frio River?” I asked.

Mooch exclaimed, “No, it’s better than that little buddy, myself and the Mrs. are going to Del Rio down on the border. We are opening a new business called Tubing With The Haitian’s. Gonna make a fortune with this one pal. For $100 we will rent you a tube and a cooler full of Shiner Bock. We will tow you to the Mexican side of the river and you can float back over to the Texas side with the Haitian invaders that are wading and swimming in the sparkling waters. We arranged for a few of the Mexican cartel fellers to fire some real bullets at you just to ramp up the whole experience; sort of makes you feel like you are in the fray of it all. Once you get back to the Texas side, you can jump on a genuine cutting horse and chase those little doggies trying to escape around the river bank for a spell. I hired a country band and a food truck to set up over by the DPS boys, and installed a special air conditioned tent for Governer Abbot if he happens show up.”

I hate to admit it, but Mooch may have hit on a winner with this one.

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“Things Learned On A Sunday Morning”


I was awake at 2: 45 this morning. I have learned that once my brain engages, there is no time for sleep. I get up, turn off the alarm, turn on Mr. Coffee and my laptop. I don’t bother with television news anymore, but I prefer to read news sites for my information. The coffee brews, a cup is poured, and it tastes darn good. After two cups, I forget about coffee and start making notes for a future blog post. Thirty minutes later, I decide on a third cup. Good grief, the coffee taste like swill, burned, and nasty. I learned this morning that if you leave the coffee on the burner for thirty minutes, it’s ruined, and you might as well pour it down the drain. This makes an excellent argument for using our Keurig machine, but the pods will break your grocery budget, so it stays in retirement. I am meant to suffer for coffee.

I follow many blog sites on WordPress. In turn, some follow mine. It’s an excellent trade-off. For example, this morning, I came across a blog focusing on religion, one of my favorite argument topics.

The writer, a Christian and a Catholic living in the UK, takes offense to music in church. Not so much the white-haired old lady playing the Hammond organ and a choir singing old-time religious songs, but the entire rock band on stage with a trio of singers wailing away about who knows what. He calls it “Jesus Rock.” I get it. I am a musician, and I know how music can move you. A well-played tune can energize your soul or take you to your knees in grief. But, unfortunately, the wrong kind of music can also distract your worship and send me running for the exit. I don’t need a Van Halen tribute band blowing the roof off the house of worship and the congregation holding up Bic lighters as they sway to the music. So I tend to lean more to the liturgical side of prayer. The old-style church service from “back in the day” is what I know. Damnation soothes the soul.

Sunday mornings sitting on a rock-hard pew, sweating, and fidgeting in my starched shirt and slacks while the Baptist preacher tells me I am going to Hell; now that is the real church of my youth. Although at six years old, I have no concept of Hell or why I am going there? My mother tells me to be still and then cleans my ears with a handkerchief and spit. The organist and the choir break into The Old Rugged Cross, the plate comes around and I deposit a dime. I am miserable. It is God’s wish.

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“The Light Crust Doughboys Are On The Air”


The Light Crust Doughboys 1990s

I am posting a picture of the legendary Texas western swing band, The Light Crust Doughboys, in memory of National Country Music Day. Top L to R; Jerry Elliot and Bill Simmons, bottom L to R; Smokey Montgomery, Johnny Strawn ( my father), and Jim Boyd.

As a small child growing up in Fort Worth, Texas, these men were part of my life until I helped carry some of them to their final rest. Texas, country music, and I are better because of them.

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“He Wore A Big-Iron On His Hip”


Childhood photo of Mooch

Thanks to our retro-cowboy movie-loving governor and the state of Texas, the famous gunfighter ballad ” Big Iron On His Hip” made popular by cowboy singer Marty Robbins in the late 1950s is now an “in your face reality.”

I ran into Mooch a few days after the open carry bill went into effect. I was walking into my favorite H.E.B and he waddled out the front entrance doing his best John Wayne walk. It was impossible to miss that he was wearing a Colt six-shooter on his hip and a genuine “The Duke” knock-off cowboy hat and fast draw holster. He was the epitome of the Texan that all of Europe imagines us to be.

“How are ya Mooch, sure like your piece,” I say.

He replies, ” yep, I figure now all the good guys will have pistola’s so the bad guys better watch out.” Point well taken.

Mooch, I say, ” if all the good guys can wear a gun, then so can all the bad guys and that will lead to a shoot-out over the last Red Baron pizza at the old H.E.B.” He was clearly thinking this one over.

“Well little buddy,” he says, ” all of us’un true blue Texans teach their kids to shoot, so we’ll give guns to the little buckaroos. If that doesn’t work, then we’ll arm our dogs too. Problem solved.”

I may be getting my groceries delivered from now on.

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Friday Things That Make You Go WTH?


Isn’t it amazing how much General Fubar Milly Vanilli looks like John Goodman? At this point, I believe John Goodman would be a better leader of our Armed Forces.

This is student pilot Abdul Abagawaweenie III, in the cockpit of a C 17 Cargo plane that Joe Biden gifted the Taliban when the US pulled out of Afghanistan. He’s a bit challenged since the only machinery he can operate is a Toyota pickup and a motorbike. He plans to use the Billion Dollar plane to fly his buddies to parties around Kabul.

Photo courtesy of The Lone Ranger

As of September 1st, 2021, Texans can carry a firearm in public without a license or permit. Pictured above is my 15th cousin, Lilly Ann Oakley confronting a punk after he took her parking spot at Walmart. Just saying, it’s going to be the Wild Wild West all over again.

7th Century Demons from Hell, Photo by Jeanie the Genie

A reminder that 7th-century Zeleots, woman beating, boy raping, beheading murderous pieces of camel crap Demons from Hell pictured above defeated the best army the world has ever known with Toyota pickup trucks, knock off Japanese motorbikes, and shitty Chinese rifles. Our president thinks they are ok dudes. “Awww come on man, we can trust them.”

Thirteen brave young United States soldiers in flag-draped caskets were carried from a cargo plane to their grieving families. Thirteen times, our president checked his watch after each casket passed. Did he have something more important to do? This photo should say it all. If you voted for this man, you have some explaining to do.

Nancy Pelosi has partnered with those two wokie, snowflake, pansy assed antisemites, Ben and Jerry to produce her own brand of ice cream. Pictured above is her first flavor of the month.

The newest Baseball Card from “Upper Deck” collectibles.

Arizona can now legally sell weed in neighborhood grocery stores. Tom Bagger, spokesman for Safeway Food Stores says there is a state-wide shortage of Twinkies and Ding Dongs in all of the stores.

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“When Alice Met Arlo”


Photo by: David Crosby

Above is a picture of my 16th cousin removed, Alice B Token, taken at the famous Woodstock Arts and Music Fair in 1969.

She was working for Wavy Gravy and The Hog Farm at the time, so she was used to serving large numbers of hungry, stoned, and confused flower children.

She was the only wait staff left, after her co-workers dropped the brown acid that Wavy warned everyone not to take, so her three days of peace and harmony were a living hell; you can only serve so many needy hippies in a day.

Not one to put up with shit from anyone, she personally kicked John Sebastian’s whiny gimlet ass for saying “Wow” for twenty minuets, and pulled Grace Slicks falsies off during a cat fight over a ham sandwich. Things around the stage got a bit intense. David Crosby grabbed her ass and she whopped him with the closest weapon she could find, which wound up being Neil Young’s Martin acoustic, which was a total loss after connecting with Crosby’s head. That’s why he didn’t play with Crosby,Stills and Nash, and is not in the film. The girl grew up in Texas and was a total bad-ass; enough said.

In this pic, she is delivering sandwiches to the bands at the rear of the stage, and appears not too happy about the whole situation.

Joe Cocker, that fidgety spastic Brit dude, had requested a spam and cheese sandwich on a toasted English muffin, while Janis Joplin ordered a cheeseburger, fries and a fifth of Southern Comfort. Celebrities are so damn picky.

This is where she met up with her future husband, Arlo Guthrie, who memorialized her in his song “Alice’s Restaurant.” The one thing she came away from Woodstock with was, “those worthless smelly Hippies don’t tip shit, they don’t have any money.”

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“Live Your Life Like It’s Your Last Summer”


A half dozen years ago, I was sitting on the patio of my golf club having a beer with one of the H.O.A board members of the community I lived in. DeCordova Bend Estates is a hot-shit golf community in Granbury Texas, and if you can afford it, it was the happening place to be. At that time, my wife and I could afford it. We were hot-stuff. We considered ourselves “Donna Summer” hot stuff golf cart driving disco baby.

Dave, the nice fellow I was visiting with shared a tid-bit of knowledge with me. It wasn’t solicited, but he just threw it out there, kind of like a lure; something to discuss.

He said that he and his wife looked at their older years as “how many summers do we have left.” It was an odd statement and I didn’t understand it, so I begged further explanation. He expounded a bit. Alcohol has that effect; it tends to make normal folks speak like Will Rogers.

After a few beers, he shared this, “As we grow older, we approach the future with how many good days we have left before the medical issues arise, and the bills they produce, and the infirmity that comes with those issues, and then the hospitalizations and surgeries, and the nursing homes, and then the inevitable, which is death. Summers are our good place, our good times to remember with our families and our spouses. No one remembers winters, except for Christmas, we remember and cherish our summer times. It starts with our first childhood summer that we can remember.” Heavy stuff.

When he laid it out in those terms, it made perfect sense; “how many summers do we have left?” Why had I not had the fore-site to approach life in those terms?

I will turn 72 in September, and my wife is 69 as of last May. The two of us are on the downhill slide of life as we know it. Unless Dr. Fauci invents an age reversal shot, we are big-time screwed.

What summer are the two of us in? I have no idea. The medical issues started in 2019 with my cancer. Now two years later, I deal with the effects of massive radiation that has fried my internal organs. My wife needs major back surgery, as do I, and our little dog Winnie is 13 years old and having a bad time. What the hell? Is this it? Life sucks and then you die? So the television commercials for Fidelity investments are complete fantasy laden bullshit? Yes they are.

When my mother was struggling with terminal emphysema, and my father was dying from brain cancer, she looked at me and said,”what happened to the golden years?” I didn’t know what to say. At some point, the golden years had passed them by without a nod. Both of them, sick and dying, where was the happiness? No traveling, no walks on the beach, no nothing, except waiting for a miserable death. My sister and I watched this unfold, helpless to change the outcome.

I think Mo and I may have four or five summers left, but who knows. We will live each of them as if it is our last summer on this earth. Fire up the grill, throw on the burgers and pop me a cold beer; It’s summer time.