Travel

Ask A Texan: The Wild West Days Of Gunsmoke And Cherry Bombs

/ Phil Strawn / 5 Comments

Illuminating Southern Advice For Folks That Seek The Meaning Of Life As We Live It In The Great State Of Texas…

The Texan

A few days back, I received a letter from a Mrs. Hagan of Gunsmoke, Montana. It seems her husband, Festus, and his pals have gone plum Prairie Dog crazy since a family from Minnesota moved into town.

Mrs. Hagan: Mr. Texan, I saw your column in the back of The Farmers Almanac, and I’m hoping you can help me and my husband, Festus. The entire town has gone Prairie Dog crazy. About a month back, a family from Minnesota moved into the KOA campground outside of town. At first, they seemed friendly in a weird sort of way, but it was clear they needed some help. They didn’t wear much clothing, and their children were scraggly and reeked of an old can of Tuna Fish, so Sheriff Dillion, my husband’s employer, and his wife, Miss Kitty, took them under their wing. Gunsmoke is known as the safest town in the USA, probably because everyone in town packs a gun, either on their hip, in their purse, or their pickup. Even the service dogs with the little red vest have a pistol attached to their vest. I will admit that when the townsfolk celebrate, they tend to shoot into the air or the ground. After all, this is the last town of the old wild west. Sheriff Dillion is as guilty as he rest of us; he carries two pistols and likes to shoot out street lights and street signs after a few cold beers. Well, the scroungy kids of the Minnesota family started blowing up people’s mailboxes with Cherry Bombs, which is against the law ’round here. Then, the little pecker-heads began throwing them into folks’ business. Our local grocer, Little Bob’s Sure Good Market, had his entire produce section blown up by the kids with Cherry Bombs. Sheriff Dillion and my husband, Festus, can’t catch them in the act. The whole town is on edge and at each other’s throats. Festus and I are constantly arguing. Well, our big summer celebration is Wild West Days, featuring a big rodeo and a Carnival. We still have the original Miss Kitty’s Saloon in the old west part of town, so that’s where most of the action takes place. Festus and Doc Adams coordinate the whole shindig. After the rodeo, around dark, everybody was in the old saloon drinking hooch and having a good old time. Our local country band, “Little Junior One Arm And His Blasting Caps,” was laying down some great dance tunes. Festus, even with his limp and all, was dancing his best in years, and Sheriff Dillion and Miss Kitty were having a little too much fun. I guess the sheriff got too excited about a song the band played, and he pulled out his 44 and fired a few shots into the ceiling, which is already full of bullet holes from the old wild west days. One of the shots threw a spark into Miss Kitty’s lacquered-up hair, and it caught fire. Festus, quick on his good right leg, threw a beer on her head to extinguish the blaze. She looked real bad, half her red hair was gone, and her mascara was running like a river. I guess that was her last nerve, and she pulled out a derringer from under her skirt and shot Sheriff Dillion in the foot, making a considerable hole in his Justin boot. The Sheriff, drunk and now enraged from the cheap hooch, pulled out his other 44 and shot off Miss Kitty’s pinky toe, which was bad because it was the toe she wore her dead mother’s wedding ring on. The toe and the ring fell through the cracks in the old wooden floor and down to who knows where. During all this confusion, the mean little Minnesota kids sneaked in and dropped a bunch of Cherry Bombs down the knotholes in the wooden floor. The explosions rocked the saloon like a bomb, and the floor started to collapse. No one knew there was an old tunnel underneath the saloon that had been there for over 150 years. Some idiots back in the gold rush days dug it to catch the falling gold dust from miners and cowboys paying for their drinks with gold. The saloon floor fell into the open tunnel, taking half the dancers and all the band with it. The fire department rescued everybody, and Miss Kitty and Sheriff Dillon were taken to the hospital. A fireman found her toe with the ring still attached, and a foot surgeon sewed it back on. The local hoodlums packed up the Minnesota family in their old station wagon and ran them out of town, good riddance. The Fire Department boys found an old sign in the tunnel that said “Wandering Star Gold Mine,” of which the town paper has no record. Miss Kitty played the Tammy Wynette “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” song for the sheriff, who was fired, and Festus is now out of work and sweeping the sidewalks for tips, and his limp is getting worse. I’m looking for advice on how to get the town and my marriage back to its glory days.

The Texan: Well, well, Mrs. Hagan. This is going down as the wildest west tale I’ve had the honor of reading. It’s a riveting read, and I will likely frame it to hang in my tool shed. It seems your troubles began with the folks from Minnesota and a town that is lost in time. I will admit, I am familiar with that family. The father of the daughter wrote me for advice some months back, and he was a jiggered as you. I assume that since they ended up in your quaint town, he heeded my advice. The old west days, cheap hooch, guns, cowboys, bad tempers, and Cherry Bombs are a sour mixture in a bad cocktail, of which, after reading your letter, is what I need. My advice is to take Festus and move about a hundred miles away to a little town called Rawhide, Montana. I’ll make a call to their sheriff, a nice fella by the name of Rowdy Yates, who would likely hire Festus, even with his limp and all. I’m enclosing a U-Haul gift card, a bottle of Excedrin PM, A VHS copy of the great movie, Paint Your Wagon, and, of course, my usual gift of a box of Cherry Bombs. Let me know how this saga of the old west turns out, and when you see Sheriff Yates, tell him to head ’em up and move ’em out. He’ll get it.

Ask A Texan: The Magic Of The Yeti Cup

/ Phil Strawn / 9 Comments

Illuminating Advice For Folks That Seek It

The Texan

Another old friend of mine, Bwana of San Saba, wrote me with a question. Like our other mutual friend, Mooch, Bwana refuses to talk on the phone because he won’t wear his high-dollar hearing aids. He’s also forgotten the art of texting and avoids computers. At this point in our lives, I attribute all unusual behavior to old age. He writes that he is losing sleep over knowing how his Yeti cups and ice chest work; the technology is foreign to him.

Bwana Of San Saba: Mr. Texan, I need help in the worst way. I can’t sleep, eat, or drink my hooch, and my wife is about to banish me to the Deer lease in San Saba because I’ve gotten her last nerve. I’ve owned and excessively used Yeti cups and ice chests for years: I use only the best when it comes to hunting gear. My man trailer on the lease is full of Yeti stuff. Did you know they make a Yeti iron skillet, pans, forks, knives, hunting clothes, and a darn good Deer rifle? Neither did I, until my wife stocked my hunting trailer with the gear, which makes me uneasy because I’m thinking she is baiting me, and wants to get rid of me. Well, I was sitting on a rock in a dry creek bed waiting for a Bambi to trot by so I could nail his little white-tail ass. This is the same creek bed where I killed the 1,000-pound wild pig with my Yeti pocket knife. I told you about that battle many times. It’s damn hot, too hot for Deer, so I reach in my Yeti backpack and pull out my Premium Ultra Yeti Tumbler for a drink of water. Mind you, that tumbler had been in my pack for half a day in 100-degree Texas heat, and when I pulled a swig, the water was so cold it gave me a brain freeze, and that’s when my sleepless nights and obsessive behavior started. I was so discombobulated that the Bambi I was waiting to shoot walked up to me to see if I was alright. I’m sitting there thinking about that damn Yeti cup and the biggest 20 pointer I’ve seen is in my face begging for a drink of water or a Granola Bar. I poured a handful of cold Ozarka water into my hand and gave the Bambi a sip or two. He turned, wagged his white tail at me, farted, and trotted off. I need some advice here. How does this Yeti thing work? I’m having a nervous breakdown here.

The Texan: Well, Bwana, I can see how not knowing how mystical, magical technology works is causing you to lose your marbles. When I was a young’un, right about the same time you were in the 1950s, my mother bought me a genuine Davy Crockett lunch box. In the tin box was a Davy Crockett Thermos Bottle. It was a dandy, with a coon-tail attached to the lid. I took that box to school every day, and my milk was always icy cold, which baffled me. Why would Yeti make a rifle? Does a gun need to remain at a specific temperature to work correctly? Now I’m confused. I used to feed the Deer in Ruidoso watermelon and Nabisco Granola. They loved it and would almost sit on my lap to get a treat, so it’s not surprising the Bambi in San Saba approached you. Even a thirsty Deer knows a quality product. I believe Yeti has used the same magical technology in its products as Davy Crockett. I’m no scientist, and am as jiggered as you on this one. The answer to your question is: ” It keeps hot things hot and cold things cold…how do it know?” I’m sending you a package of Deer Of The Month trading cards and a box of Cherry Bombs to help you unwind and relieve your anxiety. Let me know if you figure the Yeti thing out.

Ask A Texan: Raising A Heathen Child

/ Phil Strawn / 14 Comments

Somewhat Good Information For Those Unfortunate Folks That Live Up North

The Texan

A Mrs. Lee, of Rebel Yell, Virginia wrote that her son has been hanging around a bunch of contractors and has picked up their bad habits.

Mrs. Lee: Mr. Texan, there’s a convenience store being built on our block, and my six-year-old son, Robert, and his little pals have been hanging around the jobsite watching the construction. The tradesmen are friendly to the boys and have been giving them Pops and sharing their food with them at lunch break. A few days ago, Robert and four of his little pals tore down our backyard storage shed, and they are now using the lumber to build a fort in our two-hundred-year-old oak tree. My husband, Jefferson, thinks it’s okay, they are just being boys, but not only did they destroy our shed, which we bought at the Home Depot, but now they are cussing and yelling nasty things at the neighborhood girls. I’ve heard foul language in my years, but these little boys are using disgusting terms: ” **** this and **** that,” “you’re a dumb ass,” “hand me that ******* hammer, you know, the kind of foul language tradesmen use. I’m a Christian woman, and I can’t bring myself to tell you all I’ve heard from my little boy. Well, this morning, Robert told his sister to get out of his “damn way or he will kick her ass.” Well, that did it for me. I told him to go to the backyard and get me a switch so I could spank his little behind. He looks at me and says, ” Hell no! That’s the electrician’s job.” I don’t know what to do, my son is a heathen.

The Texan: Well, Ma’am, your problem is not as dire as you think. Boys love to demolish things and then build stuff with hammers and nails. Contractors often use colorful language because there are no women on the job sites. I wouldn’t be too concerned, it’s a phase and will pass. The good news is that Robert may have learned some valuable hands-on skills that can be used later in life, like carpentry and such, and some darn good curse words that will come in handy as he grows older. I was cussing like a Hun by the time I was his age. Let me know how he turns out, and I’m sending him a gift card to Home Depot and a box of Cherry Bombs.

Ask A Texan: Preaching And Peaches In Lonesome Dove

/ Phil Strawn / 11 Comments

Substantial Advice For Folks Outside Of Texas

The Texan

This Texan received a letter from Mr. Augustus McRae of Lonesome Dove, Montana. It seems that his middle child, a wealthy TV Preacher, has abandoned him and his wife, leaving them to fend for themselves in their old age.

Mr. McCrae: Back in 1978, I was doing some cowboying on a big ranch in South Texas and grew tired of everything. I hooked up my horse trailer to my Ford Pickup, loaded my horse, Hellbitch, up, and headed for Montana, where the water runs cool and the weather is nice. I made a stop in Albuquerque, New Mexico, for some chow and decided to go into this topless bar called “Mamery’s Are Made Of This.” I was sitting there drinking my Schlitz and eating a juicy burger when this topless lady comes up behind me, pecks me on the neck and sings, ” Blow up the TV, throw away the papers, move to the country build you a home… plant a little garden…eat a lotta peaches…try to find Jesus on your own.” I was young and naive and figured that topless lady had something up her sleeve. She danced around that ballroom, and she did the Hoochie-Coo, she sang that song all night long, telling me what to do. Well, it worked. She gave me a big old smackeroo, grabbed her little suitcase, and hopped in my pickup, and the three of us headed for Montana. We built us a little log cabin, no TV, no papers, planted a great garden with Peach trees, raised a lot of children, and they all found Jesus on their own. That’s where my problem starts, Mr. Texan. Our middle child, Baby Face Joey, took to religion and preaching like a duck to a June bug. He preached to anyone who would listen and began healing the ranch’s livestock and the garden veggies: we had the nicest Peach orchard in Montana. When he turned sixteen, he left the house and found himself in Houston, Texas. He preached a lot, built a large congregation, and relocated his church to an old basketball arena. Now he has about twenty thousand people in his church, and he’s raking in money like there’s no tomorrow: wealthy can’t describe the amount of cash this little chiseler stuffs in his custom-made suit pockets. Me and his momma are old and don’t have much these days, so I call Preacher Baby Face Joey and ask him for a little financial help. He sends us a $50.00 gift card to The Walmart and a membership in the Jelly Of The Month Club. I’m as mad as a hungry wolf and the wife is ready to whip his little butt with a Peach tree switch. Do you have any suggestions on how we can manage this situation without disrupting the entire familyThe Texan: Well, Mr. Gus, I’m sometimes at a loss for words, but this isn’t one of them. When I was a young and hungry man, I too did some cowboying down in South Texas. I got bitten twice by Rattlers and stomped by a bull, and that was it for the wrangler days. I’ve been in your part of Montana and there ain’t a more beautiful place, cows and Peach trees all over the place. Those TV preachers get pretty full of themselves, and I believe I know the one you’re writing about, and he’s about as obnoxious as they come. I suggest taking your wife and any kids left at home, go to Houston, dressing in some ragged clothes from the Goodwill, and walk down the aisle begging for some help. If that doesn’t get Baby Face Joey to cough up some cash, then nothing will. Keep in touch, and I’m sending you an album of John Prine’s Greatest hits and an autographed picture of Gypsy Rose Lee for the wife.

Ask A Texan: How Bucc-ee’s Changed Our Culture

/ Phil Strawn / 12 Comments

Sometimes Accurate Advice For Folks That Wish They Had Been Born In Texas

The Texan

This Texan received an email from Mrs. Her/She Cleaver of San Bernadino, California. She and He/Him husband traveled from California to Dallas for a relative’s non-binary wedding and made the mistake of stopping at a Bucc-ee’s in Amarillo, Texas.

Mrs. Her/She Cleaver: Mr. Texan, if that is your real name, or do you prefer to be called a misogynistic red-neck knuckle-dragging Neanderthal cowboy? I wasn’t sure. All of my troubles started when I accepted a wedding invitation to my non-binary relative’s wedding. Although she is formally female and will be wearing a dress, she prefers to be known as “it”, or “a human.” We quietly cruised into your backward state and needed a charge for our Tesla, which we recently disguised as a non-binary automobile. The only charging station in Amarillo, Texas, was located at a redneck gas station called Bucc-ee’s: who would name a business that? Pulling into the lot on our last few volts, we were amazed at all the carbon-burning autos and trucks purchasing gasoline and polluting our planet; there must have been a hundred gas pumps. I was so rattled; I needed my safe room, but I had to settle for my heavy blanket and a Valium. The two of us needed a restroom, so we swallowed our beliefs and entered. I must say, the cold air was refreshing, and my-oh-my, what a layout. Clothing, toys, jewelry, hats, all with a little Beaver wearing a baseball cap sewn onto everything in the store. The food, oh my creator from above, we have never seen so much of it—fudge, candy, jerky, BBQ, ice cream, every kind of sandwich known to exist. Personally, I was repulsed by all that wasted nutrition that could be feeding those poor, hungry illegals, and not one Vegan option available. How could they do that? We college-educated women have rights, too. While I was in the female’s restroom, a work of technology and cleanliness, my husband discovered the BBQ caveman meat section. Hot sliced brisket, ribs, sausage, and side fixings, he was gorging himself into a coma. I made a scene when I screamed, ” How could you do this to me? We are Vegan; think of that poor animal that died so you can stuff your jaws like a deranged Chipmunk.” He looked at me and said, “Kiss it, Karen, get in that toy car and get your happy vegan ass to Dallas; I’m never leaving Bucc-ee’s.” All covered in BBQ sauce and Banana Pudding, he ran to a big tub of little Bucc-ee’s stuffed animals and dived in. He then ran across the parking lot and rented a room at a motel and steak house called The Big Texan. I’m afraid our marriage is kaput, all because of Bucc-ee’s. Any ideas on how to fix this mess since your redneck backward state caused it?

The Texan: Well, Mrs. She/Her, or whatever you identify as It appears you picked the wrong state to visit. Bucc-ee’s is a national treasure, right up there with the old Alamo and Davy Crockett, and one thing for sure is, you “Don’t Tread On Us.” It appears you may be suffering from a culture shock known as “reality,” which no one in California can identify with. You should have just mailed a gift or made a donation in “it’s” name and stayed in your safe place. Your husband will be much happier and healthier living at the Big Texan Steak House and Motel; I’ve been there many times. You should fit right in with those man-bun-wearing, skinny-jeaned, purse-carrying little pansy-asses in Dallas; they are your kind of folks. Don’t bother writing back, and for once, you’ll get nothing and like it. God Bless Texas and Bucc-ee’s.

Exploring the Beat Generation: Kerouac and Cassidy’s Road Trip

/ Phil Strawn / 14 Comments

Jack Kerouac

Two Catholic boys, Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy, are on a road trip by car across the American West to find the meaning of life. The badlands of New Mexico held all the secrets that New York City would never have. It could be a great book are a movie. But, as it turns out, it was a book first. What could go wrong?

It was 1947, and half the country still lived in a Norman Rockwell painting, and the other poor souls struggled with keeping food on their table and a decent job. The war was a few years ago, and the scars were fresh and raw. As the movies would have you believe, not everyone had the good fortune to live in New York City and shop at Macy’s. The Hollywood boys covered everything in Fairy Dust and Unicorn Piss, and the commies were coming to your neighborhood. The two young men sensed the growing change and needed to find the “real America,” the wide-open, gritty, in-your-face, working man culture that made their country run on regular gasoline.

“On The Road” was published in 1951. The author, Jack Kerouac, a French Canadian American who didn’t learn to speak or write in English until he was six years old, became an instant literary celebrity and a reluctant prophet to the “Beats,” which would become the “Hippies” in the 1960s. He tolerated the Beats and the new intellectuals because he helped birth them, but grew to despise the Hippies before he died. He wrote many times that he was sorry they found his books and used them as their warped ideological, drug-addled bible that led to the near destruction of his beloved country. The “beat generation,” another term he loathed, wasn’t meant to survive past 1960. The writings and musings made no sense after 1959. He believed everything had an expiration date.

Ginsburg and Burroughs kept the plates spinning; the publishing cash and the adulation were too strong to walk away. So Kerouac moved on and became a drunkard and pillhead. Fame, and all that came attached, was not his bag.

The only comparison to the book that I can think of would be the “road” movies of the 1940s. Two pals and a gal road-tripping to Nirvana. Kerouac would have been Bing Crosby and Cassidy a bi-polar Bob Hope with his girlfriend a sluttish Dorothy Lamour. But, of course, their adventure was adults only. Weed, booze, Minga Minga, and foul language would not have made it with old Bing and Bob.

The two main characters, Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty, were the essential bad boys before it was cool. Their names alone were enough to make you buy the book. Every teenager who read it could easily place themselves in their universe for a while. Who knows how many ill-fated trips the book influenced?

My cousin and I toyed with the idea. First, to California and back to New York, then home to Texas in his Corvair; then the effects of the pot wore off, we ate a cheeseburger and shit-canned the plan.

James Dean was a disciple, as was Marlon Brando. They wore bad boy cool like a soft leather jacket. The movie boys jumped on it. “Rebel Without A Cause” and “The Wild Ones” sent parents screaming through their middle-class neighborhoods with hair ablaze. Ozzie and Harriet doubled down. Pat Boone turned up the heat. Art Linkletter had a meltdown. The fifties were dying before our eyes.

I may revisit “On The Road” again. It sits on my bookshelf, aging like wine, and needs to be jostled.

Ask A Texan: The Land Of A Thousand Lakes

/ Phil Strawn / 11 Comments

Plenty of good, often accurate advice for folks who don’t Live In Texas but wish they did. It’s easy to find on Apple Maps, but darn hard to leave once you get here.

The Texan

This Texan received a letter from The Land O’ Lakes Fishing Camp and Vacation Cottages, Lake Minnetonka, Minnesota. Thanks to their rebellious daughter, Sassy, Mr. Franklin Kettle and his wife, Phoebe, affectionately known as Ma and Pa, are on their good Lutheran last nerve.

Pa Kettle: Mr. Texan, I’m not much on asking for or taking any kinda advice from anyone other than our Minister at the Shakopee Lutheran Church, but seeing that the root cause of my and the missus distress started in Texas, I thought to myself, by-golly-gosh, maybe this wise old Texan can save the farm, doncha know. Our daughter, Sassy, and her husband, Tiberius, and their brood of kiddos live here at the fishing camp and help run the place; it’s a family business passed down from my grandpappy. We have twenty nice and tidy cabins with kitchens and screened-in sleeping porches, and Ma and I run the tackle and bait shop at the main dock: there’s not a prettier slice of Heaven on the lake. We Minnesotans are nice and tidy folks, and we run a polite camp with no hard hooch allowed and only beer after five in the afternoon. A while back, Sassy came to me and said, “Daddy, me and Tiberius are taking the kiddos and the dogs and are going camping out in the desert in far West Texas. We need to reconnect with God and we hear that the Big Bend area around Marfa is the preferred place. Besides, Tiberius likes the way my earrings lie against my skin so brown, and I want to sleep with him in the desert at night, with a million stars all around.”

I say, ” Golly-Geez, Sassy, we have millions of stars right over the lake here and you don’t need to go travel’n to Texas to see-um; that trips gonna be spendy.”

She said, ” It’s not the same, Daddy; the stars here don’t give us that peaceful, easy feeling, doncha know. ”

The next morning, they loaded up my 1965 Ford Fairlane 500 station wagon with 25K original miles and hit the road. I tried to give her some emergency money, but she said it was covered. Tiberius sold a kidney to the University hospital and has the option to sell both testicles and both pinky toes in the future. After three weeks, Ma and I are getting kinda worried. I’m pacing the dock, and she’s spending most of her time in the sleeping loft with a worry headache. Then, one sunny afternoon, they roared up to the main dock. My Fairlane looks like it got trampled by Old Babe the Blue Ox. The brood walks into the tackle store, and the missus and I have a conniption fit. The kiddos have long, dirty hair and are wearing nothing but JCPenney boxers, and the two boys have fishing lures hanging in their hair. Tiberius is wearing a beat-up straw cowboy hat and has God Bless Texas tattooed on his bare chest. Sassy is wearing old cut-off dungaree shorts and one of her old nursing bras that she dyed red. I’m thinking, Geez-Louise, what has happened to these folks in the name of Joseph and Mary?

Nowadays, the grandkiddos are going around the dock spitting on the floor, breaking wind, and saying things like, “fixing to, Hide and watch, hold my Pop and watch this, and the worst one is, ” Let’s not get into a pissing contest about it.” When the granddaughter, Little Pebble, said that, that’s when I by-golly drew the line and said, “Nobody’s a going to be urinating in the tackle shop or on the dock for cripes-sakes.This is Minnesota.” My grandkiddos have turned into heathen children, possibly possessed by Demons from the Texas desert. Sassy and Tiberius are no help; they set up house in a Yurt down near the fish cleaning shack, and the kiddos are scrounging meals from the dumpster. Ma wants the priest in Saint Paul to come over and exorcise the whole big bunch. Sassy wants us to move to the Texas desert with them and run a campground they can buy with the money from Tiberius selling his body parts. Looking for some help here, doncha know.

The Texan: Well, Mr. Kettle, I’ve never had such a lengthy or disturbing request, but sometimes, when a polite culture of folks like you have in Minnesota intermingles with a less-than-couth culture, scenarios like yours happen. It’s common in Texas. I suspect the family may have wandered into El Cosmico, a big pile of old Airstream trailers, Yurts, teepee’s, and tents. The place is a hotbed of young hipster-hippie types who migrated from Austin and haven’t left Marfa in a good way. The kiddos are testing you, old folks, with their newfound freedom of expression. Most of those sayings are harmless, except for the pissing contest one: those challenges can get really nasty, really quick if there are weapons around. Trust me, the Texan has been in a few. Give it a few months, and if your brood is not back to Minnesota standards, pack them up in the Fairlane and send them back to Marfa. Better them than you, for, after all, that part of Texas is “No country for old men.” Keep in touch, and I sent the kiddos a box of cherry bombs. I hope they enjoy.

Ask A Texan 4.29.25

/ Phil Strawn / 19 Comments

Pretty Good And Sometimes Worthless Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas But Wish They Did Because Everything is Bigger and Better In Texas

The Texan and Notes From The Cactus Patch will be offline starting tomorrow, April 30, 2025. Here’s the reason why:

I was pulling up some dead plants and pesky weeds in my landscape, and I reached over a little too far and jerked on a pesky dead plant. I heard a “pop” and felt the rotatory cuff muscle and bicep detach from my shoulder. And, of course, it’s my good arm, the one I use for playing the guitar, painting, writing, shaving, brushing my teeth, and holding my whiskey tumbler. I wouldn’t be so upset if it was my left shoulder. Dr. Pepper, my young surgeon, says he will fix me up, and I’ll be able to use my arm after eight weeks in a special sling. He explained he would be using a small Robot controlled by his Atari game controller, so no humans would be touching me. I’m concerned that the small Robot might make a mistake and go rogue. The little fella looks a lot like R2D2. Dr. Pepper says no worries. The robot will be scrubbed in, and a mask and surgical gloves will be on his little mechanical hands. They had him worked on last week to fix the glitches. I asked what the glitches were? It seems the Robot had malware in his little chipped brain and removed a lady’s liver instead of her gall bladder. That made me feel really warm and fuzzy.

The little Davinci Robot

I had a similar experience when I had cancer. The surgeon needed samples of my poor prostate gland, so he used a robot called “Davinci.” It was larger than this R2D2 and wore a purple cape and a matching Italian Beret. The little fellow got his samples, took one, and put it in an Italian cut-glass jar. It’s sitting on my coffee table.

I’ll be back writing and giving worthless advice soon. God Bless Texas, The Alamo, and Davy Crockett.

Ask A Texan 4.29.25

/ Phil Strawn / 12 Comments

Decent advice for folks who might not live in Texas but wish they did.

The Texan

A fella sent me a note on a Tractor Supply postcard. It seems Mr. Leroy Buford of Chigger Bayou, Louisiana, has suffered the wrath of a vengeful wife.

Leroy: Mr. Texan, my wife, Lavernfullella, got mad at me for gambling away my paycheck on the Dallas Cowboys game. I’ll admit it was my fault; who in their right mind would bet on those boys to win. The case of Bud Light had something to do with it. Anyhow, I came home, and our house was gone. She had hooked up her pickup to the trailer and pulled that sumbitch out of the Chigger Bayou Trailer Park. I don’t have a home and am living in the old lady next door’s tool shed. Can you give me some advice on how to fix this mess?

The Texan: First off, Mr. Leroy, never bet or watch those washed-up Americas team again. That Hillbilly with a gold card ruined a great Texas franchise. Secondly, why didn’t you remove the tires from your home? You’d be sleeping warm and cuddly right now. This scenario reminds the Texan of his friend, the great white hunter, Bwana of San Saba. He had a nice Airstream on his hunting lease in the Texas rough country. He was sleeping good one night, dreaming of killing a Bambi. Some Cartel boys liked the looks of his fancy trailer, so they hooked up to it and pulled it away. He was sleeping soundly and didn’t know he was being hijacked. He woke up the next morning in a parking lot in Juarez, Mexico. He looked for a policeman, but he only found two little boys wanting him to come to meet their sister for twenty dollars. Lesson learned, take the tires off your home and hide them somewhere. Hope you find your Hacienda. Keep in touch.

Ask A Texan..4.25.25

/ Phil Strawn / 11 Comments

Semi-Serious Advice for folks Who Don’t Live In Texas, But Wish They Did

The Texan

I received a Buc-ee’s Post Card in the mail with the following question:

Question: Mr. Texan,
I recently bought some two-day deodorant pads at a truck stop outside of Waco, Texas. How can I keep these pads under my arms for 48 hours?

Signed, Kenworth B. Smelly

The Texan: Mr. Smelly, us’n Texans are known for our ingenuity. If it hadn’t been for bailing wire and duck tape, there wouldn’t be a ranch or a farm left in West Texas. My late grandpa’s tractor and Ford sedan were held together with bailing wire, as was his farmhouse, and that was before Duck Tape. My best buddy, Mooch, broke his leg while stepping into a Prairie Dog hole. He was out in the Chihuahuan Desert near Marfa with no cell service. He crawled to his truck, dragging his useless leg, found a roll of Duck Tape, wound it around the hurt leg, and got home. So, I know the stuff can perform miracles. Hold the pad in place with one hand, then take the roll of Duck Tape and wrap it around your shoulder and over the perfumigated pad, making sure it’s real tight. That should fix you up, and ignore the instructions; those things are good for at least a week if you don’t shower. Good luck, and keep in touch.