Tag: Whataburger

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Ask A Texan. Cloning For Dollars


Positive Advice For Folks That Don’t Live In Texas, But Wish They Did.

My old pal, Mooch, whom I don’t see much of anymore because he became a vegan, and now we can’t meet at Whataburger for lunch. We always ordered a Number 1, no onions, extra pickles, large fries, and a Dr Pepper. I sure miss those days of culinary camaraderie. A week ago, instead of calling me, he wrote a friendly little letter on the back of a two-year-old garage sale flyer. He forgot I also have an email and receive texts on my iPhone.

Mr. Mooch says he’s about to have marital problems because of clones.

Mooch: Mr. Texan, you know me well, and you also know that I like to tinker with science and gadgets, right? Well, Giblet, my twenty-five-year-old blind and toothless Chihuahua, is close to cashing in his kibbles, so I decided to have him cloned. I took a sample of his drool to the South Side Animal Research Center over in Fort Worth. Their ad in the Nickel Shopper paper sounded very professional, and what the hell, I’m a sucker for science fiction. The science guy’s were real nice and said they could grow me a new little doggy with no problem. I paid them half down and said, “get-er-done.” Three months passed, and they called to say that Giblet Jr. was ready for pickup. Mrs. Mooch and I were so excited that she peed in her pedal pushers. We’re standing in the lobby, drinking a free Latte, and out trots an exact puppy copy of my old Giblet. I picked him up, and he bit my nose and peed on my shirt, just like old Gib. He needed a name for the certificate, so I decided to call him Gravy. Now I have Giblet and Gravy. Mrs. Mooch is so excited that she wants to have her old cat, Here Kitty, cloned as well. She said the clone cat would be called Here Kitty Kitty. She said if she can’t clone her Here Kitty, she’s going to do a Tammy Wynette Divorce song on me, and that would mean losing my truck and bass boat. Any thoughts on this little buddy? I’ve got to go fishing.

The Texan: Mooch, I rarely have any thoughts on the bat-shit crazy things you do. Charging folks to swim with the Mexicans across the Rio Grande, The Mooch 2000 Life Meter, and burning and burying your laptop are just a few that come to mind. I’m really sort of sorry, but not much, about that mean little demon dog Giblet, is about to expire, and now you have yourself a replica of the little Hell-Hound dog from below? I will admit that carrying him in a chest papoose was cute for a little while. I’ve known you for over forty years and didn’t know Mr. Mooch had a cat named Here Kitty, which is a ridiculous name for an animal. I guess a clone named Here Kitty Kitty makes as much sense. Old Possum didn’t do too well after Tammy and that song, so you might consider letting her clone the feline so you can keep fishing. I’m sending you a gift card to Whataburger, so if you ever decide to come back from the dark-vegetable side and eat some real food. I’m also sending you a box of Cherry Bombs so you can blow up those clones if they turn into little Frankenstein monsters.

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Whataburger: The True Texas Burger Experience


Death By Burger. Photo by Ronald McDonald

In Texas, if you want a hamburger, you go to one place: “Whataburger”. Born in Corpus Christi in 1950, it is the homegrown holy grail of burger joints. Always fresh cooked to your order with all the fixins’. It is a redneck culinary delight. Sure, we have other boys popping up on prime real estate. “In And Out,” and “Five Guys” are a bunch of West Coast flakes trying to sneak in here and contaminate our burger pool. Cute little paper-wrapped sandwiches you eat with one pinky finger sticking out like you’re drinking a glass of Chardonnay at a movie star pool party. I would like to see Spielberg try to eat a Whataburger.

I whipped into my local orange and white Whataburger here in Granbury yesterday for my monthly fix: a burger, fries, and a Dr Pepper made to my order.

The voice from the speaker said, ” would you like to try our number 4?”

I replied, “no mam, just a Whataburger meal number 1 with fries and a small Dr Pepper, hold the onions and add two spicy ketchup’s.”

A few moments ticked by, the voice says, ” Sir, the meal comes with a large drink.”

Not trying to be difficult, well maybe just a bit, I say,” Yes, I know that, but that is too much liquid and my old bladder is smaller now, so I can only handle a small Dr Pepper or I will wet my jeans. I will pay for the large drink, but make it a small.”

Now the voice from the speaker is getting testy,” Sir, it comes with a large drink, and you have to take the large drink, that’s what has to happen.”

I pull up to the pick-up window for my meal. The lady opens the window and thrusts a large drink into my hand.

I hand the drink back to her, and she shoves it back to me. I set it on the ledge and said,

” I will pay for the large Dr Pepper, but I want a small drink. Just make the substitution, and I will be on my way.”

She is clearly shaken and bug-eyed. She leaves, and in a few seconds, the manager appears at the window.

“Sir, you have to take the large drink, that’s the way it is. Our kitchen is in turmoil now because you changed the Number 1 meal.”

“Tell you what Bub, take the Dr Pepper back, and give me a small Dr Pepper shake with chocolate ice-cream instead of the Dr Pepper drink,” I say.

Now the crap is really hitting the fan. The window lady, standing behind the manager, is leaning against the counter, weeping. The manager looks like he got goosed by a cattle prod, and the kitchen is in a tither.

After a few minutes, the vehicles behind me began to honk. The guy in the pick-up truck directly behind me takes his shotgun off the gun rack and chambers a shell. Texans take their burgers seriously, and this is about to get nasty. There is nothing scarier than armed men in pick-ups having low blood sugar because they can’t get their feed bag.

The window opens again, and the manager tosses me my burger meal, a large and a small Dr Pepper, and a small Dr Pepper shake. He also gives me a gift card for twenty dollars, a Whataburger COVID-19 mask, and a coupon for 30 days of free Whataburgers. ” No charge, and have a nice day,” he says.

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When Your Dog Goes Political: The Tale of Giblet


Most years, when I remember, I invite my old buddies to a Christmas lunch at Whataburger. Imagine my surprise when I stopped off for a Number 1 meal, with extra pickles and a Dr Pepper, and ran into my old pal Mooch. I had planned on calling him, but the sticky note fell off the fridge, and Momo sucked it up with her third appendage, also known as a cordless vacuum. I can’t survive a day without sticky note reminders. Plug in the coffee percolator, take meds, wash your face, turn off the burglar alarm system, feed the birds, etc. Life is easier when you have a yellow note lighting the way.

I joined Mooch in our usual booth, third from the entry door, chipped formica on the front edge, and “Jose loves YaYa” carved into the tabletop. Mooch looked all hangdog down in the mouth, which is his usual mood, but his personal pity party didn’t hinder him from stuffing his face with a double order of french fries and a Dr Pepper shake. I knew better than to inquire about his misfortune, but my mouth over-rode my sensible brain, and I asked what was wrong.

Mooch’s troubles stem from his wife, Mrs. Mooch, his son, Mooch Junior, or his foul little demon Chihuahua dog, Giblet. Today, Giblet had the man in a hand-wringing fit of despair. He brushed back a tear with his ketchup-covered napkin and let loose,

” That damn little dog has gone MAGA on me. Now, I kinda like Trump, but I always write in my vote for Ross Perot. The dog watches Fox News on his little TV all day, and some way, he got hold of my credit card number and ordered an official Trump hair piece from the RNC website. My wife sent a picture of him in his little wig to President Trump, and now he’s coming to Granbury to meet the mutt and take him to Chick Fil-A for a lunch visit. The guy from the Presidents office called and said that Trump may have a slot for Giblet in his administration, so now me and Mrs. Mooch will have to move to Washington and put up with all that crap.” I just had to ask him… didn’t I.

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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.

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Willie Saves the Church And A Whataburger Communion


Painting by Pablo Piccaso’s Great Great Grandson

Two days after Christmas, half past midnight, I just had my second cup of hot Ovaltine and am ready to pontificate.

It appears Taylor Swiftless is now the new “Yoko Ono,” having ruined the KC Chiefs chance at returning to the Superthang and cursing her Charlie Football for life. I always thought that poor Yoko got a bad rap when it was Paulie who pulled the plug on the Fabs. Not so with Person of the Year, Swifter Girl; she is toxic to human men. A football-inspired ex-boyfriend album and an NFL tour of all the stadiums will be coming soon. The games will be played at halftime.

Momo and I watched the Christmas movie, “Elf” on the 25th. I guess age has dulled my sense of humor since I find Will Farrel irritating. I enjoyed him in “Eurovision ( the elves went to far)” but Buddy the oversized Elf needs to go to LaLa Land. I thought James Caan got knocked off in The Godfather?

Momo made her infamous Greek Ribs today. Her daughter Tammera and the fam stopped by for an early supper and gift exchange; what a nice afternoon. I finished my first in the series of old-time circus sideshow posters yesterday; there are only seven more to go. I remember going into one of those freak or sideshows at the state fair. Lizard Woman, Alive! Cost me twenty-five cents. Turned out it was an ugly gal with a bad case of Dermatitis. The Lady With Five Legs was worth the change. Bonnie and Clydes Death Car was an old Ford that some moron drilled holes into the body and poured some red paint on the seats. PT Barnum was right, ” there’s a sucker born every minute.”

My Boy Scout grandson, Jett, his troop, and his Pop are doing another winter campout starting tomorrow. For Christmas, I gave him a family heirloom six-inch razor-sharp skinning knife in a leather scabbard, much like the one O.J. and Jim Bowie used. My grandfather said he carried it in WW1 and used it to open canned Pork N Beans and stab Germans when he ran out of ammo. I believed every word of it.

So Kwanza is here. A fictional, absurd holiday invented by a felonious black American male who needed a steady income after prison. So what about “Festivus?” George and Kramer deserve a day to celebrate, too. I always felt bad for the Seinfeld folks; what did they do on Christmas since the Soup Nazi was closed? I am working on inventing a holiday for senior citizens called ” Respect Your Elders Day.” Catchy slogans like “Get the hell off of my lawn” and “Do you think money grows on trees?” will go over well with our age group. All adult children, grandchildren, and neighbors will relate.

New Year is approaching. We live in a rural community outside the city limits, so the joyous and festive sounds of fireworks, 9mm pistols, and assault rifles fired into the air will be keeping us up all night. The problem is, those bullets have to come down, and they can kill you. Last year, it sounded like Santa was plodding around on our roof; turned out it was only bullets ruining our shingles. Insurance doesn’t cover that.

Now that Christmas is done and gone, I’m ready for the traditional Texas after-holiday meal of a Whataburger, large fires, and a Dr Pepper. Father Frank, our groovy-hip young priest at Our Lady Of Perpetual Repentance, is having a blessed by Willie service this coming Sunday. Governer Abbott has petitioned the Pope to make Willie Nelson a Patron Saint, at least here in Texas, so our good priest, getting the early ball a-rolling, will have a Willie Nelson approved impersonator give communion to any who wish to partake. A tiny bite of a Whataburger( no onions and extra pickles), a small toke of Willie’s popular Dripping Springs righteous weed, and a sip of rum-infused ice tea to wash urn down, and you can be ” on the road again” and feeling real good. Pretty sure the church will be at full capacity.

More later from the cactus patch.