Mostley irritating advice from an old guy that’s seen too much
The Texan
Yes, Dear Hearts, famous words from my favorite comedian, imagine 60 billion American people leaving their jobs, their homes, dyeing their hair odd colors, wearing clothing straight from the Goodwill Store, and crawling like babies, riding buses, planes, cars, electric scooters, skateboards, roller skates, 5 K runs, etc., and making their way to every major city in the US to protest a man who has done miraculous things for our country. The Burger King in our town closed, or I would have worn my cardboard crown all day.
Now, to even things up, the conservatives, you know those folks, the ones who have jobs in the private sector, go to church and praise the only real king that will soon be returning, and will be plenty pissed off. Let’s get those 60 billion other folks to hold a nice day of protest to celebrate Obama and Biden and all of their stellar accomplishments. Isn’t AI amazing? How can you take a small crowd and, with a computer, turn it into the largest rally in the world? Gotta love AI and how it’s ruining the world.
Loosely Dispensed Common Sense Advice And Commentary Shot From The Well Armed Hip Of A Old Texan That’s Seen Too Much And Doesn’t Give A Rats Ass What Other Folks Think, Or Eat
The Texan
It took Forty-Eight Years for the Death to America and the Great Satan Party to take over the Middle East, like those morally depraved little shits took over Daytona Beach a few days ago and literally ruined the once nice state of Florida. Iran’s murdering demon-possessed regime robe-wearing ass is kicked so hard their butt is in their throat, but yet they keep issuing threats, shooting off those cute little Chinese and Russian missiles, and now claim they will nuke Israel, the UK, most of Europe, a good portion of the Middle East, and of course, America. I am anxiously awaiting what Elon Musk has in store for them. How many presidents in 48 years said they would be a problem to be dealt with, but kicked that Wolf Brand Chili can on down the dirt road for the next delegation of thieving, lying, scum-sucking politicians to deal with. FDR, the two Bushes, one fully grown to size of a Scotch Pine Christmas Tree, and the other a puny shrub planted in too much shade, gave a half baked attempt, Regan got a few things done, Carter made everything worse, Ross Perot ran scared and said screw it, Clinton took the white house to a new low in history, Nixon..nuff said about him, Obama gave his magic carpet riding bunch of cut -throat brethren billions in cash, and Biden tried to take most of it back.
Truman had the balls to use the big firecrackers, Churchill had the guts, and a country full of English, Scottish, Irish, and Celtic patriots behind him, and Margaret Thatcher was likely the toughest of them all. Now we have a president who clearly sees this must be dealt with, or Jesus will be coming within the next six weeks, and he will be plenty pissed off upon arrival.
Momo and I are not afraid of the nuke over downtown Fort Worth, we would sit in our backyard with a nice whiskey and put on the Solar sunglasses we purchased at 7-11 as our bodies are char-broiled to Texas BBQ perfection. I recently purchased some 6666 BBQ Rub from Taylor Sheridan’s Ranch in West Texas.
I’ve become testier in my old age. The IRS has been holding our 2024 tax refund for a year now because we overpaid them, and they can’t bring themselves to give it back to us, saying we committed fraud. Fraud against whom, ourselves? I hate every politician on all sides. You bet if I could pull it off, I would jump at a $185K a year job and leave a few years later having accomplished nothing and pull a wagon load of 30 Million to the bank, that’s the real reason these narcissistic bottom dwellers run for office and try and stay in as long as modern medicine can keep replacing their bodily parts. Greed and Power, once that rhinestone-encrusted crown is put upon their head, it’s almost impossible to relinquish it to another greedy bandit: one size fits all. God has a plan for them, and I hope I get to witness their time out and try to bullshit God, who my pastor says has a good sense of humor and won’t be afraid to use it.
The US has more oil than the Middle East times ten, so these high gas prices are driven by the stock market and speculators, denizens from the depths, and yes, Quint will need a bigger boat to land those bastards. Enjoy that PB&J sandwich and that glass of Jim Beam. Sorry about all the swear words in this post, I told you I was getting testier and meaner these days.
My last nerve has been breached and destroyed. I subscribe to many writing blogs by authors I once found interesting; that’s when they write their own stories, not the AI-generated ones that take up half my pages. No one has the time to write twenty to forty stories a day on various subjects, from lost loves to cats and dogs cohabitating to victims of the Holocaust, weight loss, hair replacement, and then post them like a lost cat poster on every telephone pole in town. I am ridding my blog of this crap, and it is crap in the worst way. ” Looky..Looky at me, I printed twenty posts today and got ten thousand likes and views! Oh my God, I’m just like Stephen King.”
Who gives a Street Rat’s poisoned ass? It only showcases that you are not a real breathing writer with one original thought; you rely on a Bot that spits out some of the worst gruel I’ve tried to read. So, I am deleting your blogs, blocking you for life, putting a bounty on your heads, and might hire some shady folks I know to hunt you down. I recently watched a YouTube video in which well-known authors excitedly screeched about how they now use AI to write their books, and, actually, the few I checked out, the little Chinese Bot did a better job. I’ve got my eyes on you guys.
Now, if only the gardening Elves would show up and help with my yardwork.
Momo acompanied me to my primary doc today for the results of my physical a few weeks back: it’s best she drives, but I’ll explain all that later on.
I like my doc; he’s a young fellow who dresses nice, wears stylish shoes, and wears colorful socks, sort of like a younger version of myself. He immediately started in on the blood work results, which were amazing since I’m on the cusp of 77 years old. I had a few age-related glitches, and he wasn’t worried just yet. I asked him, “When is yet a problem?” He said he would let me know later. I told him my heart doctor said I had a real good chance of a major malfunction, but couldn’t tell me when that might happen. He said not to worry, it would be quick and painless. I also said I needed to lose 25 pounds, and could he put me on that Wegovy pill or the Ozempic shot all the movie folks are killing themselves with? He sidestepped that question. I said, “Jeeze, doc, I don’t want to look like Demi Moore or Oprah, I just need to lose a few pounds.” He said just stop eating and work out. ” That’s all fine, but I can’t work out; I’m disabled from a bad back surgery, and my body won’t cooperate, and Momo just bought a yummy French Vanilla Pound Cake with some Blue Bell Ice Cream: get the picture?
The young nurse was a bit too perky when she handed me the little notebook for the cognitive test. She said the instructions are a bit tricky. She was right, they were Ayatollah gibberish. I did the best I could, but failed with flying colors. All those numbers, words, little pictures of monkeys and fish and ice cream cones. Old folks don’t give one shit about any of that crap, so I was a miserable failure. I told him I re-learned to play the mandolin in six weeks and will be taking on the fiddle next week, so my brain can’t be that blocked up. He gave me a cute little Dr. Marcus Welby laugh and said he wants more blood and another cognitive test to see if I should be in some sort of home, or at home with Momo pulling me around in a wagon with a drool sponge taped to my chin. I asked him if I was smart enough to be president, and he said, “No, we’ve already been down that road.” As of yet, I haven’t left the truck keys in the freezer, burned down the shed, or dug up a natural gas line with my spade, so there is still hope. Old folks remember what they want to and screw the rest of it.
The Texan on his first typewriter that took two adults and a child to lift….Note the resemblance to Earnest Hemingway
Down Home Often Correct Advice And Old School Teachings For Folks That Live In Other States And Want To Move Here…Please Don’t. We Already Have Too Many Californians and New Yorkers, and There Is No Parking Left at Walmart or H.E.B.
After a rousing set of worship songs yesterday at our Generations Church, myself on my little mandolin, Eric on bass, Momo singing with Isabella and Ester vocals and acoustic guitar, Larry on Sax and Clarinet, Sandy on Cello, Ephraim on drums, and his daughter Victoria on keys, Monday morning is always a let down, coming off of a great set of worship music and Pastor Alan lighting up the church, like a Texas A&M bonfire, plus the spaghetti lunch and bake sale for the youth. I’m plum wore out and already need another nap.
Then I turn on the news, and reality hits me in the face like a Soupy Sales cream pie distributed by White Fang or Black Tooth. For those too young for real comedy, Soupy had a live TV show back in the early 1960s that actually was funny and made us laugh, much like the Three Stooges poking each other in the eyes. I almost blinded my best buddy, not knowing that Moe poked Curley in the forehead, not his real eyes. I am still amazed I made it to this age without being disabled or permanently disfigured. Momo says I still have time left to accomplish both.
World War 3 is in full swing and living color, minute-by-minute coverage of what Iran is planning for Israel and the rest of the Middle East, not to mention the good old USA, which is just a short missile hop from Tehran. Does the current Ayatollah think that he is safe from a smart drone missile that has more brain power than his entire staff of twelfth-century Zealots?
Maya Sharona, the on-site news person for NPR, was interviewing Iranians on the street. One group of young women was without their head-to-toe tents with eye holes, long hair flowing, full face makeup, smoking cigarettes, drinking a beer, and cursing the current regime. Ms. Sharona asked one of them whether they were excited that the current Ayatollah was on the run and that Iran might be free again. The young lady replied, ” We are ecstatic that we may return to the 70s again, we all have our Sony Walkmans and bell-bottom jeans ready, and Jane Fonda workout tapes are on sale at the bookstore, and oh yes, Death To America, but we really don’t mean that, it’s what we were taught to yell in school. God bless the USA and Sydney Sweeney. “
There is an old Texas saying that I still use to this day: “Hide and Watch.” Which, according to my late, late, late, and wizened old grandfather, meant hide behind a rock or a wagon and watch what happens when a few cowboys or a group of Indians on ponies try to attack a bunch of pioneers armed with Winchester repeating rifles. Sometimes it’s just best to peek over the edge of the rock and wait for the results before you get involved in the fray. I’ve got the Winchester and the pistols, and there are a lot of rocks around my hilly, rocky mountain home, so Momo has the Jiffy Pop ready, and we are stocked up on Dr. Peppers. Stay tuned, and Paul Harvey used to say, “Good day.”
At the behest of my university-educated and business-savvy son, I took the plunge into the world of Substack, a venture that, mere days ago, felt as alien to me as a distant star or a life-ending asteroid. I had heard murmurs of its name in passing, as I walked by the youngsters at church, yet I had dismissed it as just another one of those social media realms teeming with the eccentric and the unhinged, the kind of characters who seem to have a direct plugged in line from their phones to some endless well of chaos in their minds; perhaps I shall be proven right, though time will tell. “They,” you know, the ones that seem to know everything, say this space is meant for writers and thinkers, for those of reason and reflection, free from the vitriol of bomb throwers and purveyors of discord. So, I remain cautious, waiting to see what unfolds. My heart is heavy with weariness of Twitter and X, a landscape that has become the breeding ground for hatred and the raving lunatics of our age, where the young teeter on the brink of madness, consumed by their own shadows cast by the glow of their phones and laptops in the dark of night as they sit drinking a Redbull Margarita while consuming a bag of gluten free Cheetos as they watch re-runs of Friends, the Best of CNN or the latest Ken Burns series. Further posts will confirm my suspicions or surprises.
We’re a suspicious, scurrilous, and at times uncouth crowd not fit for fine dining at a Waffle House, but right at home at a 24-hour Whataburger or consuming gas-station sushi after a night of drinking Jack Daniels, sitting in a bass boat telling lies and catching crappie. Stay tuned.
My first and last speech at the Sons of the Alamo Lodge No. 2 was a rousing lesson in humility; my own. I will admit my prep work was on the shabby side because my few remaining female cousins have taken my name off their Rolodexes and cell phones. I didn’t see the harm in using them in my stories about our childhoods; they were always shown in a good light to avoid tarnishing their social standing in their hometown. Reams of notes, old photos, and orated stories from my mother and granny were the fodder for my historical ramble.
Daniel Crockett, the great-great-great-and even greater grandson, and the grandiose Grand Poohbah of the lodge, accused me of blasphemy because I insinuated that old Davy and Jim Bowie were drunkards. I reminded him that the book written by Veronica Baird confirmed that not only were they affectionately fond of the home-distilled sauce, they also smoked an Indian peace pipe stuffed with loco weed. Nothing like historical truth to bring the wrath of Texas upon you. I have been informed by a certified FedEx delivered rolled parchment letter, sealed with hot wax from candles found in the old mission, that I am on probation within the lodge for insulting historical heresy. I called my good buddy, Mooch, and laid out the scenario, and he volunteered to cut the tires and sugar the gas tank of the Grand Poohbah’s Suburban in retaliation. I will admit, it does sound like a good plan, and Mooch is just enough of a red-neck to pull it off. Before I pull the trigger on this one, I will consult my Pastor on whether this type of revenge is a Hell-bound offense.
The Rat War is in its final days, just as the Iran war with the entire world is hitting its stride. Foam removal from the hot tub’s interior is complete, and no rodents are present; only the damage caused by their excessive chewing. I haven’t bothered to check for carcasses in the woods because the Copperheads and Rattlesnakes are active, but gauging from the amount of the delicious poison consumed from the Martha Stewart Designer Rat trap, they have likely gone to La-La Land, or wherever pestilence goes after death. Wonder how the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khomeini feels about demon Rats from Hell running up his robe? Yikes!
I’ve received a few emails asking where I’ve been. The reports in the papers and internet news are false, I am not deceased in any way: not having reached room temperature, still able to walk upright, not being carried or anything similar, and I didn’t wake up dead. I have been blogging for over twelve years without much of a break, so I have been on a break.
I recently became reinvolved with my second-favorite instrument, the mandolin. I learned it as a child, walked away from it for rock n roll guitar, but have not reconnected with the tiny instrument and needed some time to re-familiarize myself with it. I had no idea how hard that would be. Four strings doubled to eight, tuned like a violin, EADG, nothing like a guitar, of which I have played since age 12. How hard could it be, right? Well, for a 76-year-old man, it’s damn hard and then some, but I have played twice with my church band and report that the little wee beast is now my friend again, and all is well. I will resume my ridicule and poking the bear, as well as tall tales from Texas, in a few days. The second big thing in my life is that Rats and Mice took up residence in Momo’s hot tub and did some considerable damage to the water lines. I have set traps and poison to ensure their demise, but a few defenders remain to be dealt with. I think the term Rat Wars is a good description. My son is sending me a nice 12-gauge shotgun to help in the battle, but I fear the shot will do more damage to the tub than the rodents. Momo is afraid I will shoot my one good foot off, then I will be pulled around in a Western Flyer wagon with a drool sponge taped to my chin, and she will be the one doing the pulling. I’ll keep you all posted on the epic battle.
When I was young and started to read books, real books, not the comics my friends read, and I had no interest in, I discovered Mark Twain. I thank my late aunt Norma, my father’s older sister, for that. She gently guided me into a world of imagination through a masterful author. She taught me to read and write at the age of five. She was an avid reader of great literature: Mickey Spillane and Mike Hammer were her favorites, as was any trashy romance novel available. Armed with a book-smart, salty vocabulary, I was king of the neighborhood, and it didn’t take long for the mothers to come knocking on our door. My mother threw a world-class hissy fit and demanded Aunt Norma change my reading material. That’s how I discovered Mark Twain.
After reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I was going to be Mark Twain. It didn’t matter to me that almost a hundred years earlier, he had already been Mark Twain; I was set on becoming him, me, a six-year-old with limited writing ability. However, I did have a colorful imagination, so that was a good start.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t write; by the age of eight, I wrote exceptionally well for my age, but I didn’t possess the mind of Mr. Twain. I hadn’t known Tom Sawyer, or Jim, or Huckleberry, or lived on the banks of the mighty Mississippi River. I was a landlocked kid stuck in Fort Worth, Texas, with a dozen Big Chief Tablets and a handful of No. 2 pencils.
I read other authors as well, but they weren’t Mr. Twain. Jack London was a bit scary, and there were too many wild animals that I imagined living under my bed. John Steinbeck was a masterful storyteller, and I did make it through most of The Grapes of Wrath, which mirrored what my grandparents and father had lived through. I continued to write on my tablet. I didn’t knowingly plagiarize any author, but they did give me good ideas and taught me to group words into a story.
I busied myself writing childish exploits of myself and my neighborhood gang of friends. I was certain that the Fort Worth Press would give me a column and perhaps a few bucks for my stories. I churned them out at a fevered pace, sending one a week to the publisher. A year passed, and I gave up. I still wrote, and my editor, my mother, filed them away in a drawer.
The day my class let out for Christmas vacation, my teacher asked the class to share what we wanted to be when we grew up. It wasn’t a serious exercise, only one to kill the last 30 minutes of the school day.
The usual vocations for our age group were doctors, firemen, policemen, and some girls who wanted to be teachers or nurses. When my turn came, I stood up and announced, with all seriousness, that I was Mark Twain. Mrs. Badger, my teacher, promptly informed me that there was already a Mark Twain, and that he had been dead for a while now.
I answered, “Yes, I know, but his spirit requires that I continue on with his writings and wit. So I am the reincarnation of Mark Twain.” I was in the principal’s office within a few minutes. The principal, a kindly old fellow, understood my affliction, and because I was earnest about it, he backed off a bit when administering the paddle. My teacher, bless her old-maid heart, never cared for me after that and treated me like a leper. To make myself feel better, I blew up her mailbox with a cherry bomb.
My aunt Norma was overjoyed when I told her of my plans and my new affliction. She went so far as to make me a tailored white linen suit and gave me one of my uncle’s large cigars to complete the ensemble. My parents weren’t thrilled; my mother blamed my father since his extended family was street rat crazy from drinking homemade hooch, and she was certain I inherited this malady from him. She seemed to have forgotten that her two brothers had turned me into a habitual liar and teller of tall tales. There were some whispered discussions about doctors and bad family genetics, but I paid no attention to that adult chatter.
After a few months, I discovered Earnest Hemingway. I never became Mark Twain, except in my daydreams or nightmares, but I did learn to appreciate good writing and stories.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 