The “N” Word

The “N” Word
by Wilbur Witt

With the Paula Deen situation we are again faced with the lopsided standard concerning the racial slur we’ve all come to know and love, the “N” word. White folk cringe at the very implication that they may be related to someone who ever uttered that word. Now, the word is an insult. In regular society normal people don’t usually use words that deliberately classify people unjustly into a group based on the actions of a few. I always say that I’m just a simple old boy from Austin. Well, my simple butt was born in Shreveport, Louisiana, and I have heard, and said the infamous “N” word. As I grew up in the ’50’s and 60’s, I heard a lot of things. Now, at 62, with friends of all makes and colors I try not to offend them by saying things that upset them.

And this is not politically correctness at all, but to offend a guest is just not cool. Any civilized person would be the same. What happened to Paula Deen is just plain nuts! And Walmart leading the foray to destroy her is reprehensible. I know they are going to pull all CDs containing said word from their shelves also, I mean, since it’s so offensive.

We are all prejudiced. That’s human nature. When someone doesn’t look like you the caveman comes out and you pre-judge the person as an ancient method of self preservation. In a sane, modern world you should put this on hold and build a data base defined by facts you learn. In ancient tribal days you tended to stay around your own people. Different people were possibly a threat, and for your own safety you stayed in your cave, or village, with people you’d known all your life. Frankly, I’m always pleasantly surprised when I meet new people now. I have a rapper friend from L.A. who talks street language all the time. We never discuss race, we discuss music. He wants to sell his rap. We have a lot in common. He considers me a good friend. We get a laugh out of him because he has never eaten Texas food. It is very gratifying to seen this large man enjoy brisket, German food, and local beer. I would never refer or even think of him in racial terms.

I talked to him about this word. His idea is that black people began to use it a lot to avoid the very trap that whites now find themselves in. They have effectively neutralized the stigma by simple overkill. I am Irish, but the word “Mick” doesn’t carry the same connotations as the “N” word. We never had to rise out of slavery. We were always considered to be human, except in some areas of New York. And the Chinks, Wops, Spicks, and Polacks all had the same deal. We all had to live past our roots and assimilate into America. Eventually we all became just a bunch of Crackers.

What Paula Deen did was a non event. Let it go. I have resolved to never give another dime to Walmart until they reinstate her. I don’t like Walmart anyway because it was started by a guy in Arkansas and my grandmother told me all people from Arkansas were white trash who married their sisters. I know now this is not true but I still keep my eye on them. I don’t use the “N” word here because I’m not crazy and I know social media sites are! But, if someone plays an old film clip of me and there I am, oh well!

We all know this is unfair. We all know there is a double standard. We need to rise above it. When people talk ignorant they never go far. Let’s keep our heads and not destroy the lives of people who have done no harm. Of course there will be those who will rail against what I’ve said here. I hope they are as articulate, and literate as the star witness at the Zimmerman trial. Myself, I’ve said my bit and now I’m going to move on to different subjects. You can’t fix stupid.


Moving Beyond DOMA

No matter what we may think a person’s private life is just that, private! As long as it’s between consenting adults, and harms no one, what happens in the bedroom is the business of the participants,mand I don’t care if it’s male-female, male-male, female-female, or Elder Smith and his four favorite wives, it is not the business of the government!

The natural order will dictate that most unions will be traditional, but having laws that demand parameters around sexual conduct will fail because when the lights go out you can’t read a law book. Little Johnny and Suzie will always meet in grade school and fall in love, but we cannot exclude those whom we simply do not agree with. Thinking about a homosexual union may disturb you but watching a heterosexual union disturbs me unless I’m the one doing the unifying.

Now that the Supreme Court has blazed the way to sanity perhaps we can concentrate on more pressing issues like privacy in our phone calls, being able to see a doctor and not invading countries because they pray to a different God.

Chasing The Brass Ring

I don’t have explosive outbursts of temper. I go into a slow burn as my mind considers the event that attracted my attention. So it was with the Sunday morning call I got. Over the last 48 hours, as I analyzed the content of said call I slowly, meticulously began to make decisions. The final choice was to distance myself from my two main antagonists. Over the years I’ve received no support, no advice, nothing from these people but berating, hate, and joy when I would stumble or fall. As with this last time, the very fact that I not only survived, but came out the other side better seemed to anger them.

While I never intrude into their lives it seems my life is a major topic of conversation. I don’t think either one of them has ever read a single article I’ve ever written, and never mind that I have several albums for sale on practically every download service in the world, published by my own label and several others, these two ignore that and ask me about Social Security. I never want to retreat to that! Even a small success in the entertainment industry beats that purgatory. And I know I’m on the right track because I watch my friends such as Ramona Myong, and Crystal Drument working toward the same thing.

My political views have been refined by conversations with my son, Master Chief Wilbur Witt III and the gentlemen at the Cigarbox. My two detractors couldn’t even tell you what political party I affiliate with. One does not need this. I realized years ago that if I wrote “normal” no one would read a word. My style is what it is. I try to be as politically correct as possible while mixing in a distinctive Texas slant. I try to say what a lot of people want to say but just can’t find the words.

I’m moving soon to the Texas coast. I would have preferred SoCal, but I was raised in Texas, and that gives me a proximity to Austin, which is important for a host of reasons. Using my blogs and music I try to direct attention to my books. Selling a book is hard. To be a writer you have to write tons! When the formula works it’s like a jet whose wheels just left the ground. You may labor for years with no real return, and then, in a moment of time, you find that one thing that works just for you. We live in an age of enormous access to media and public review. Back in the day this was controlled by a very small, select group of people. In the music business you quickly understood that writing a good song was hard, recording it was even harder, but distribution was the key. In one of my songs I wrote, “Well they didn’t sell worth a doodly squat, but I learn fast and do you know what, I got a use for a record that just won’t sell. Yeah, I put em in the oven and I turn on the gas, and they’ll shrivel up like a baboon’s ass, then you turn em into ashtrays and sell em to the cheap motels!” Folks, I’ve made a LOT of ashtrays!

People who long for retirement do not understand the creative mind that never rests. I’ve noticed that as I get older I get better. My two naysayers have always measured the value of their lives by the hour. One hour of their life is worth this much, or that much, and in the end they desperately cling to the fragments left by a mundane existence. Now we need people like that. Not everyone can be a writer, but don’t shoot down those of us who will swing at every baseball until we get a home run.

My one supporter is my son, the chief. He has seen me swing at those baseballs, and he’s seen me strike out, but he’s also heard my music in bars all around the world, and if I die without ever achieving a big success he will not be disappointed. This was one of the problems I had in SoCal. Wilbur tried his level best to provide me a perfect life. Only problem was I sat there in the perfect world with things left to do. Wine and cheese are all very fine but whiskey in a studio in Austin is much better.

Wilbur’s ideas mirror mine. He has served honorably in the Navy and will retire in a couple of years. He is not someone who is going to sit in the yard and check his blood pressure. He has received his Real Estate license in California and will leap into the market without a second thought. I don’t think he ever considered that he may retire from the Navy. He was my bass player at twelve years old. I think the Navy tricked him. He prefers California over Texas, but there’s medicine for that. He believes in progression of generations. I have a high school education, but it’s from Texas so that don’t count. Wilbur has a college degree. His daughter will one day be Dr. Kylie Witt! Her daughter, should she have one, will be president!

But I AM Weird Wilbur! I endured Roy Acuff and when he died artists like myself, and Rodney Carrington finally had a venue for our product. I got so sick and tired of corn pone country I wanted to puke! Now, I DO sell a few records. I do sell books, and people do read my blogs. If you’re a writer you understand that this is enough. If you are like my two experts it will pass way over your head.

The Saddest Story You May Ever Hear

The Saddest Story You May Ever Hear
by Wilbur Witt

What is love? How can it be measured? What barometer can we apply to gauge the feeling between a man and a woman? Our society has standards. We fix age restrictions on relationships. We mandate a point in time when it is legally deemed a human mind can make its own decisions. A point in time after which the mind, and heart, are legally allowed to love. If we, as individuals circumspect thus rule we are ostracized, marked with a scarlet letter, and all,the king’s horses, and all the king’s men can never put us back together again.

I submit for your consideration two young lovers. A boy of sixteen, and a girl, fourteen. They had known each other all of their lives. As puberty dawned they learned the passionate side of the feelings they had for each other since before they could remember. Keeping them apart was impossible because they completed each other. One, without the other, was not a total person, and they became one. No arguments, no fights, no drug problems, just an undying affection that no one could come between.

The boy turned eighteen, and the girl sixteen. The girl’s parents, seething with hate, filed rape charges on the boy, and he was sent to prison. He got out in eight years. He was now twenty six, and his girl was now a young lady, of twenty four, who patiently waited for his release and she ran to him. The parole board had imposed a condition on the young man. He was never to see the girl again. When the parole officer came for a home inspection she opened the door, and being clueless, told the officer her name. When the young man reported for his next monthly meeting he was arrested and sent back to prison to complete his last two years.

Now he was twenty eight, she was twenty six. They could not stay apart. They both knew that. The parents of the girl reported that the couple had been seeing each other, and even though the young man was not on parole, he was still under the condition of never seeing, or even speaking to his girl on the phone. He he got a call from the police, asking him to come down to the station for questioning. If they could prove he had even spoke to the girl it would mean a second offense. It would cost him fifteen more years of his life.

He was strong, but thus time life was bigger than the strength he had to get up off his knees. The young cowboy put a gun to his head and rode into his last sunset. Somewhere in Texas there is a young lady who walks alone. No one will ever fill the emptiness in her heart. Somewhere there are her parents, satisfied that justice was done and somewhere there is a God who will be the final judge of all.

Can I Have An “Amen?”

By Wilbur Witt

In the 60’s I was a big time patriotic supporter of everything the government did, and stood for. I wrote letters to the local newspaper, spoke out against Jane Fonda when she came to Fort Hood, and cheered for John Wayne in “The Green Berets.” I was a nincompoop! Looking back with what we now know we were suckered into a war where we had absolutely no business whatsoever. The reasoning was, at the time, if Vietnam falls to communism the entire Asian rim will soon follow. Well, it did fall, and other than catfish it made no difference at all to the state of the world. Even the Chinese, who used to be communist before they met Steve Jobs, don’t give a crap about this turd hanging off the side of the continent.

Now, yet again, we are presented with a situation in some foreign land where we are charging in and trying to blend McDonald’s with boiled goat. Let my insensitive ass be perfectly up front here. I don’t give a damn about anything in the Middle East, and I’m an equal opportunity hater. I have the same lack of respect for Jerusalem as I do for Mecca. I think they are all overblown in the news and we spend far too much time worrying about which was the camel is gonna jump. But, that having been said, here we go again.

President Obama has signed an order to provide aid to rebels in Syria.
What are his reasons? Oh, thats right, he suspects that the government of Syria used chemical weapons. Ok, I’m impressed. That sounds enough like a human rights violation. But hey Prez baby, what about our allies, them good ol’ boys down in Mecca who will stone a teenage girl to death for wearing lipstick? We rub elbows with them all them time, even when they provide 19 highjackers for Osama Bin Forgotten, smiling in their Sunday sheets. What about them fellers?

If you try to get involved in camel dung politics you will end up with smelly hands They all hate each other, and they especially hate us. They have so many interpretations of the Qu’ran you’d think they were Southern Baptists, and brothers and sisters, they do ALL look alike! Can I have an “Amen?” Ask yourself, do you honestly like anything about the Middle East? Oh, my bad, they have oil, and if we don’t defend American interests over yonder then they won’t have no money. The MEXICANS have oil, and Mexican girls are beautiful! No Mexican village ever stoned a teenage girl for looking good in a pair or Levis!

I had an epiphany last night. I was sitting on the back porch having a ham sandwich when a voice called unto me. And the voice said, “Psssst!” So I walked up to the voice, and I said, “What?” And the voice got holy, and powerful, and resounded-duh. And the voice said, “There is something fundamentally wrong with people who won’t eat a ham sandwich!” (Apologies to Richard Pryor.) But we will get tangled up in a brand new mess. We will send guns and bullets, but no Bibles, cause they don’t allow that over there. They will fight their little war, kill the leader, and then the rag head, oh, sorry, rag tag winners will form a government, institute Sharia Law, and start exporting more idiots to our shores to further disrupt our cell phone service.

See why I support the Republic of Texas? I’m not nuts. I’m just a simple old boy from Austin who looks at Mexico and realizes that what happens in Mecca, or Jerusalem doesn’t affect the price of tacos one Peso! I like tacos. I believe if we formed said republic, drilled our own oil, took care of our own people, and ate our own food this country might be better off. Bottom line is this; supporting a war anywhere in the Middle East is NOT fighting for our freedom. NEVER using a Verizon phone again is fighting for our freedom. Deactivating the IRS is fighting for our freedom. Jailing every CPS worker who ever falsified evidence against a young mother in order to steal, and sell her baby, now THAT’S fighting for freedom! Insuring that Al Shaka Boo Boo can comfortably have sex with his fourteen year old “wives” is fighting windmills.

Can I have an, “Amen?”

Snowden and the Honky Tonk Truth

How Far Do We Go?
by Wilbur Witt

As Mr. Snowden begins his journey to some safe haven we must look at the situation as it really is. I’ve already made it very clear my views on the government wiretapping an entire nation, basically, in an effort to secure our country, but the machinery is in full motion to incarcerate this boy. They are going after “criminal” charges for his outing of the people who took it upon themselves to wipe their asses on the constitution, spit in our collective faces, and lied until the room filled up with smoke from their flaming pants. Now, I’ll admit that anyone who thinks the signal their cell phone is spraying all over the universe is anything but private is living in a fools paradise, but we do have some expectation that if we haven’t done anything criminal we shouldn’t be subjected to such blatant survailence. John Boehner even chimed in saying the leaker was “no hero.” Well, maybe not to YOU, asshole, but to the 300,000,000 sum odd rest of us he’s standing pretty tall right now!

How far do we let this go? When one honest man can’t tell the truth without being hunted like an animal we have crossed the Rubicon. Charges should be pursued. Charges against every person who knew about this and said nothing. This kind of Tomfoolery is totally uncalled for. It is so asinine it defies description. Also, don’t tell me Verizon wasn’t in the know on this. I may be just a simple old boy from Austin, but I’m not THAT simple. Verizon compromised the privacy and trust of every one of their customers. There should be a mass exodus to AT&T. Verizon has forfeited any right to do business in the United States. I won’t even CALL someone who has a Verizon phone any more. And not because I have anything to hide. I’m posting this on Google for God’s sake. How much more public can you get? No, that is my personal, and permanent protest against a direct attack on the American people.

The real atrocity is that if and when they catch this kid no one will stand up. We will bleet like the sheep we are and watch him go down. And with him goes everything you ever believed in. Every idea you ever had concerning this so called land of the free. Loose lips sank ships back in the day, but Snowden didn’t sink any ships. He just sank a bunch of sneaky liars. God Bless the Republic of Texas!

Trayvon, George, and History

Gunfight 101
by Wilbur Witt

You know, the very moment you say you’re not getting involved in something Murphy’s law kicks in and that’s the very next thing you get involved in. So it is with the George Zimmerman trial currently ramping up in Florida. I began to read and watch as the lawyers positioned themselves for what appears to be a trial that will make the Jodi Arias run look like “Singing In The Rain.” at least with George wearing his bullet proof vest we won’t have to put up with his nipples protruding through a sweater.

I’m not presenting myself as an expert, but I am saying I have experience with this sort of thing, and a whole lot of common sense. There are many aspects in this event that flow in very expected directions. Let’s look at the actors. Martin, seventeen year old high school kid. He was a troubled kid, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I’ve generally noticed that there are two kinds of high school kids. The Valedictorian, and the rest are troubled. Teenagers are besieged by peer pressure, and work hard to assert their identity within the group. The cool guys get the girl. Cool is qualified in a large part by the media. Trayvon probably never had a political thought in his entire life, but MGM did, and they produced the rappers, and they rappers distributed their beliefs at great profit to eager ears looking for direction in a new, and confusing world. And this is not new. It’s not a “black” thing. When I was growing up in the 50’s there was a TV series called, “The Tall Man.” The two characters were Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid. Me, and all my friends were soon swaggering around acting like the actor that played Billy the Kid. High school students strive to fit in.

Our perception, as adults, of Trayvon Martin, and a high school girl’s view of him will be exactly opposite. If he wore his pants low we would think it looked silly, but a 16 year old girl would think he was normal and fit right in. If he wore an ivy league sweater he may please the teachers, but he would sit alone on Saturday night because he would be a nerd. I have found from experience that as life takes its toll the pants come up, the hair gets shorter, and the attitude tends to mellow in most cases. Did his parents have issues with him? Well, yeah. Did he fight at school? Probably, but one picture drew my attention recently. It was published in an attempt to show Trayvon’s violent side, however it was pointed out that the boy in the middle was Trayvon, separating two other boys about to fight.

Point being, Trayvon fit into his society. His actions, words, and mannerisms were what was considered normal by his peers. Did he have a jaundiced view of white society? Probably, but not so skewed that he couldn’t calmly purchase Skittles and an Iced tea at a neighborhood convenience store. And, if you will note, none of the other patrons ran for the door when Trayvon walked in. I’ve seen a lot of black men wearing hoodies. Every night I drive to a local store to buy cigarettes and beer. I park my Mercedes right outside the door because I have a limp. Most times some hooded black kid will hold the door open for the limping, old white man. Of course this IS Texas, I don’t know how they act down there in Florida. And im sure the car plays in. I’m cool. Trayvon’s attitude and actions were given to him by the societal model he had been programmed with. With age, and experience he would have most likely molded this image to fit his particular circumstance. A boy growing into manhood has to start somewhere.

Now, let’s look at George Zimmerman. George’s image of himself was that of protector. He was a volunteer with the neighborhood watch. Let’s analyze that. Back in Berry Creek we had a neighborhood watch. We had signs up letting everyone know we had one. What this does is alert perpetrators that if they try to commit a crime the chances are they will be seen, and the person observing them will call the police without a second thought. Our watch consisted of old people, riding around in their golf carts after dark with a cell phone. If they saw something that didn’t register they simply called the cops. Most of the time the criminals were teenage girls egging some boy’s car. My son, returning from patrol as a police officer one morning before sunrise came upon this very scenario. Six girls righteously screwing up the paint job on some kid’s BMW. He had them cuffed and sitting on the curb when the police arrived, who then took control of the “crime scene.” My point is we never stopped a burglary in progress. We never prevented a murder. A kid in a hoodie walking among houses usually doesn’t amount to much. The police scare the hell out of them and that’s part if that learning process I told you about where they temper what the rapper is saying with reality.

George saw himself as that thin red line between the drug cartel and his poor defenseless neighbors. And, please excuse the expression, but he saw everything in black and white. Ask yourself, would he have approached a man in a Brooks Brothers suit, driving slowly, eyeing houses for an address in a sports car? Now just imagine that man is Paulo Ginovilli from New York sent by his boss to collect a debt. No, he would drive on by. But he didn’t drive on by Trayvon Martin!

If you are licensed to carry a concealed weapon you must play the role of the coward. The very fact that you, and only you know that you have a gun gives you the distinct advantage. All this “stand your ground” crap is just that . . .CRAP! You don’t excite, you don’t instigate, and you don’t provoke because you know, in the final analysis, you will prevail. You endure all insults, and threats without changing the expression on your face. You don’t even draw back your coat to display the handle of your weapon because this will negate the element of surprise and that is your biggest tool.

George observes Trayvon walking home. His mental position is readily apparent by his words on the 911 tape, “They always get away!” That was paramount on George’s mind. THIS one wasn’t going to get away. Get away from what? In that same store that I buy cigarettes and beer, the same hooded young man who just held the door for me goes to,the rear of the store and takes a long time choosing his beer as he rocks back and forth from one foot to another. Am I intimidated? No. I don’t expect a civilized human being to do something rash. I’ve seen rash, folks. I’ve seen the bodies come out of Luby’s and get placed in an ice truck. I’ve seen George Hennard. LeRoy picking a beer is not high on my list of threats. What do you do if the man does make a threat? First you gauge the threat. Does he have a gun, or a tire tool? If he has a gun you try to avoid getting that gun aimed at you while you wait to draw your weapon. Simple fact is most people waving a gun around do not know how to use it. Three things figure in a gun fight. Having a gun, knowing how to use it effectively, and the willingness to do just that! Ok, he has a gun. He’s probably “cowboying” it, waving it around and yelling. You play the coward. You act like the little old man buying a six pack. He does not perceive you as a threat, worrying more about the clerk. Your advantage? You know you have resistance right under your coat. The very instant his gun is aimed anywhere but you, you pull your weapon and neutralize the situation. He will never hear the shot. Thats the hard part. If you draw your weapon and use it as a threat you will most likely get shot. Look at the OK Corral. Who got killed? They guys running their mouths while the Earps and Doc Holiday took aim. So, you shoot someone. It’s nit like in the movies. You will most likely be taken downtown. Your license and gun will be confiscated by the police. You will have to justify the use of deadly force. Even police officers must do this. Ever hear of “administrative leave?” It’s not because the officer did anything wrong. It’s so careful, logical minds can find out why someone got shot.

Ok, let’s say the perpetrator has a knife, or tire tool, even just a hammer. You still play the coward. Retreat. Now, don’t allow him to harm the clerk, but if the money changes hands with no violence there is no reason for the robber to ever know you are packing. There will be survailance cameras and at least two witnesses. The police will get him. That’s what they do. It’s only money, and with the way most connivence stores operate this idiot just traded ten years of his life for less than fifty dollars.

If the bandit does begin to make a move to harm the clerk you draw your gun and shout, “Stop!” You don’t go into a long oratory, you don’t come up with some cute line, just one word, “Stop!” At this point the man is going to do one of two things. He is going to piss his pants and drop to his knees, or he’s going to piss his pants and run. It’s not like in the movies. When you see a gun aimed at your face and realize you are less than a second from the Pearly Gates you change direction immediately, and that direction is NOT charging at YOU! In this circumstance you have the total advantage.

As you can easily see, this was not the situation that rainy night in Florida. Trayvon Martin posed a threat to no one. No one except George Zimmerman. What would have happened if George hadn’t driven down that road? Trayvon would have walked home, given his little brother the Skittles, and drank his tea. Trayvon Martin did not possess burglar tools on his body when they zipped up the bag. George Zimmerman broke every rule of a responsible license to carry party. He profiled the kid. “They always get away!” He disobeyed the instructions of the 911 operator. “We don’t want you to do that.” He didn’t just stand his ground, he stood Trayvon’s ground, and the ground of every member of the home owner’s committee. He was a ground standing son of a bitch! He displayed his weapon needlessly. He claimed Trayvon grabbed for his gun. How’d the kid know he even had one? Ask yourself.

Let’s look at the 911 “howling” tape. Now, you’re going to hear all kinds of expert talk about who that was screaming. It’s all crap, use your common sense. Do you know how difficult it is to aim and fire a pistol in a fist fight? I’m a pretty hard ass old bastard, but if you’re whipping my ass I’m going to be hard put to place a good shot. And I’m good! When I qualified on the range for my gun permit my target had a big old hole right in the center. George Zimmerman executed a perfect torso shot. One shot to the heart. So, was screaming? Not the man taking careful aim at a teenage boy. Not the man in a fit of rage with anger written all over his face. If you will note the screaming stopped immediately after the shot. No crying, no sobs, no more calls for someone to come out and help, just silence. Damning silence! Did Trayvon hit George? Probably. He had been stalked by the very creature he had come to beware of. Trayvon did retreat, and as a last resort he stood his ground. His only mistake was he was facing a man who perceived himself to be a hero with a gun!

Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman were drawn into history that night. They both played roles given them by the societies they had chosen. George fully expected to drop by the country club the next day and get a pat on the back for “saving the neighborhood.” Trayvon expected a fight like in school that he would tell his friends about, and in time move on to other things. Instead he died begging for his life as a man took aim at his chest.

You will hear testimony that will try your patience. You will hear experts contradict each other endlessly. You will see drawings and photographs that try to explain trajectory. Lawyers will split hairs on what ground was being stood that night. The final truth will never be arrived at. That truth lies between two young men on a rainy night in Florida.

When Bubba Finally DOES Shoot The Jukebox

by Wilbur Witt

I just love it when the government gets caught with its pants down and a big ol’ nasty case of ED. Such an exhilarating experience just occurred with the revelation that Uncle Remus, oh, my bad, Uncle Sam, was spying on all Verizon phone activity. Before I get started on this rant, I’d just like to ask how Verizon won the honors. I mean, what happened to AT&T, or Sprint, hell, CRICKET? If I were them I’d be pissed off! Don’t terrorists ever use othe services? I mean, AllahBell, or something like that?

Obama trotted out and called black white, wrong right, clicked his heals three times, whispered, “There’s no place like home,” and disappeared back into the White House. What he didn’t say was the simple truth, “Uh, we just tapped all the phones on an entire service, with the only justifiable cause being some idiot, somewhere in the world might say, ‘Bomb!” And look at Obama’s speech. Did he apologize? No! Did he say he was going to fine tune, or stop this? No! He was mad because he got caught! In fact a major investigation has now been launched to find the whistleblower that outted this mess. They readily admit that it had to be one of very few people who were in a secure enough position to have known about it at all, and could provide the documentation Someone right there in their OWN OFFICE! And when they do find this person they will crucify them, and for what? Telling the truth? And you think this group of “professionals” who can’t secure the keys to the executive wash room are capable of securing an entire nation?’

Ok, let’s go right to the pork chop on this one. Look at bombers. Now, I’m gonna get a little racial on this, so you liberals just sit your asses down, you can cuss me later. Jay Leno, I see you. How’s your cell phone working, Bub?Timothy McVeigh was a redneck obsessed fool, running around with a big yellow truck full of fertilizer. He had a history of being an anti-government nut, and Sheriff Buford in PoDunk County, Arkansas could have fingered him in a heartbeat. It took the FBI to screw that one up, and Timmy drove his big yeller truck right up to their doorstep and lit the fuze! Look at the two punks that blew up the Boston Marathon. Look at the guy Obama trotted out yesterday to justify this latest boondoggle. Look at the nineteen highjackers from 9/11. See where we’re going with this? Here, yet again, is a prime example of the American people giving up privacy, freedom, and dignity, hell, forget about that nasty old constitution, the administration wiped its butt on that a long time ago, in the name of that elusive, gremlin we have all come to know and love, National Security!

As you may know, I recently did a series of articles about Internet scams from Africa. It was quite funny, and I posted a lot of the dialog, but one fact was paramount. They ALL asked for money. They ALL got an absolute, “NO!” There are two reasons for this. One, I knew they were scamming, and two, wouldn’t sent five dollars to ANYONE in another country who is darker than me! Pass the barf bags to the liberals, please. It’s as simple as this; Grandma Hornbuckle in Austin, talking to her twin sister in Lampasas about sewing patterns is NOT a risk to National Security. Habib al Poopmydraws, in Ghana, saying, “Allah” every other sentence has a bit more on his mind than the price of dates during Ramadan. You just wasted a whole bunch of time and money screening grandma’s calls! And don’t tell me it’s all computerized and, “Nobody’s listening to our calls!” The very guy they drug out to prove that this idea worked was talking in code about MARRIAGE! And if you, Mr Obama, are so secure with this effort, where was it when one of the Boston bombers was flying to and fro to a country embroiled in war, terrorism, and clandestine activity as easily as going to Vegas for the weekend? Oh, my bad, last time I went to vegas the TSA had me take off my pants to make sure I didn’t have a pressure cooker crammed up my ass.

I would like to remind everyone, however, that Obama didn’t originate this loony tune surveillance. No, George did this. All this tells me is that something in the water inside the Beltway makes em crazy. They forget how to read, they can’t tell the truth, and they think the American public is as stupid as they are. You want to see bi-partisan? Look at the track record. When it comes to funding schools and health care they scream, “Sequester!” When it comes to drones, wars, and Don Quixote windmills, just write the check, the FED’ll print the money right on up!

The government is always going on and on about, “The greater good.” And they are quick to use terms like, “Profiling.” I find it disturbing that in a country where some woman in a full burqa can get on an airplane easily, that a young man can’t walk home with an iced tea and pack of skittles without getting shot! I’m just a simple ol’ boy from Austin, but did I miss something here? In a line at the airport two bozos talking in a language that sounds like they’re coughing up their supper go right on through, and the TSA searches little Amy’s Barbie doll! And they all look the same, folks. Dark skin, black hair, scruffy beard and pissed off! Meanwhile Americans, and I mean ALL Americans, even Juan and the boys, put up with this nonsense day after day after day. I would love to have a rule that states if anyone fitting the description of the nineteen terrorist from 9/11, the Boston bombers, or with a name you really can pronounce without spitting in someone’s face gets on a plane they must sit between Bubba Mitchell and Fernando.

America will return to sanity. It will take about ten years, but people are pretty fed up now and believe it or not, this is NOT England, we DO have guns, and we DO know how to read the constitution. We didn’t get this screwed up overnight and we won’t fix it overnight, but we WILL fix it! One day Bubba WILL shoot the juke box and little Amy will get her Barbie back, and Miss Hornbuckle will be able to talk to her sister in privacy. And you wonder why right thinking Texans just want to divorce this fiasco? Wow!

Property Management 101 (A Personal Manefesto)

Property Management 101
A Personal Manifesto
by Wilbur Witt

On June 1, 2007 the world changed for us. On that day we found our son, Bobby, dead in his apartment. He was 28 years old. It wasn’t entirely unexpected, but one never prepares for this event, and no matter how you brace for it, it’s like sitting in a bomb shelter getting prepared for the next shell. We began a personal and professional descent into the abyss of a bottomless pit that just got deeper and darker with each day. Then came the heart attacks. My wife could not cope with the loss of our youngest and did everything she could to be with him.

Our business was like a 747 Jet. It took 24/7 to keep it on level flight, and the very moment we took our eyes off the horizon the jet began to go down. Combine this with the greatest economic catastrophe since the Great Depression and you have disaster. There was no autopilot. Sales kept the company afloat. Investors would buy rent properties here in Texas at a fraction of the cost of California. Money was plenty, and those investors on the west coast took full advantage of it. All was good. With the cushion of commissions from sales we were able to create a safe, profitable environment for owners. We accommodated large owners with programs that provided repairs at low or no cost. We paid some owners full rents on occupied apartments regardless of what was collected. This flow of cash caused these investors to invest more. Our rental company was never designed to be a profit generator. The income from the sales on the other side held it all up. This business model was the same one employed by cell phone companies. You can get a $600 iPhone for $99 provided you stay with the phone company for two years. The cell company makes its money from SERVICE, not phone sales! So it was with us. The $80 a month management fees pale to insignificance when compared to a $12,000 commission earned from the sale of just one building, and when we moved into commercial sales the commissions rose to $50,000 and more. With profits like that we would have happily managed properties for free if the investors kept investing.

Our area was unique. With the proximity of Fort Hood we had a self contained economy that was seemingly immune to national trends, good or bad. We could literally predict troop movements by the number of planes flying over our office. The Vietnam war was a war of rotation. For the uninitiated that means soldiers coming and going constantly. A ready supply of new troops meant a solid rental market. Frankly, when we invaded Afghanistan I was professionally overjoyed. My only concern was that the war would only last six weeks and no rotation would occur. As we have all seen this war went a totally different direction. George Bush couldn’t run a war if he had George S. Patton as his chief of staff. Combine that with his charging off after windmills in Iraq. He may as well have invaded England, it would have made about as much sense.

The country dove into recession, and our family, personally, dove into depression. We made critical mistakes, and our fall was our fault. We had no professional staff. My wife and I delegated nothing. We made all decisions personally and all the so-called “staff” had to do was make it to the office every morning and open the door. We would handle everything else. The next thing was family. We got absolutely no family support. We owned four homes. One in Killeen, and three in Berry Creek, a golf course community situated thirty miles away in Georgetown. Within one year our Beverly Hillbilly kinfolk moved in! Take note of this, all of you. If you make over a million dollars you will discover relatives you didn’t even know you had. Jesus said the poor you will always have with you. He did NOT say move them into a mansion on Berry Creek! Poor losers are poor losers for a reason. They know the “poor pitiful me” act allows them to scrape by at the expense of relations who work hard to develop business. You want to know how silly this can get? Have one of these sloths tell you that he can’t (or won’t) pay $1.00 a year rent because he is entitled to a free home with all the amenities because God promised him!

Why did we put up with it? We were working hard to keep the jet flying. We fully expected the economic future not to be much different than the last twenty years. We were too busy making the trip from Georgetown to Killeen every day, and Sunday was just a day when the traffic was lighter. We could put up with these people as long as they kept the houses clean and simply hung out with us the few hours we had to sit on our porch. Not one of them put any effort into the company except two, Tony and John. These two made an honest effort, but by the time they got there the plane was making a 600 MPH power dive for the Texas desert!

To keep all of this going required a massive influx of money. When the troops went to war, and didn’t return, and the broker laid down to die the sales stopped, and I mean STOPPED! When the safety net was removed, and the investors had to view the real world they abandoned in mass! Only a sprinkling of bankers survived, and they, like us, scraped by, one running his mortgage company out of his house! The formula was very simple. The very first time one of these so-called “investors” received a check for what they were actually owed they pulled their property and ran to another property management firm. Only problem was the other companies were struggling with the same economics that we were and all these owners who made thus leap lost their property . . .every single one of them!

There are two types of property management companies. The classic model, the one you learn about in your real estate classes, where there are reasonable fees for management, mark ups for repairs, fees for renewing leases, and penalties for moving your property elsewhere. There is nothing wrong with this, and the people who use this model are not wrong. The other model was ours. Sell lots of property, create Disneyland for the owners, sell them more properties, and them convince them to sell off and invest in other ventures. The money is there for those who have ears to listen and use them to listen! But there is an issue. People get stars in their eyes. That, and people tend to think the world is frozen in place, and forget that life, and property, is dynamic. When I spoke to investors in LA, I told them never count on any more that 84% of full occupancy. Never think, even with troops in abundance, that you will be 100% full, 100% paid in full all the time. That way when you are full it’s a pleasant surprise, and when you are not it won’t hurt so bad. Also, a fourplex in Killeen is NOT an investment. It is a commodity. You are NOT going to pay that building off in thirty years, are you crazy? By the time the 2/10 warranty runs out your shiny new building will be sitting in the middle of a multi-family ghetto. Before this happens get rid of it, take your money and move on to greener pastures. Two owners we had took our advice, did this, and went into the chicken business. They sold that, too, and retired. The police won’t even go to their former rental properties without backup!

The theory of the fourplex as an investment was interesting. The original concept was Sgt Rock would buy one on his VA loan. Now he could do this because in Texas a fourplex is in the same category as a house. The contract says clearly, “One to Four Family Residence.” The old sarge could live in apt A and rent out B, C, and D. Payment somewhere around $750 to $1,000 per month and sarge is NOT paying rent, he’s living rent free and life is good! Now, you take this formula, run the price up to around $265,000 From $100,000, don’t live there, depend on third party property management, does anybody see this train coming into the station besides me?

At the time of the war going south, the heart attack, and the death of our son, our owners, whom hadn’t purchased a new building in up to seven years were getting a view of the real world. I see their point. They bought their buildings new, why weren’t they still NEW? Go right back to the formula. Five to seven years, move on! Property investment is just a conduit for money! There are only three things worth a damn thing: Gold, Money, and Land! And with Obama money’s on shaky ground. Of these three, land is the only thing you can ever really own. But, contrary to accepted theories it doesn’t always appreciate. When it doesn’t, you turn it into money, and use that money to do something else. You break this rule and your land will break you!

So, we went down. All, but one of the houses are gone, we have medicine now, the economy is coming back, and the calls are coming in again. If you don’t learn from your mistakes you are a fool! You deserve to die. There are those of us who need the food you’re using. We learned. We will build our companies back bigger and better. We have ideas that will stand property management on its ear. The one thing I did learn was to listen. People like Jim Wright, Harry Herrall, and others have been in this situation, too, and they have excellent ideas. Together we will make Killeen a boom market, and Texas the greatest Republic in the world!

To Punk A Nigerian. (The dangers of Internet translators)

If you ever doubt you’re talking to a Nigerian through a translator get a load of this. This is REAL. I just did it. These people don’t comprehend English and work in shifts, so it’s not written in stone you’re even talking to the same “girl” each time. Enjoy.

(Jenifer) hello

(Weird) Hi

(Jenifer) how are you doing today

(Weird) Getting along. Gonna do a couple lines and rest

(Jenifer) so how was your weekend

(Weird) oh, so so. Had an orgy and drank a lot.

(Jenifer) wow that good for you i was alone all by myself so I want to a friend

(Weird) Hey, maybe you can come over for a gang bang! All my friends would love to meet you!

(Jenifer) yea wish i can come over.

(Weird) Oh we’d love it. I want to be first. Hey I gotta go. I have two girls I kidnapped yesterday duct taped in the garage and I have to feed them.

(Jenifer) oh ok talk to you later

(Weird) Yeah, riiiight . . .