That Was The Week That Was Was The Week That Was

From reflections to events, but that’s the way my week usually goes. Unlike other writers, I don’t just jump on the morning news, even in a big event, I let the story “season,” because first thoughts are never the correct thoughts. What happened is never as important as why it happened, because if we don’t reflect, and learn, then we’ll just keep doing the same thing over and over again, and, as you probably know, that’s the definition of insanity.
I began the week with an idea of the eventual breakup of the American Dream, i.e. set up a government to steal everything, and try to cram it into the Beltway. In “God Bless Americans,” I said, “As we all know, the American government has been overreaching for years, and part of this is because of the artificial definitions of who’s who, and what’s what. Most of the time Federal mandates, and decisions are mandatory, and arbitrary. States make laws, but why? All Uncle Sam has to do is make His law, and the state legislature becomes a complete waste of time. K. C. Massey can carry a gun under Texas law, Sammy says, “No,” K. C. goes to jail. Someone can fire up a joint in Malibu, DEA doesn’t like it, guy gets arrested and has a criminal record. Fundamentalist Mormon wants to marry twin sisters and the Fed can’t seem to find the ink to put one more square on a tax form. See where this is going, folks?”
From there I let old Brother Greed get ahold of me and penned, If I Had Won The Powerball. I ain’t even gonna lie to you. I had that money spent, and I listed all my dreams for the public to see. “If I had won the Powerball. I sat up last night waiting for the Powerball drawing. I didn’t get a single number. You’d think there would be a prize for that! Anyway, like practically every other fool who invested in castles in the air, and purchased a Powerball ticket, I had big plans. I’d like to list them here. They ranged from the sublime to the sub-slime, but here goes.” Well, as you probably figured out, I didn’t win, and had to rush down to pay the light bill the next day.
Politics raised its ugly head next, ugly being the key word. Hey, for the record, I understand why Bill cheated on Hillary, ok. I kept having images of Arkansas politicians, ugly women, and cornbread swirling around in my head and out popped, Dead As Cornbread. “From White Water to Benghazi, Hillary has danced on a razor’s edge for years. Other people in the public eye can commit just a smidgen of what she’s pulled and they’re thrown out of the Army, charged with a crime, end up with public ridicule, and Alex Jones accuses them of leading the New World Order. Hillary could pee on the White House steps and the Liberal Left would say she had found a new way to fix global warming. Am I the only one who thinks there is something wrong with this picture?”
Where Everybody Knows Your Name was next. I have no idea where this idea sprang from, but I suspect it was a bar tab. “Places like this never last, and that’ sad. Just a place where seasoned men come to relax and compare lives. I gain more there than any other place I go. I listen more than I talk, and I learn. These guys view things like ISIS with a very jaundiced eye. And everybody knows your name. I like that.”
That night I listened to my friend, Scott Binsack, reflect on his belief in an Eternal Creator, and wrote, In God We Trust. “God got expelled from school, His commandments from the courthouse square, and from the halls of Congress, and we wonder what ever happened to the country. God is a nice guy. You don’t have to throw him out, just ask Him to leave, and he’ll oblige. And, when He does leave what do you have left? Bruce Gender, Hillary, Obama, and Imam whoever! Children don’t say prayers, or the Pledge of Allegiance in school anymore. They learn how to do drugs, and different sexual preferences, depending on the gender, or cross-gender of the teacher. Welcome to a Godless world!”
I’m very TexCentric, and it showed in Olga vs The American Dream. “This was a big heads up to the third world. While Washington wasn’t invaded, America, for once, had to stand down. We, of course, put the spin on it. We were like Putin recently said. We were like playing chess with a pigeon. We knocked over all the pieces, pooped on the board, and then stomped around like we won. Still, we had the dream. Or rather, Martin Luther King had a dream. Our dream had caught the last train for the coast.”
Seems I was drawn to the past a lot this week. During lunch with some old friends, we got to talking about our high school days, and a few things came to mind. In The Last Picture Show I wrote about things that would make kids in New York, or California would cringe at. “I didn’t have a pickup. I had a ’54 Chevy. The good thing about it was you could get four friends in the trunk when you went to the show. That meant for you, and the girl, it cost about seventy cents to get in. That’s right, one girl, five boys. Hey, we weren’t Muslims, she was safe. Also, if you were lucky she would be an Army brat and have five dollars or so in her purse, which would turn into buttered popcorn for everybody. The way you convinced her to give up the money was a gift, usually flowers, which meant a swing through the graveyard on the way to pick her up. They didn’t show that in the Last Picture Show either!”
By the week’s end I was blowing through pretty good. Still reflecting on Scott’s broadcast, I did a commentary on my first book, Sharon. “The Muslim community has got to come to the realization that the volatile section of Radical Islam is so dangerous to the rest of the world that they, the “good” Muslims need to handle it, or we, the rest of humanity will have to handle it for them.”
I was flying so high that I began to generate “doubles,” by this time. When I get an idea I just write it, no waiting for later. After listening to a Trump speech I resurrected Little Red Riding Republican with a nice 2016 update. “Well, that’s where Little Red Riding Republican comes in. She had been raised in the wisdom handed down from generation to generation. She had eyes of blue, and flaxen hair that fell down around her shoulders. She would take long walks in the country, and one day, during one of these walks she became lost and a figure appeared out of thin air. It was a black knight!”
And, last, but certainly not least, Black Lives Don’t Matter! Actually, I’ve toyed with this title for months, but I just couldn’t take the edge off enough. When someone came back with ALL Lives Matter, I thought to myself, “Heck, why don’t we just join hands and sing, “We Shall Overcome?” Finally, I came up with a perfect second line. For the record, Black Lives Matter is the epitome of Liberal Stupidity. You simply have to have the guts to put it out there. Everybody knows movements like this are stupid, and the originators laugh all the way to the bank. Unfortunately for them I write for the Tea Party, not the Pot Party! That’s why they call me Bill the Butcher! “Black lives don’t matter! My life matters! In the words of Billy Joe Shaver, “When you have no way to go you’d better know I’m gonna get my share of mine.” Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m a racist. More than that, I’m a Texan. Texas wasn’t built on a food stamp. America has evolved into a welfare state. In Texas we have a thing called a “51% sign.” Now, it’s supposed to refer to the amount of food vs alcohol that forbids the carrying of a gun within an establishment. In America it is the percentage of citizens working every day, as opposed to those lining up at the welfare office for their daily bread.”
Sunday is a day of rest. Well, maybe for some, but for me it’s a day of reflection. They don’t rest, so I don’t rest. I have been called, A Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin, and that’s good, because when the libtards pounce on me I can always say, “Hey! I told you I was stupid from the start.” Have a blessed week, and keep looking for America. It’s somewhere out there.

Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin


Thinning The Herd

Thinning the herd. It reduces the remnant to the best. I am sick and tired of Facebook jail, sneaky liberals, thin skins, snitches, and most people from California. I am going through my Facebook “friends,” and reducing the numbers accordingly. What is a Facebook friend? Well, there are three kinds. Type one is a real friend. Someone you know personally, have had a beer with them, and find out they’re on Facebook. You hook up and pass pictures of your lunch. Then there are these people who send you a friend request. There are subgroups to this. Group one is people who know an actual friend (see the above), people who know of you and wish to know more about you, and then there are those other friends. They are sort of like, “Yeah, we’re divorced, but we’re still friends.” Boys and girls, if you believe that last statement, have I got a bridge for you and it’s on sale! Definition of divorce: Two people who can’t get along even during sex! Then, there are trolls.
It may come as a surprise to you, but there are people who have nothing better to do except hang on the internet making waves. Some LGBT advocate who joins a Tea Party groups. Then, they proceed to flag everything they see. I saw one of these yesterday that wanted to flag an entire group, although no one had addressed her personally, and no foul language had been used. These are people who would argue with Col. Sanders over a piece of chicken. They read books like “Fifty Shades,” and quite frankly, they’re usually white. I don’t know how many are from, or in California, but if they’re not there they will get there as fast as they can to marry their significant other. (Racist enough for ya’ll?)
I was put in Facebook jail once this year. I put up a picture of Leatherface, kidded the IslamaBastards a little bit, and the door slammed shut for a day. Hey, I thought anyone who drank camel piss would be cool with LeatherFace! My bad. . . he was white! I don’t know who jacked me up, but I don’t think it was a fan of Clint Eastwood. Yesterday I noticed my friend, C. J. Grisham was locked up for three days. Now, let’s do the math. This man has changed history, retired Army, was running for the Senate, squeaky clean member of his church, and somehow he offended “someone” out there. For the record I don’t go to church because every time I do my hair catches of fire.
I have a solution. My rules are simple. First, I will keep all those I have touched, or know personally. Next, members of groups which I am a member, whom I know their political affiliation. Then, members of the publishing community that I know are open minded enough to read something and realize that it’s only a blog and will not harm you if you just move on. Oh, and the two girls I know that have low IQs, but know how to take a good selfie. I shy away from people who send you a friend request in Arabic. I mean, get real!
You have to realize that Facebook is a computer program. The flesh and blood people working there do not possibly have the means to check all posts, but trolls know how to push the appropriate buttons and get what they want. I use key words and tricks, i.e. “Islamabastards.” I made that up. Also, it’s five syllables, and that helps a lot.

Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

So, What Makes a Writer?

So, what makes a writer, or rather, a blogger? Well, beer helps, but experience does, too. I’ve been writing since 1962, but if I’d been making shoes since then, I’d probably be a fairly good shoe maker by now. It doesn’t matter what you do, so long as you do it long enough then, you’ll eventually become good at it. Basically, I’m a song writer. Writing a song is simple. Three verses, a lead riff, a chorus, and you’re done. Blogging is no different. Start with an idea, bang it, reinforce it, and you’re out. A lot of people don’t notice it, but I put a chorus in every article. Now, it’s not apparent, like it’s not like a song, but it’s there. A repeating logic to drive home the idea of the article.
A song writer is concerned with flow. Flow is like it has to roll off the tongue, and I do that, I mean, I really do. People see me talking to myself, and they think I’m crazy, but I’m not. I’m vocalizing my articles to make sure that they flow. The simple shift of a word, or phrase that makes an article flow easily makes it easy to remember. The article has to stick in someone’s head, just like a song. Like the word, “but” is harsh, but “and” is not, and they mean basically the same thing.
Original ideas are important, but more than that is the delivery. It isn’t what you say, but how you say it. And set the reader up to anticipate what you’re going to say. You open the gate and the reader willingly walks through it. Returning to the beginning is a biggie. I call that “circles.” You don’t want your reader to ask, “Where is this going?” because if they ask that then they’re already lost. Forget about all that crap you learned in school, except for spelling, that’s important, but spell check has your back. Talk to your reader in their language, because if you use all that elevated English some college professor taught you then you might as well be talking in Swahili. That comes back to flow, also. You don’t want the reader to be stumble bumbling over words that they have to Google.
I think that somewhere down the pike I’ve created a style, and even though it was by accident, it now has a purpose. The purpose is to get young people to read the article with the same enthusiasm they have when they listen to their favorite song, and that’s because that’s exactly what I do; write a song without the melody, but with the same spirit.
It helps if you have something to say, too. You have to have at least some conviction, and don’t lie! If you don’t believe in abortion then just say it! Don’t be jellyfish about it. Throw it out there, and there will be people who think just like you, they just can’t articulate it. Fly high above the issues. The higher you fly, the less likely someone is going to come along and stick a pin in your balloon. And don’t count money! If you are a writer, then be one. Just write. Reads are more important than money. If you court money, you’ll find very quickly that she is a whore, and she doesn’t love you. Stay true to yourself, draw the circles, and it’ll all work out. Ask yourself; how rich was Hemmingway when he died? Writers are thinkers and chosen to be so. So THINK, write, and open the gates to human communication.
Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

I’m Contraversial

I’m controversial. I suppose that goes without saying. I actually do not have a stated course, or agenda, other than Texas Freedom. Sometimes I will research an article for days before it jells and I know which way I’m going. Good case in point was this weekend where I watched dozens of documentaries, reviewed hundreds of news stories and read the works of Josephus. In addition to that I reviewed James Randi, Aron Ra, and a couple of Rabbis I know over in Jerusalem, all to boil it all down to six hundred words on this morning’s posting. That’s another of my tricks. If I can’t make my point in six hundred words I have to research more.
I fly high above the subject. Trying not to get tied down with useless argument, or commentary, I go for the human understanding we all have. That’s why I call myself a Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin. If a waitress can’t understand what I’m trying to say, I rewrite. I scatter shot, i.e. one day I’ll address the ISIS situation, and the next day will write about my first kiss from Pam Burns back in high school. If there is a common thread in my work I’ve yet to see it. Maybe fifty years after I’m dead some professor will figure me out.
I handle criticism well. Well, I handle it well if the person criticizing me is of note. If it’s some former in-law who can’t compose a grocery list I get pissed off. But if it’s a national talk show host I consider that on the same level as a kiss from Ivana Trump. This simple fact of the matter is that if you only write about polka dots and pink shoe laces no one will ever read you. You never know what will set someone off. I do not deliberately try to offend. On a one to one conversation I never discuss religion. I’ve tried. Always ends with someone sending me to hell.
I’m developing as a writer. At sixty-four I’ve just about got this thing figured out. There’s a girl out in Nolanville who screens my stuff for grammatical errors. Consequently, I make sure I include one in every article. Also, I put one mistake in every one. A little tease to see if someone catches it. I’m crazy like that. I’m a free-lance writer, in that there is no money in blogging, or at least it has eluded me. But, that’s no surprise. I couldn’t sell a condom in a whorehouse. Sales is not my calling.
Sometimes a subject will evade me. This morning I had all intentions of dissecting “Clock Boy.” Even had the picture ready. Then, I looked at this little nerdy kid and thought, “Gonna give him a break.” He’s beginning to figure out his parents are whacked. Kid wants to come back to Texas. I can’t hate that. Buy that boy a Taco. Beef taco!
I hate abortion, black lives mattering, Bruce Gender and Vodka Martinis. I love Gin Martinis, fine cigars, and any girl stupid enough to hang around me. I believe in God, but not religion. Religion is man’s feeble attempt to explain the unexplainable. The reason I believe in God is we still can’t make a leaf. I listened to hours of atheists this weekend trying to find out how to make a leaf, and those idiots didn’t even have a formula for a dry martini.
So, until assassination, I will continue to write. Entertain both myself and the public. Having said that you’ll note I’ve reached six hundred words.

Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

How To Be A Writer 101

During a get together last night someone posed the question all writers dread. “How much money have you made?” This will throw the unseasoned off, and result in everything from excuses to outright anger, but I’ve been doing this a long time, and said, “Not a cent.” I’m not a real writer, I’m more of an accidental tourist. My entire writing career has been backing into a corner, and writing my way out. My patent advice to beginners is if you are writing for money stop, and sell snow cones. You’ll make more.

You must write because you enjoy it. If the dollar signs are before your eyes composition becomes laborious, and that will work its way into your material. For me writing an article is like painting a picture. You do the whole thing, and then go back putting a dab here, a dab there, until you get what you want. The whole picture must fit. When I dream up a subject I pretty much have the entire concept in my head, and the resulting article is the summation thereof.

You have to learn the craft. I wrote music for years, and finally got that down to where I could churn out a fairly good song, but I’ve only been in political satire for about two years. I’m still in training. That, and I have a high school education from Killeen, Texas, and that’s just about as illiterate as you can get and they still let you drive a car. I know absolutely nothing about composition, subject-verb agreement, proper English, or adjectives. What I do know is how to turn a phrase, use sixty-four years of common sense, and poke fun at liberals who don’t know what sex they are.

You all know the famous writers, King, Hemmingway, and Grisham. Those are rare. If you are going to be a successful writer, i.e. write every day and get read you have to be successful in your own right. Mine was real estate. By dumb luck I formed a company with my wife and sold a boat load of real estate. In the process I became versed in real estate law, and brothers and sisters, I ain’t kidding. I have sat before the Texas Real Estate Commission, representing brokers twelve times and schooled them! The only time I ever lost was when we used a lawyer (Ted Smith) and his brilliance cost me forty-six thousand dollars. The fact is, if you are going to write you must experience life else you have nothing to write about. In Nashville all beginning songwriters go on endlessly about “paying dues,” and the life of a songwriter. I just wrote songs about loose women and bad whiskey because I knew all about that, and couldn’t find the Grand Ol’ Opry with a GPS!

All my stuff is original, right off the top of my head. I write “off the cuff,” and call myself “A Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin.” That way, if I foul up I can always say, “Hey, I TOLD you I was stupid!” Like I said, I was a song writer, adult country humor to be exact. Although I’d written three books I didn’t consider myself to be much of a prose writer. I put one or two little comments up on Doc Greene’s chat room. I’d always had several Facebook pages, but never developed them. As you may have seen yesterday I have divorced Facebook, but, just like a real divorce, she keeps coming around, so we’ll see how that goes. Facebook is worthless to me, but I want to bring my reader base over to more productive formats. Anyway, I kept making comments on Doc’s chat room and little by little I began to expand the comments to articles and put them up on various pages and groups.

A friend of mine suggested I do a blog. I’ve always considered a blog to be a poor man’s publishing, but it took little effort so I ran one. Then someone suggested that I string the articles together and do a book, so I did. I published through Amazon, which is another poor man’s effort, but the price is right. I wasn’t particularly happy with the layout, and getting them to accept the cover was an ordeal, but the words were all there. That, and the fact that I wrote the book on an iPhone. Published it from an iPhone too. How cool is THAT? I just love it when someone gets on me about my punctuation, not realizing I write mostly on an iPhone, in the morning, with dirty glasses. Go Figure!

I began to attend political events, and drawing upon what I was writing I actually had something to say. The stats began to pile up and I realized this was working, which was never my intention at all. Bear in mind I was retired after a career in Nashville and Austin. Divorced, I had been living with my son out in California and hanging out near Ocotillo Wells. My ambition was to have Martinis with co-eds and play guitar on the beach. I migrated back to Texas, and ended up taking care of my five grandchildren which my ex had adopted and actually looking after her husband who had been diagnosed with Agent Orange and cancer. He actually subscribed to my blogs and began to discuss Texas politics with me. The man has three bronze stars and a purple heart. When I would tell him I was “thinking” about going to some rally he’d rush out, buy me a new suit of clothes (I’m a desert rat) and insist that I go! They eventually moved up to Salt Lake and left me to care for the two houses back in Texas. (So much for retirement.)

So, I began a routine of putting up an article a day on Raging Elephants and various groups writing blogs and sitting on the porch composing on my iPhone, none of which I took very seriously. I made the style simple so the average reader could understand. I would take an issue, step back, look at it, and ask, “What’s REALLY going on here?” Originally I made it salty. Since I was a song writer I made the articles “go ’round in ‘circles.” I used key phrases like, “Swat them bees,” and “Save your fork,” to alert the reader. I read a lot, but I don’t do research per sae outside of checking the correct spelling of someone’s name. After I wrote something I read it out loud. This is an old songwriter’s trick. The article must go around in circles. The human mind looks for conclusion. You start, explain, and end up right back where you started. Hammer that nail! The reason for reading out loud is to make the prose smooth. Forget everything some college English teacher ever told you. If they knew anything about writing they’d be in the New York Times list and not teaching in some Po-Dunk junior college out in Coryell County, Texas! I regularly use “don’t” for “doesn’t,” double negatives, and I’m real fond of the word, “ain’t,” because that’s what Bubba sitting in his F-150 with his copy of the Dam Good Times understands!

I learn by listening to people who obviously have more comprehension than I, and for the most part they have been very supportive. I never argue, and most of the time I’m not rude, unless you count putting up “Leatherface,” and making a racial slur, yeah, I done that. I’m very aware that I’m a beginner with absolutely NO training. I’d end up on a radio show with some guy who had more degrees than a thermometer, and I didn’t have the background to debate a brisket recipe, much less black history (I’m from Texas, so I simply must be a racist, right?) ! About the worse I’ve ever done is to ask a professor on Michael Bee’s show, who was expounding his theory of the black tribes in Africa civilizing Egypt and the western world, why I couldn’t find any great pyramids in the Congo. (He told me the Illuminati had “cloaked” them!) Being an adult humorist I originally used very salty language, but began to pull back as I realized people were actually READING my stuff!

My first book on this subject, “A Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin” was so so, but I’m now putting together a second book, “I Crappith Thee NOT,” in which I will zero in more on style, and content. I don’t expect to hit the best seller list. I am retired and between me, and my husband in law we have three homes. The old sarge was hanging on for dear life because he wanted to get a place out in SoCal and have me to take him sand railing across the Mojave Desert before he died. He always told me, “The best is yet to come.” Maybe he knew something I didn’t.

The way I look at it I will never get an honorable mention in the New York Times, but hey . . .I live in Texas! You can buy a lot of beer with 50,000 sales! I am always grateful for people who put up with me, and I learn from greater minds than my own. Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin is the personification of a philosophy. If you are going to write you must divorce ego. I am really simple, as are most people. I have no remote idea how many people read my stuff. I know my one reader, my mother no longer does because she’s dead. I have never in my life ran into someone at the supermarket that ever read anything I ever wrote. Pump up your ego and you’ll get your feeling hurt quick!

Once, when I attended a meeting where I spoke, when I emerged someone was asking me all kinds of questions about my opinions about this and that, and using words I didn’t understand. I told her, “Well, I don’t know nothing about all of that, but they sure got some good samiches in there.” Guess she didn’t like the cuisine, because she left.
Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

One Day at a Time

My decision to migrate from Facebook was based on many factors. First, it’s time consuming. It seems like the entire system is designed to keep you forever digging and posting with very little result. Like one of those bait and switch postings where the lead in is something like “Survive the End,” and you get this “voice!” By the end of this (30 minute) video you will be shown how to live off a banana for a month, and at the end they just try to get your credit card, and it’s always the SAME VOICE! I know that voice and I RUN from it. It’s like a soap opera, and Facebook is FULL of them.

Then there are “groups.” Everybody has a group, or two, or three, or hundreds. The bad ones are the ones based over in India. Now, I’ll be honest with you, all I knew about India was that it was hot, sweaty, and they came up with the Karma Sutra. I didn’t even KNOW they had politics. Well, they DO, and they’re IRRITATED! You’ll run across some chick who’s never been any farther down the street than the local fish market, but on Facebook she’s an AMBASSADOR. She has no informed logic, but she knows if you’re from Texas you simply must be a racist, and I guess I am because I found myself looking at her profile picture to see if she had a dot between her eyes. I’ll be honest, i was hoping she was wearing one of those see-through silk things, but that’s just me. I imagine India as being crowds of people, living in cardboard boxes, all standing shoulder to shoulder, HIV positive, dodging cows who roam the streets at will because Hindus are too STUPID to eat a Big Mac! Unless it’s at a beach party near Oceanside, with wine, groups solve nothing. They’re just as bad as that infomercial, only you really expect something to change. What they do is fill up your inbox with “So and so tagged you in a photo” and you rush over to see a picture of a CAT!

Should you finally bow up and call the girl from India what she really is you find yourself in “Facebook Jail!” Whatever you say is not going anywhere ANYWAY, but Facebook has designed a system to make you yearn for it. The one steadfast rule is that if you state your mind you will eventually wind up in Facebook Jail. You can look through the bars but you can’t reach through them, and the most amazing thing is that when you parole you actually curb your tongue so you don’t go back there again! REAL jail should work that good. There are similarities to real jail, such as random attacks by homosexuals. You still have to put up with that. I’ve been in Facebook Jail for one day, and caught myself acting like everyone else! Post Traumatic Facebook Jail Disorder!

If you think that what you post on your wall flows out to all your friends on Facebook, have I got a bridge for you, and it’s on SALE! Facebook filters, sells, promotes or suppresses whatever it wants just like the corporate conglomerate that it is. I don’t know what the criteria is, but I do know that Mylie Cyrus shaking her butt is more important than a cure for cancer. Oh, that’s another infomercial, “Cancer Will Come!” And all I have to do to save myself is endure thirty minutes of the “voice” and get my credit card out! This is the most irritating part of Facebook for me. If I am “friends” with someone, i.e. said person has voiced an interest in what I have to say, and you have the HUGE servers out in California or someplace, the very least you could do is pass my messages through! But NO! Mark Stupidberg filters or censors at will, as he tries to micromanage every syllable on the planet! This makes Facebook absolutely worthless to a writer. The bottom line of BEING a writer is that your material simply must be available to be read, even for free! Once the flow of information is filtered, even among consenting adults the value of the service is reduced to that of the ingredients on a gum wrapper.

The addiction. Now, this is weird, because I found myself suffering from it. You catch yourself reaching for the iPad, or iPhone, and forgetting the iBrain! You end up hanging on it, believing in your heart that there simply must be something of value there because there’s just so much going on. If you throw a pound of seed in a garden, and nothing grows but chickens what does that tell you? There ain’t nothing THERE! It’s all cotton candy. You find yourself staring at the iPad, slowly reaching for it, maybe, just maybe there will be something, anything there that will change your life forever, then you touch the screen and there it is! CANCER CURE! Get your credit card out! How do you beat an addiction? Any twelve step program will tell you to first stop taking the drug! Facebook is a drug. Once you break the cycle, and take your life back you can do this experiment; don’t even look at Facebook for a weekend, and then, on Monday, do a quick check. You’ll be surprised. Nothing’s changed, nothing happened, and all the people you normally see are still at the feeding trough hoping “Massa” will throw them some slop.

I have decided to basically divorce Facebook. The only contact I will maintain is passing my articles to Doc Greene’s morning show because I promised him that I would, but virtually every other point of reference will wither and die. I like Twitter because it’s short, sweet, and you don’t expect much. This gives me time to write better articles and send them to places that DO matter such as The Dam Good Times,, and Anyone who truly wishes to read what I have to say can find me at @wiiiilbur on Twitter with links that flow back to blogs NOT Facebook. The proof is in the pudding. Instead of fretting over my latest message on Facebook I wrote THIS article when I had basically taken the day off. How bout THAT? One day at a time, folks, one day at a time!

Baptize a Cat

Being a writer and achieving understanding is a little bit like trying to baptize a cat. Nobody that I know of starts out to be a writer unless they’re deluded. Oh, there’s all kinds of college courses you can take to learn the craft. Verily, verily, I say unto thee, you learned all you need to know somewhere back in grammar school. I run into these people all the time, one in particular who will count commas in my articles, and she and her mother roll in each “victory” like a dog in a dead armadillo. All them degrees hanging on the wall . . . can’t write a grocery list!

You have to be able to achieve understanding, no deeper than that. The choice of words is a contract between you and your reader. Words shift change through the years, and understanding is organic. Take the age old “can” and “may” argument. You know the one, “Teacher can I?” You get that lecture about the implications of the two words, but anyone with a frontal lobe will understand the kid wants to go to the bathroom. Agreement of subject and verb can be cute, but anyone with common sense can figure that out. And don’t forget local dialect. British and English is NOT the same language, and Texan isn’t even in the same ball park, yet somehow we all seem to understand each other, mostly.

The art of writing is condensing complicated thought down to a form that MOST people can pick up on. When I use the phrase, “If you believe that, have I got a bridge for YOU,” is a clever way of saying, “That’s . . . stupid!” Apply this to political commentary, and it really takes on feathers. Just ask Hillary about emails. Politicians make their bones twisting words, and when they fall short they hire professional liars called “Press Secretaries.” You KNOW this guy is liar, but it’s become a game seeing how much spin he’ll throw in to make the story cook. That’s where the writer comes in. Forget about journalists, they’re out there a spinning with the press secretary.

I have an evil plan in my writing. I want to keep on keeping on, putting out MY ideas, MY way, hoping that if enough people read me maybe, just maybe, they WON’T give us another Barak Obama. I know, I know, when pigs fly. Oh, wait, can I still say pigs? I guess since the pig is flying that makes it conform to Muslim thought where horses fly. Trying to keep up with the ever evolving political correctness meter is like having lunch with an ex-wife. You’re never gonna be right about anything, so just give it up and eat your burger.

While grammar, punctuation and syntax are not overly important in the world of SMH, LOL, and OMG, delivery is still job one, and you REALLY can’t learn THAT in college. Picking the right moment for the insertion of a hook is something you learn by DOING! The public can be a hot chick that everybody gets to date but you. You have to develop that “feel” to where you know the connection. It’s really quite simple, actually. You re-read your stuff a dozen times, and after that, if it “cooks” you’re good to go. Do the math; if you’re fairly normal at least half the people out there are on somewhat the same sheet of music, and if you’re crazy, well that’s the other half.

And speak your MIND! It’s fine to pick up new ideas and agree, but never lie about what you really think. Now, I’m all PC about Gay Marriage, but really, I think they’re all as crazy as an outhouse rat! Hey, I’m from Texas, you just gotta deal with it. I’m mixed on the border. We will always have people trying to sneak into a better life, but shouldn’t we at least have the CIA declare the cargo on all those 747’s bringing in all that COKE across the border? You see, there’s no doubt where I stand, so when some chick out in India jumps my butt I just blow her off.

And racism? Don’t worry about it. The University of Wisconsin just published a list of things that if you say, or do any one of the above then you’re a racist. My initial response was, “Wisconsin has a university?” Is THAT racist? Writers fall into that trap all the time and resort to phrases like “The ‘N’ Word,” to dilute the real thing, but when you use that it just makes people think the real word. I don’t think we have thought control YET. I’m still allowed to THINK the “N” word.

If you don’t get all tangled up in high English, political correctness, or “N” words you’ll probably pen something that people will read and understand. And that’s the key, understanding. If you rattle off a series of five syllable words and no one understands you, then you have basically said nothing, and there you go. . . baptizing that cat.

Week of 6/13/2015

This Week

After my sterling, Pulitzer Prize winning conclusion to yesterday’s article, if you understood that I have no love for Waco, you’d be right. As a matter of fact, if ISIS were to hit Waco I’d probably just say, “Good shot!” I have reasons for this. I didn’t just pick Waco because I got a speeding ticket there. For all its Baylor University, and that silly bridge, Waco is the most convoluted, screwed up mess I’ve ever seen.

After my article yesterday I did my usual research. As you may or may not know, I’m going to Waco to support the victims of the latest perversion of justice perpetrated by that thin blue line we’ve all come to know and love. I alluded to the “other” little adventure back in ’93 not all that far from Twin Peaks. A place called Mount Carmel.

Now, before I get started I’d like to set things straight. David Koresh was a weirded out soap box preacher looking forward to the end of the world. He had his own explanation for the Book of Revelation. So did Joseph Smith, Charles Russell, Jerry Falwell, and every Pentecostal preacher who ever talked in tongues. When you take a highly encrypted work, in Greek no less, written by a guy who didn’t want to get crucified, that’s what you get. Nowhere in the work does it say, “Jesus will return at seven o’clock, April 16, 2017, right after the nightly news.” It says things like, “Know the signs,” and right THERE is the rub! Early Christians were so busy looking up for the “return in this generation,” that they failed to notice those lions spilling out into the arena for the entertainment of the unwashed masses of Rome. So, for over two thousand years Christians have been pouring over Revelation trying to pinpoint the date, which was EXACTLY what Jesus told them NOT to do. David Koresh was no different. If you want to gain followers just tell a bunch of people that Jesus is going to pick up the mortgage. A little wine always helps.

Let’s be frank. Religious freedom in America is a myth. You are religiously free so long as you conform. You can have church on Sunday morning, and eat fried chicken that afternoon, but if you are Mormon, and bring TWO wives to dinner Uncle Sam will declare war on your whole friggin’ state! And the Muslims rant and rave about how we don’t respect their “prophet,” well get in line buddy. That path to persecution has been well worn by thousands before you! I have observed that when some group claims that God is on their side their will invariably be an opposing group claiming sole ownership of the Deity, leading free thinkers, such as myself to conclude that God simply MUST be bi-polar. Is He? Well, of course He isn’t. Religion is! Religion is man’s feeble attempt to explain the unexplainable. Write that down, there’ll be a quiz later.

All this having been said, was David Koresh any crazier than a Hare Krishna banging those gongs at LAX, begging for change? Well, no he wasn’t. But, the Hare Krishna has one thing going for him that David overlooked. The guy at the airport is in California, and David chose to live in bat-crap crazy Waco, the epicenter of knowledge, mom’s apple pie, and law enforcement who wouldn’t know what the constitution was if it ran up and bit them in the leg!

So, what was so wrong with the Branch Davidians? They believed the end was upon us. (So do the Mormons.) They held to the Old Testament and restricted their diet. (So do the Jews.) It is alleged they dabbled in polygamy. (Allah anyone?) So what was so bad up at Mount Carmel that the United States government had to mount an attack not seen in Texas since the Alamo? Well, them preacher boys had some guns. And they were holed up in a compound built from shipping crates believing when the end DID come that the government would attack Christians. Uh, if you will note, that building ain’t there no mo’!

The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed! Even Joseph Smith didn’t have to put up with being told that he couldn’t protect himself. Without going into a lengthy discussion of if David was “legally” licensed to bear arms I refer you to this site:

Please remember the First Amendment, número UNO, says, “shall not be infringed!” So why did David and his band of merry men feel that they needed guns? Could it be that good ol’ “religious freedom” thing, and crazy right wing fanatics out there sending them hate mail on almost a daily basis? You think? Did the Davidians mount a militia and attack Waco? Nope. They fed the poor who dropped by and for the food the guests had to put up with David’s preaching.

If you take a hog, flip him over, and examine those little bumps running along his belly, well, those bumps are far more useful than the ATF! I had thought there were perhaps ten or fifteen agents involved in that attack. There were TRUCKS full!! Old David MIGHT have had fully automatic weapons, the ATF DID have them and charged Mount Carmel reminiscent of the siege of the Alamo. One big difference, though. Generalissimo Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna was a seasoned army officer, and the ATF was a band of fools who got their tails blown off by a bunch of preachers on a Sunday morning! Bad hair day for the DIS-United States! When they embarked on this Tom foolery the federal agents invited the media, indeed, giving some of them rides! When they were begging the Branch Davidians to at least let them collect their dead from the battle field their opinion of the press was, shall we say, “Modified?” When I was reviewing file footage taken right after the initial assault I heard “MFer” so many times I thought I was watching a Richard Pryor routine!

So, here we had the ATF licking their wounds, herky-jerky Janet Reno trying to wipe that omelette off her face, and about eighty religious nuts thumbing their noses from the windows of the Best Little Church House in Texas! Bring in the snipers! There was this one guy. He popped the wife/mother up at Ruby Ridge. Chris Kyle he was NOT! Well, this idiot was positioned as a part of not one but three teams set up to shoot at anyone daring to look out a window. Now, bear in mind, this is STILL a church, and there are STILL women and children within said church. Did these people believe David’s prophesy about the end times? Just look out the window . . . carefully, there’s snipers out there!

It took Santa Anna thirteen days to neutralize the Alamo. On day fifty-two the ATF finally devised a plan to end the Battle of Mount Carmel. They were gonna gas ’em! Hitler would be so proud. Oh, I watched the FBI guy going on and on about “low doses” of CS gas, but I have two problems with that. One, CS gas! You know, that stuff you throw under a tank to make the guys inside puke and exit? Yeah, THAT stuff. Low dose? That’s like being a “little bit pregnant.” The occupants inside the compound sent the women and children to a concrete bunker for safety. The ATF pumped “low doses” of CS gas into that bunker for FOUR hours! I can’t stand a smoky BAR for four hours. And, oh yes, the attackers knew where everyone was because they HAD people INSIDE planting bugs so as to hear what was going on. At one point these spies were even at grabbing distance of David himself but we’re told to “Stand down” because Janet had “another” plan!

Bring in the tanks! That’s right, tanks. Pumping these “low doses,” pushing down walls and, oh yes, firing fully automatic fire from helicopters. Inside we had people who had been deprived of sleep, hungry, cold, restricted to about eight ounces of rain water per day, totally believing that this was the apocalyptic battle David had warned them about. We all know how it ended, and we all had to put up with the government spin regurgitated for YEARS after. There was even a congressional hearing, with all the congressmen showing righteous indignation, and do you want to know what came out of those hearings? NADA! Now one arrest of any FBI, ATF, not even ONE missed paycheck, indeed PROMOTIONS!

So why do I hate Waco? I hate Waco because the Sheriff, police, DPS, and all the rest just stood by and WATCHED this happen! Just like they did on May 17th at Twin Peaks! Just like Mount Carmel they stood by until the situation blew completely up, and then over reacted in true Waco fashion. Two bikers got into a fight in a bar. Some preacher-boy’s paperwork wasn’t in order. See the pattern? The ATF could have arrested David Koresh at Walmart. Four cops could have handcuffed two bikers that day in the parking lot. It’s that simple, but then, I’m just a Simple Ol’ Boy from Austin so what do I know? One image is burned into my mind. I saw, yesterday, an ATF agent after the fall of Mount Carmel holding up a toddler’s sleeper. It was the exact same one from Walmart that my grandson, NewBaby wears! I will NEVER forgive Waco!

How would you like to have a job where there was virtually no retribution for any mistakes you made, the customer was always wrong, and even your most unsupported ideas became locked in stone no matter how unsubstantiated the supporting data was? Welcome to the world of the prosecutor! Cops have a relatively simple job. Arrest people whom THEY think, or have been told, are breaking the law. That’s really all they do, folks. They’re called to a fight, and if one or more of the parties are like, say, black, they just haul ’em down to the ol’ station house and “book them.” Then a judge comes in, tells the infractor what they supposedly did, and sets a reasonable bail (unless you’re in Waco, then it’s your butt!) At this point your fate will be turned over to something called a “persecutor.”

Let me explain what a prosecutor is. Well, first off they are lawyers, and that’s never good. They go off to college for four years, hopefully learning to read, something missed by most high schools these days. People destined to become lawyers have demonstrated a proficiency for lying, so after college they run off to liar’s school. Some folks called it law school, some call it lair’s school, I call it a sling blade, um hum! The reason I say “liar’s school” is because they don’t learn law there, they learn to twist the truth. If just learning law were the case they could just study the constitution and be done with it, but heck, if that was all law was we wouldn’t need lawyers, now would we? Get caught with a gun, whip out the old pocket constitution, show it to the judge (master liar,) read the second amendment, and stroll right out the door. Shucks! Ain’t no money in that! No, lawyers go to liar’s school to learn to look up something call “legal precedents.” Now a legal precedent is a funny critter and there’s a lot of money to be made if you can skin one. Works like this here: Billy Joe Jim Bob comes up for carrying around that gun I previously alluded to. Now there’s no doubt he did it because when officer O’Henry knocked him in the head it fell right out on the ground. (That’s called “evidence.”) Billy Joe winds up in court with the gun in a little plastic bag. Now, like I said, this should be simple. Billy Joe can’t actually speak to the judge because he don’t talk law talk, but he’s got a lawyer and that guy should be able to just read that little copy of the constitution and be done with it. Au Contraire! The prosecutor falls back on a precedent. Some time, way back, a judge made a “ruling”‘where it was figured out that in spite of what the constitution said, it really meant something else. Usually takes a bit of explaining to do, those other lawyers sitting on the supreme court, many months of thought, and about one hundred and fifty pages to explain what that one little sentence in the constitution really meant, anyway, they read it out loud and it became, you got it . . . a PRECEDENT!

Well, that’s what liar’s school is all about! All that prosecutor fella has to do is “cite” that precedent and Billy Joe Jim Bob eats beanie-weenies for one hundred and eighty days, give or take a few depending on if Edna, the county clerk remembers to log him in at the right date. Of course they fine the be-Jesus out of him, the prosecutor and judge split the money, call it a day.

So, this young academic spends three years learning how to chase precedents. Then he has to sit before something called the “bar” and if he can prove he’s a bigger liar than the bunch on the other side of that thing then he gets a license to “practice” law. That’s opposed to “doing” law, you can only “practice” law, what with so many precedents out there, and so many other liars a chasing them no one can ever really be sure what the “law” is so you never commit to knowing what you’re doing, you’re just “practicing.”

So now we have a lawyer. Now a lawyer is not an attorney, or vice versa. Theoretically, a lawyer works for you, and an attorney works for the judge. In reality they all drink from the same bottle at that other “bar” down the street. That all having been said you’d think after all that schooling this newly minted motor mouth would hang out a shingle and get to work for truth, justice, and the American way. Well, most do, but there’s some that just can’t see that. They figure the odds. You see, if you have your own show you have to find customers, and actually DO something, and if your client has anything at all, they’ll pay you to keep from eating them beanie-weenies previously mentioned. Some folks go to work, and some folks head on off down to the welfare office. THAT’S a “prosecutor!” A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, and if that bird’s in JAIL?

So there you sit, innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. Oh, you’re still in jail, and the prosecutor works up a case. Now some cases get dropped. Like say, if you were in Keyna at the time the 7/11 got stuck up in Yuma. There’s about a 50/50 chance the case might get dropped, unless the prosecutor can find one of them there precedents. More than likely you’ll come to trial and youTHINK your lawyer is on your team. Always remember, HE’S not the one in jail, YOU are! If you are the one paying your lawyer you may have a chance, but it you got one of them “pro-bono” fellas, forget about it. Let me tell you what pro-bono is. Pro-bono is where you can’t afford your own liar so the judge picks his cousin to represent you. That pretty much sums it up.

Hopefully you’re free on bail, another real nice money pit, because the judge’s other cousin has a company that will stand good for your “innocent” butt to walk around semi free while all the liars meet at the bar and try to figure out what you’re worth to them. The prosecutor isn’t the least bit interested in the truth. He’s busy stacking the case. If you have a pro-bono liar he’s a gonna want you to do something called a plea out. A plea out is where you say you done it, even though you didn’t, so the judge and the lawyers don’t have to actually work and put in a full day. That and all all the other “innocents” out in the hall waiting to see if their liar skinned their precedent because this lawyer work is big business. To sum the court room up, the prosecutor is not the least bit interested in the truth and the opposing lawyers are not the least bit interested in the truth . . . Wait! That makes them one and the same, now doesn’t it? Yep! Heeeeere’s your sign!

So they go to lying. You may even have a jury. Of course the judge is going to let them know what the “law” is, of course he ain’t gonna tell them about them precedents, he’s still mad because you didn’t plead out and was stupid enough to think you were going to walk out of that courtroom with your shirt. Most likely you’re going to be found guilty, but let’s just suppose, for the sake of argument, something goes wrong and you spit the hook. Now let’s count this all up. You hired your own liar. You gave the judge’s cousin money to wink at the sheriff and get you out of jail. Oh, and when you did get out your boss fired you because everybody knows that if you weren’t guilty you’d never got arrested in the FIRST place. You lived on your wife’s tips for about six months, but,she left you. But you’re FREE! As you leave the courtroom you notice the prosecutor going through his brief case digging out the paperwork on the next “innocent” person being led before his “honor,” and what did it cost the prosecutor? Nothing! Nada, just a little egg on his face and HE has to pay for the first round at the country club tonight when this dog and pony show wraps up. Now wouldn’t it seem more fair that if the next morning that “servant” of the people showed up and on his desk is a nice bill for all your lost wages, your bail, your costs of your liar, and a little tip for your hurt feelings? A date with his wife might be a nice touch. Don’t you think the possibility of that would make this ego maniac dig a little bit deeper before going precedent hunting? Gotta watch them there precedents!

Big events up in MdKinney, Texas! Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m going there, deal with it. I talk a lot about Berry Creek. Berry Creek is an exclusive community with a country club, tennis and golf, and of course, a great big swimming pool. Apparently Craig Ranch North Community is a lot like Berry Creek. First let’s get political.

All this Democratic stuff streaming out of the White House about, “Spread the wealth,” and, “If I had a son he’d look like him,” are all very fine, but you know what happens when you subscribe to that mindset? You get to live in the projects, that’s what! You get to look over the fence at places like Berry Creek, and Craig Ranch, and those people living there pay a lot of taxes to hire police to throw you BACK over that fence should you decide to invite yourself to a pool party. Wow! That stings, don’t it? See, THAT’S why your parents should have worked a good job instead of doing all that crack. Hey, I’m sorry if this hurts your widdle feelings. I grew up in Simmonsville and lived in Berry Creek! All men are created equal, but they don’t STAY equal! In every dog race there’s one lead dog and for the rest, the view never changes.

I’m loving this! I can just see the liberals out there with their hair on fire right now. “Oh Wilbur! Are you saying black kids don’t have a right to swim? Black swimming rights matter!” Sure they can swim. Find a creek . . . I DID! You see, there’s nothing rougher on kids like that than poor white trash like me that stumbled into some money. And I’ll swear before God and five other old white men that when I got to Berry Creek I let them know I was in TOWN! I owned not one, but THREE mansions there, and that gave me three votes down at the club, so when I sat down the board just met! They hated my living guts, but you know what? The respected my right to be there because I’d EARNED it! They knew that we had something on the ball or we wouldn’t be there. Capitalism and the American Dream is so simple. If you rob a bank and get $100,000 the FBI will spend $1,000,000 tracking you down. If you glue two things together that have never been glued together before and sell 100,000 copies of it you get the SAME $100,000 and the FBI comes to your dinner parties. It’s so simple.

Now that we’ve completed socio-economics 101, let’s move on to civics. School’s in suckahs! The kids coming over that fence are only partially to blame. The rest sits directly on the parents. If you have two married HETEROSEXUAL parents in the home, with a high school education, and JOBS, traditionally you get respectful kids who go by the rules of society. If you get people, I refuse to call them parents, who shun their responsibility, blame society, and consider their children accidents who just “came along” they tend to raise kids who crash pool parties where they are not invited! Guests come in through the front door, criminals come over the fence! Swat them uninvited bees!

There’s the bell. Time to move on to geography. Kid pulls toy gun up in Ohio . . . dead kid! Man tried to run away because he owed child support . . . dead guy! Man sells a cigarette on streets of New York . . . another dead guy! Kid shoots her mouth off at a Texas cop during a hyper situation involving dozens of suspects . . . butt whipping! I don’t wanna HEAR about the blankity blank “wild west” any more! When the situation escalated and Officer Casebolt drew his weapon I noticed another officer tap him on the shoulder from behind and say something. And the officer used bad language. Alert the media! In fact they DID alert the media. Like these kids coming over that fence had never heard language like that before. If you believe that have I got a bridge for you, and it’s on SALE! One more thing; in an affluent community, with chaperones all around, could it be that at least ONE of them had a CHL? You think? NO DEAD KIDS!

Did the kids learn anything? Nope! All they got was reinforcement that if you break the law, disregard the rights of others, and act like a fool all you gotta do is break out a cell phone, point to the color of your skin, and the mainstream angels WILL sing! Now people are marching around McKinney with signs proclaiming “Black Lives Matter!” Al Sharpton may even make an appearance. The president may even sign an executive order. Obamapools!

For the last week I’ve been studying police shootings from both sides of the issue. I’ve read court records, viewed dozens of autopsy photos, and watched hours of video, both public, and private. I’ve talked informally with police officers, and “thugs,” and watched at least twenty chiefs of police use the word, “justified,” when confronted by the press, and grieving friends and relatives. In my usual manner I have simplified all of this, and come to some conclusions, some of which may surprise you.

There are not one, but two “oldest” professions in the world. One, as you know, is prostitution. The other is the police officer. Since before recorded history there have always been men hired to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The shop keeper in Rome, who could not lift a sword handily, depended on the Centurion who stood at the ready, so that any woman could safely walk the streets at night. Saint Paul was executed in Rome, as was Peter, but if you will note, they both got there safely. No matter how political, or perverse the Emperor was, the Centurion on the street was very simple and direct. Maintain order, serve, and protect the citizens of Rome. All societies have these men. All societies have a portion of the populace that will break the rules and by brute force, take what is not theirs. While the politicians redefine words, and yes, even lie, it is the police officer who looks the perpetrator in the eye, and in a split second, must make the choice between life and death . . . often, his OWN life and death. They understand this, they accept it.

One of the videos I watched was a security film of an encounter at an apartment complex. There was no sound, but an officer was questioning someone. There was no altercation, the officer speaking, and the other man nodding, both seemingly at ease. Then, the officer points as if to tell the man to step away for a moment, and as he turns, and pulls a note pad from his pocket, the man that he was talking to pulls a gun, and shoots him in the back of the head. THIS is the grim reality of police work! This is why officers are so skittish when questioning even the most mundane of citizens.

It ain’t like in the movies. Remember that statement, there’ll be a quiz later. Clint Eastwood draws his Smith & Wesson, takes careful aim, and shoots a suspect at one hundred yards with a carefully placed bullet, while munching a hot dog. That never happens, and Miley Cyrus will not taking me to dinner tonight. In a face to face gunfight there are dozens of bullets flying and any one of them can put an officer in the same position as that one scribbling on his note pad that day.

Think about this; when you go to work today, about the most dangerous part of your day is your commute. If you are reasonably alert you pay attention to traffic, obey all the laws, and you will hopefully arrive safely at your office with your Starbucks in hand. In a police officer’s world the safest part of his day is the trip to work, and his ambition is to make a safe trip home to his family. Imagine, if you will, that every ONE of your customers may be your last. The police officer never enters a situation unless something is wrong. From speeding ticket to domestic disturbance, most of the people the officer will encounter do NOT want him to be there, and surprisingly, the domestic disturbance is the most dangerous. The officer must enter another’s territory, unaware of the background, or weapons, or drugs and alcohol involved. He may see a battered woman, but be totally unaware that the reason she is battered is because her husband just came home and caught her and her boyfriend. The husband’s entire life plan just evaporated ten minutes before the officer arrived, and frankly, he’s ready to die. Turn the tables, and the woman is not battered, indeed, she called the police, meeting them at the door with accusations of her man being drunk, and loud, and in the dim light the officer doesn’t even see the two black eyes the man is sporting from an abusive, combative wife. He has no idea of who else is in the house, there are loud words, the man of the house picks up his dinner plate with a steak knife still on it, and the officer fires! Of course, the grieving wife gets a lot of attention on the nightly news as she tells what a wonderful father and husband her deceased husband (was.)

Knife seems to play a large role in police shootings. Remember, it ain’t like in the movies. To the novice, it would seem that an officer, armed with a gun, would be invincible to something as simple as a steak knife. I’m going to enlighten you. It’s almost better to be shot. I was a Realtor for a number of years. I’ve measured many homes, and rarely have I seen a living room wider than fifteen feet, most are about twelve. Even our spacious home in Berry Creek was only twenty feet across the main sitting area, the other rooms were smaller. Do the math. The suspect, and officer are more than likely not standing against opposing walls, making the distance much closer. Two steps in and a slash. Now I know you won’t do this, but imagine it, if you will, hanging a pork roast from a door frame, take a common, rather small butcher knife, and make a quick swing at it. The cut will extend from six to eight inches, maybe more, about two to three inches deep. Transpose that to your own torso, and your will quickly see why officers shout rather loudly, “DROP THE KNIFE!” A knife can be much deadlier than a bullet. Again, it ain’t like in the movies.

People believe that when a bullet hits, the person shot will go down, drop the weapon and turn totally submissive. Not so. First off, they’re upset, maybe crazy, drunk, or suicidal. They may not even know they’ve been shot, or if they do, imagine it’s all over, their chips are all on the table, and it’s time to go out in a blaze of glory. The acceptance of your own death is surprisingly calm. When I was crushed between two cars in 1970, I thought I was going to die. Both legs broken, bones sticking out everywhere. From the way I was hit I thought my femur artery was severed, and I knew it took about thirty seconds to bleed out. I began to count backwards from thirty, and when I got to zero, was pleasantly surprised. At no time was I afraid. I figured my ticket was punched, and waited for darkness to fall.

There is a type of wound called, “through and through, concerning an area that rests on either side of your body from just below your ribs about an inch or so in toward your navel. Love handles. Back in the days of the “wild west” outlaws knew that if they were hit there that they could drag a silk handkerchief through the bullet wound and would live. Most likely the bullet would pass all the way through and leave a clean, sanitized hole. Don’t believe me? Check out David Koresh on his video where he’s sitting on the floor at Mount Carmel. See the spot on his shirt? See where he raises that shirt to show where the bullet exited? David was shot “through and through.” I might add that he had the presence of mind to close the door that morning and retreat back into the building.

THIS is the reason for the many shots. THIS is the reason for handcuffing a seemingly incapacitated man. THIS is the reason many officers have been wounded, or even killed by a suspect they thought was down for the count! It ain’t like in the movies! The police must play by the rules of engagement every time, and even one mistake, a half second lapse of diligence can spell disaster. The officer must read the test correctly and make straight “As” or he’s DEAD! Just like the one at that apartment that day.

Do officers make mistakes? Yes. When you combine the many factors in a police encounter the formula becomes astronomical. “Procedure was correctly followed.” You hear that over and over again, and it makes the general public mad. That’s all the police officer has, procedure! He doesn’t have time to reflect, consider, or rewrite the rules, he has one second, and his training in procedure to survive. What should you do if you become involved in a situation involving a police officer? Here’s where I will surprise you. FORGET about your rights, the constitution, and all those things you think you learned on YouTube. Your “procedure” is to convince that officer that you are no threat to either him, or anyone else. If civil rights have been violated there are lawyers for that . . . later! YOU make a safe trip down to the old “PD,” and call your lawyer, call your congressman, call your mother (she loves you,) but you do EXACTLY what that officer says, and you will most likely wake up in the morning.

Now, let’s look at McKinney from the officer’s point of view. Yeah, yeah, yeah, they were kids. Billy the Kid was about nineteen when he blasted sixteen dimes through Deputy Bob’s chest before stealing a horse and escaping jail, I don’t want to hear it! I’ve read all the stuff about there was only one fight between two people, but THAT’S not what the officers came up on. They came into a situation involving dozens of people running in dozens of different directions, NOT obeying lawful orders being given to them by officers of the law! Oh, but they were just kids. Remember that pork roast? A ten year old girl can do that with a pocket knife! “Sit DOWN,” has no other meaning. If a person is sitting down it only goes to follow that it will take him a moment to get up, and harm himself, or others. Did the officer in question get a bit out of control? Well, a bit, but consider this; he’d been chasing, and screaming at a crowd of unruly kids for minutes, and TOLD Miss Yellow Bikini to leave, not once, but THREE times, when she decided to become a Philadelphia lawyer, and yes, she got slammed, and yes, she got a knee on her back. Good MORNING, honey . . . smell that coffee yet? Sure would have been better if you’d just walked away like the officer TOLD you to do! I wish in my life, and many altercations with police they’d told me to “just leave.”

Examination of shootings involving officers are hard. You say, “Well, the man was shot in the back.” OK, but consider this; It’s one thing to shoot someone in the back who is loping across a field, but quite another to fire on a man who WAS running toward you, but decided to turn away at the last second AS the officer was squeezing the trigger. Any shooting must be investigated, but always remember, most police shootings ARE justified, and the only litmus test IS procedure. We have a dangerous mindset developing in this country where the police are automatically suspect in any altercation. It’s becoming a rite of passage to film an officer making an error during an encounter, and most of the time the video is only the so called error and NOT the situation leading up to the event. As a society we cannot forward this idea. We must consider all things and remember . . . It ain’t like in the movies!

Suppose you threw a riot, and nobody came? I’ll be honest with you, for all my talk about how we do things down here in Texas I really thought McKinney was about to fire up. And the mainstream media was working it like a dog on a dead armadillo. Speaking of, you will notice the police chief curled up at the very first hit on YouTube. Now I’m not going to call him names, but when I go to see my friend, Tom, well he’s got chickens, and there’s this stuff that sticks to your feet. That’s the police chief over to McKinney, Texas.

I saw some New Black Panthers strolling across the Tarmac at the airport. I’ve always admired that look. You know, the dark suits, shades, frown, really intimidating stuff. Now what’s funny is they looked just as serious about some chick getting booty slammed as they would if the cops had machine gunned the who lot of them!

“We gotta go to Texas and fight for the people!”

“What’s going on down there? Did some poor defenseless brother get killed for smoking a cigarette?”

“No, some girl got slapped down, and the cop put his knee on her butt!”

“Was she black”


“Get the brothers and book a flight.”

I didn’t notice Sharpton, yet. I was really looking forward to that. I wanted to meet him. I mean, he DOES have a TV show, and I’ve always been a sucker for an autograph. So I sat up last night, drinking beer, scanning the news, waiting for the “guns of June” to go off. NOTHING! Not even one domestic disturbance. I even had the article already done. I just took the one imwrote about Ferguson, and switched the names, dates, and location. HEY! Works for Al Sharpton! But, this story just wouldn’t fly. And Fox News TRIED, oh God did they try. They finally scrounged up the only fool who got arrested and the charges were subsequently dropped, probably at the insistence of Chief Cover Mi Ase. He mumbled something about “helping that poor girl.” That’s when I went ahead and did THIS story. I thought that if I give it enough time something would come about. Maybe not the whole down town, but maybe burn the mayor’s doghouse . . . SOMETHING! Nope.

The Chief said he was very proud of the eleven officers who behaved according to procedures. Ok, dozens of kids running in dozens of different directions while the police trip and flop on the ground. I’m not kidding, watch the video. With ISIS on the edge of the Golan Heights, Iran waiting for its shipment of enriched uranium from the White House, the Chinese going through the US Goverment’s databases like they WORK there, we are all focused on a yellow bikini. Hey, like my Puerto Rican friend, Jay would say, “I ain’t even gonna lie to you,” I was looking at her butt, too. (Lord, I’m sorry I did that, I promise not to do that again.)

All this having been said, they just couldn’t crank a proper riot out of that bikini. For one thing, it’s just too hot to riot in Texas. Up in Ferguson, or Baltimore, you can jump around and act like a fool, but after say ninety-five degrees or so, the energy level goes way down. Uh, maybe that’s why the kids were swimming, you think? Also, McKinney is just a darned nice place to live. Summer just started . . . This is TEXAS!

One more thing. When someone like Al Sharpton takes hold of a “gig” he plays it over and over until it doesn’t sell any more. Sharpton watches the news, waiting for something, anything, that will fit into his race baiting formula. Any time a cop fires his gun, if there is a black person in the STATE, he’ll jump on the next flight and fan the flames of fury, collect his fee, and beat feet back to New York, waiting for the next big thing. With the ashes cooling in Baltimore he was desperate. Then, there it was! An itsy bitsy, teeny weenie, yellow poka-dot bikini, with a big ol’ white cop sitting right on top of it. This wasn’t race baiting, it was race trawling! One problem was, there really wasn’t a STORY here. Chief chickened out, cop quit, charges dropped, and the kids went right back to swimming. The people in Baltimore be like, “A bunch of spoiled brats crashed a Country Club swim party being thrown by some other spoiled brats.” And let’s be honest; that was a beautiful, well fed, well groomed young lady in a very nice swimsuit. I wish she’d crash MY party! Rosa Parks she was NOT! And them New Black Panthers sure did look good, didn’t they?


Communication is a living, organic thing, born in the mind of the writer and nurtured in the heart of the reader. It’s not fair to call someone ignorant, or illiterate simply because their form of communication differs from yours. Ignorance is subjective. Put a Harvard law professor in the Outback of Australia with a sharp stick and a boomerang and then tell me who is ignorant!

The intelligence of a writer is twofold. First it is within. You can sit on a porch in Texas, such as I do, and formulate dozens of ideas, but to be able to communicate these ideas, now there’s the trick! Very simply put, to make another person understand what you understand is where the art of writing resides. That’s the second, and most important thing! To embed your thoughts into someone else’s mind is a skill that you develop over years, and cannot be taught, it must be lived!

I learned how to do this in Nashville as a songwriter. To be a songwriter you must be able to reduce complex and emotional ideas to sixteen lines, and they all have to flow, and rhyme! If you “reach” for it you’ll never get there. When it becomes cumbersome you must step back, take a breath, and ask, “What am I really trying to say,” and more importantly, “Is it WORTH saying!” It helps if you miss a meal or two along the way.

You never make a point by argumentation. An argument is just two people trying to discuss something on which they will never agree. The moment your reader senses such an approach you will lose that reader. There must be at least a semblance of agreement, a meeting of the minds, before you can effect communication. You can almost never win anyone over to your ideas who is adamantly opposed to everything you are, and disagrees with everything you say. In effect, you must always, “Preach to the choir.” The secret is to find YOUR choir, and preach to THEM!

If you agree that trying to sway an inflexible mind is a daunting task, don’t YOU be inflexible! Let your mind flow, embrace ideas. Quite often I will begin an article with one thing in mind, and before I’m done the piece will go an entirely different direction altogether. Never write a complete work with your mind already made up. Allow room for inspiration. I did this just yesterday. I embarked on an article about police. Originally I was going to rip and tear at police brutality, but before it was over, I stepped into police shoes, and two things hit me. One, I was totally wrong in my original premise, and two, I was very grateful for people who have chosen that thankless, underpaid profession!

Never let a pre-formed set of ideas direct your prose. I combine this with the misunderstanding of education. Education can be a useful thing, but adherence to ideas streaming from a professor that are accepted without question can be a deal killer. Those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach! I know someone who is constantly in school, as was her mother, between them, more degrees than a thermometer . . . neither one can compose a grocery list! Oh, they’re very good at counting commas in my articles, but there is no communication between us because they are too bogged down with education, and presupposed political mindsets, set in stone, to ever engage in any meaningful dialog. Talking with them is like trying to have a martini with a religious nut! There are two kinds of people in this world; those who take a pound of dried beans, gather the spices and cook for hours arriving at just the right taste, and then there are those who just open a can. The college professor handed them a can opener long ago, and they never progressed past the microwave. You can live on their beans . . . technically.

Writing is like cooking beans. I was going to expand this into methods that I use in my work, but that won’t help you. You just have to KNOW! You have to FEEL! It’s like when you write a song. I’ve met dozens of songwriters who can count meter, jive the rhyme, construct a melody, but in the final analysis, there’s just nothing THERE! It’s called a “mill” song. Something ground out that looks good on the surface, but there’s just “something” missing. All the elements are there, save one . . . communication! Like the old joke, “Man been talking fifteen minutes, ain’t said a thing!”

When you get folk’s heads going up and down instead of side to side you have communicated! You have taken a thought, born in your mind and transposed it to theirs, and don’t let it be a can of beans! If you do it right they will take that idea and run with it. Who knows, in your omnipotence you might’ve MISSED something! Communication is a living, organic thing.

Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

A Texan State of Mind

I got mad the other day. I didn’t let it show much, but I was seething. Now, I’m not going to name names so as not to trigger anyone inclined to run to Facebook, but I am going to speak my mind. First off, I hate ignorance! I dislike people who form uninformed opinions. To read my stuff you almost must have a frontal lobe. I’m heavy into hidden meanings and satire. I capitalize of coming across as a backwoods Texan. This is an act, people. It is a character portrayed in order to make a point. I’m sorry to tell you, but Clint Eastwood never shot anybody either.

There is a contingent of of elitist people who view themselves as social experts with great international influence because they have an iPad and live in India. I respect all opinions. I find something to like in all people’s, but, like Ron White said, you can’t fix stupid! You lose your hearing you can but a hearing aid. Eyes go bad you can get contacts, glasses, or LASIK surgery, but when you’re stupid, you’re stupid forEVER!

I’m not an American, I’m a TEXAN! My state was never a territory, it was a republic joined to the United States by treaty. That’s why our flag flies on a separate pole at equal height with the American flag. We really ARE different, and if you don’t believe that just take a look at those two dead terrorists on that parking lot in Garland. And yes, we baited them, and yes we killed them, and yes, we will kill every member of any religious group that comes down here and tries to disrupt our peace.

Texas is a mixture of many factions. We have not one but two national languages. Texas is the only state in the Union that can truly stand on its own. I respect and love England, but to be honest, even Britain cannot stand on its own without import. Texas CAN! We could put a fence around Texas and not miss one glass of beer, or gallon of petrol the next day. All I hear out of “certain” people over in India is how backwards we are. Let me clue you in; if Texas does secede from the DIS United States Obama will just have to suck it up. All this talk about Jade Helm, and “taking over” Texas is so much fertilizer. He needs our money too bad to support all those welfare babies up in the northern regions.

“Certain” people said they were former Muslim, raised as a Marxist. Well, I hate to rain on that parade, but your NOT a “former” Muslim. You still have your head on. And Marxist? Give me a break! Even the freaking Chinese don’t buy into that nonsense anymore. Ever hear of Putin? HEEEELLLLOOOO! And you call ME ignorant?

I am including a link to a previously published article. It was also printed in a Houston newspaper, the Dam Good Times. Yes, that’s right, brick and mortar. I do that a lot, and when some ill informed person says my articles aren’t even articles I just refer them to the hundreds of thousands of readers who read me every day from so many feeds that I don’t even know them all. I don’t have to justify myself. I know who I am, and my methods are well thought out and my writings are constructed to do precisely what they do, I never write by accident. Please read and consider this article.

A Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin: America Lost