The Black Angel of Death

Sometimes when you think you have found a solution to a situation you discover that you left something undone. So it is with me and the CPS. After the roller coaster ride seven years ago, and the fight after,  I thought that I, and the “department” had reached an understanding. I was wrong.

My granddaughter is a type one diabetic. She's also ten years old, and gets to watch her brothers eat Twinkies as she eats a carrot. Life is not fair for her. For the last two years she's been on insulin set for a seven year old at around fifty pounds. She sees the doctor monthly, if not more, and up until recently everything was fine. Enter a growth spurt. Suddenly, we had twice as much little girl as we had previously. Combine that with the approach of puberty, and the insulin which had sustained her became useless.

Weeks before the end of the school year we began to address this, indeed setting up further testing in Utah. When school ended she came with family to Texas for her summer. Her diabetes attacked with a vengeance. High readings ensued, and the application of her medication proved of no value.. There was a ceiling on her daily insulin so when we reached that number it was salad, walking, and more salad. Finally, she went “over the top” and had to go to the hospital.

During that stay she was put on an insulin drip, and after two days she was back to normal. Her regular doctor was on vacation so the hospital returned her to her regular prescription. This was normal. She came home, and after three days she was back in the hospital again. Now, please note that she was under her doctor’s care the entire time. Enter the CPS.

By this time my little girl’s regular doctor was back, and with his team quickly addressed the problem, changing her medication. Her blood sugar returned to normal. Not good enough for Judy Van Fleet, ace detective and supreme council of the Texas Child Protective Services. With the child in hospital, connected to IVs, Van Fleet arrived around midnight with the police. She couldn't just pull the needles out of Puck’s little arms and throw her in the back of a van, but upon returning home the family was exposed to the full wrath of the CPS. ALL off the children were questioned about such worthy subjects as what kind of drugs are in the house, where to they sleep, where do WE sleep, do we have a dog, a gun, who’s married to whom, and why is there so much food in the house.

We returned to Utah to make Puck’s previously arranged appointment, with the full support of the hospital in Texas, indeed with agreement on a professional parties that this situation would require several doctors to formulate a game plan. Perhaps this plan will help other children fighting the Pink Dragon. Please note I said “professional!” I don't count pedophiles, murderers, or kidnappers as professional. The best interest of the child was the furtherest thing from Van Fleet’s mind as she slobbered over her victory of destroying a family, and quite possibly killing a little girl. Years ago CPS put Puck in a coma while denying her diabetes.

Therapy picked up in Utah right on schedule. Seems in Utah people believe in family, children, and god, something the Texas CPS lost a long time ago. People of Texas, sometimes you have to go to the next level. People have been so traumatized by CPS that we surrender our most precious children calmly, praying they won't be raped, or killed today. Little Alex Hill condemns us all from the grave. It's time to strike.

The only thing the CPS understands is force, fear, and brutality. I'd thought differently, I was wrong. Time to play by the rules they set. Bring the fight to them, and not just in some court with the judge on CPS kickback. It’s time to rid the earth of this vermin, and may God forgive us for not acting sooner. Some of us will fall, but in the end the children will be safe, and this pestilence will be purged, their buildings razed, , and the grown  sown with salt. There is no middle ground, there is no “good” Texas CPS. We all have choices in life. Sometimes they aren't good choices, but we make them, and live with the consequences.  I choose hell. I want to be there to welcome every case worker to the infernal regions. Puck will be with Little Alex Hill in The Celestial Kingdom, and that's good enough for me. My prayer for you, dear reader, is that this time I finish the job so that your children wake up in their beds tomorrow, with their dog at their feet, and mommy and daddy in the next room. Sometimes the solution is the black angel of death.

Neighbors

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Getting to know the neighbors can be daunting. It seems that in the poorer neighborhoods people mingle a lot better than they do in the more affluent ones, and I’ve been in both. Berry Creek, in Georgetown, Texas was the upper end of the top end. Even the “garden homes” would shame most of the homes in my native Killeen. Now, to be sure, I was certified white trash. I grew up in a little town in Texas called Simmonsville, later absorbed by Killeen. We were so poor that the people on welfare were the cream of society because they had a check. That put them right up there with the civil service in the eyes of the little town.

So, as luck would have it, I won the real estate lottery, and the Beverly Hillbillies moved to Berry Creek. We ended up owning three homes there. My hand would literally shake as I wrote the checks for the mortgages each month. Our homes sat on the golf course, the main house, a recreation of Elvis’s Graceland,was positioned on the twelfth green. I was a gold member of the Berry Creek Country Club, with unlimited golf privileges. Please note that I can’t hit a golf ball, but I can drink beer, and drive a golf cart like nobody’s business.

We had NO contact with the neighbors. Their shorts were in such a knot that it amazed me they could go to the bathroom. Since my roots were back in Killeen, and my friends couldn’t afford the gas for the fifty mile trip to what was basically North Austin, nobody came a calling. When we went to the club for dinner we sat at a large, round table. No one sat near us. We were the turds in the swimming pool. (They didn’t like us going to the pool, either!)

As luck would have it, I ended up divorced, living in the main house alone. I had this friend in L.A. Lance had met me on YouTube. I admired his videos. Lance was, well is, a video genius. He did it all. He used Final Cut Pro, and was a wiz at blending story, sound, and special effects. He had this dream of coming to Texas. One day I got a call. He wasn’t COMING to Texas, he as IN Texas. Right down the street at the bus station. He had no idea how hot it was here so I had to rush to pick him up before he had a heat stroke. Poor guy showed up in a leather jacket during the summer. Hey, he’s from SoCal, ok?

After he settled in we hung out on the porch and got to know each other. Now, this guy is like Bob Denver from Gilligan’s Island, complete with the Dixie Cup sailor’s cap, and he even played a flute. My son, and his wife, Jackie moved in along about this time, and we had a rather comfortable little group. About a week or so after he arrived, Lance received a package that he had mailed himself from California prior to hopping on the bus. Several quart jars of his “prescription” to help him get through the summer. After we saw him unpack we just waited for the cops to show up. I’ll never understand how Lance got away with that. While I, myself, do not partake, suffice to say everybody else did, including the cat, and in short order the house on the twelfth green became the Yellow Submarine. This was a very laid back group. We didn’t mind that the neighbors didn’t have anything to do with us, we barely noticed that there were other HOUSES in the area.

One Sunday afternoon we were setting up a cookout on the back lawn. We put meat on the grill, I got beer, wine, and cheese, and we commenced our own private party as the golfers played through. My son and I looked up, and here came Lance with a water pipe I’d gotten from Afghanistan. And brothers and sisters, he was open for business. My son rushed over and let him know that he WAS in Texas, and law enforcement frowned on such action, whereupon, Lance corrected the situation by returning to the house, and emerging with a bowl. Not the bowl you think, but a real BOWL! A soup bowl you could put an entire serving of Campbell’s soup into. Like the Lord said, “Filled and pressed down!”

As the golfers played through, Lance fired up, and enjoyed the view. I jumped off into a pitcher of martinis, and I must admit, the view wasn’t bad. As luck would have it, it wasn’t long before the smell permeated the atmosphere, and drew the attention of two rather distinguished looking gentlemen who drove their cart right up onto the lawn to inquire as to just what did wet think we were doing. They  had a bottle! Well, there was no getting out of this. Lance, being Lance, simply showed them the bowl, and then astounded me by asking them if they’d like to “hang out!” As I tried to construct my legal defense, to my amazement, they sat down. Lance rolled a “Fat Boy,” and passed it around.

Then another golf cart showed up . . . and another . . . and another, until we had a lawn full if people I’d never met in my eight years at Berry Creek. There was also a traffic jam on the twelfth, with a couple of carts just going in circles. The course Marshall didn’t mind because he was sitting with Lance! The day melted into the evening, and soon it was gone, as if it never happened. Lance went home after that, but he left his mark. I go there now and then, pause in front of the house on Oak Tree Drive, and wonder what became of all those people. What I do know is on one Sunday afternoon, for a little while, we were all neighbors.

TransGender

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The whole TransGender thing has taken a decided route, and it’s wrong! Everyone is screaming about hairy-legged men parading into a girl’s restroom, and diddling the little girls, and while that’s a real possibility, it’s not the real oxymoron that presents itself to the inquiring mind. Obama has attached education funding to this latest assault on common sense. To make school restrooms more user friendly it has been decreed that if said child “feels like a girl” then they are a girl, and may act accordingly. If you like your penis, you can keep your penis. Ok let’s talk law.

Age of consent. Age of consent is a reasoning that says until a person reaches a certain age they are not fully equipped to make certain choices. Things like, smoking, drinking, joining the army, getting a tattoo, voting, and, of course, sex. However, if said child decides to change gender, no problem! Hormone therapy, weird bathrooms, and a president saying, “If I had a son, he’d look like him. . . or her. . . or whatever. While no doctor in his right mind would ever do a sex change on anyone below the age of eighteen, therapy is within the bounds.

Now, let’s talk about percentages. Just how many TransGender kids would you suppose there are in a given school? Well, it’s well below one percent. Now let’s talk money. Please reference this article and note that the free clinic does not give hormone therapy. Poor kids don’t go TransGender. Rich kids go TransGender! All weird, out of place, unusual crap usually comes from people living off of daddy’s money.

Now, let’s talk money. We gots a problem in the skool! Yeah. We really do. Bullying, mass shootings, pedophile teachers, and a system that teaches nothing, nada! And they rely on federal funding. Sooooo, you threaten to take that funding away if you don’t have a cross-dressing station in the rest room and the school conforms. Then Suzie Sweetcheeks tells Bubba (Her football star boyfriend) that TransGender Tony looked at her poodie-poo and Bubba beats him to within an inch of his life. LAWSUIT! Why weren’t there guards for Tony while he was masturbating in the stall while looking under at Susie? See where this is going?

We’re not talking about Target! We’re talking about children at school. I don’t like Target anyway. Hey, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. I wouldn’t mind at all if some hottie drifted into the restroom while I’m taking a pee. But, you see, that’s the issue. Girls aren’t going into boy’s bathrooms, it’s the other way around. We used to have to drill holes in high school to get a peek. C’mon! Don’t we have more to worry about than who squats or stands? Actually, I think this has pushed the American public to the limit.

Now, for a final note. Hypothetical court case. I pick up a sixteen-year-old girl in a bar. (It’s Texas, it happens, deal with it!) One thing leads to another, and of course, she tells mommy. After the obligatory butt stomping from daddy and the cops, I end up on trial, and little Jane gets on the stand.

Prosecutor: Do you know the defendant?

Jane: Yes.

Prosecutor: Did you have sex with said defendant?

Jane: Yes.

Prosecutor: Did he know your age?

Jane: Well, yeah.

Prosecutor: Please state your age.

Jane: Well, my chronological age is sixteen, but inside I feel like I’m a thirty-five year old divorcee, unless it’s Wednesday, and then I feel like a cat.

(Case dismisses) Thank you, Mr. President.

I Believe

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I believe that no government may stand between the individual freedoms allotted by God, bringing society down to the detriment of man.

I believe in freedom of speech, in all it understanding, and no matter what I have to say if you disagree with me that same freedom of speech will be your defense, and no religion or organization shall disrupt this.

I believe in freedom of religion. Religion shall be the personal choice of each person. The laws of the Republic of Texas shall be the will of all the people, and rise above any religious creed, or any religious sect attempting to impose its will upon the state, and if such an organization does this, to set upon the government, or the people, then that religion shall be banned from the Republic, for such religion is not religion, but a political system, and there is room for only one political system in the Republic of Texas!

To attempt to replace the laws of the Republic in such a manner will be considered to be an act of treason, and will be addressed accordingly. This is not to suggest that an individual’s own moral compass cannot guide the debate on what should be law, but once that law is set by ratification of the people it shall not be deposed by any minority seeking to impose its will upon the people.

I believe in the right of every person to be safe, and secure in their person, home, and effects no matter what fancy words come out of someone’s mouth putting qualifications on it. Private property is the foundation of the republic, and each free person owns the Republic by the virtue of that right. No tax of any kind shall be imposed on the private ownership of property. Any attempt to intervene in the private ownership of property shall be considered to be an attack upon the Republic itself in that the people are the Republic, and an attack on any person will be considered to be an attack on the entire Republic.

I believe in the family, as defined in the Bible; in the right of the children to wake up in their own bed in the morning. Any person, in any capacity, who attempts to destroy the sanctity of the family will be charged, and judged accordingly. This included judges, lawyers, state agencies, anyone who attempts to destroy the family. There shall be no compensation to any person for the transference of a child to any state agency other than food, clothing, and shelter to be directly used for disadvantaged children. Children shall only be removed by charged brought in a criminal court, and all family courts should be abolished.

I believe in the right of every person to earn his living, and to contribute what is reasonable to the nation for the common good. There should be no graduating scale for taxation based on the earnings of any person, and there should be a fixed rate only money spent after earning and there should be no exemptions on an entity, individual or corporate, and the rate of taxation should be equal for all. This includes religious organizations, all organizations. As they spend the tax will be the same as any other entity. This is so to make taxation a duty, and not a burden.

I believe in the right of a person to represent himself in a court of law. To put restrictions on this right is to suspend freedom of speech. Judges may be appointed to arbitrate or enforce civil conduct, but all people should be heard, and lawyers will stand equal, before the bench, with any other citizen. The criminal courts shall not be encumbered and no pre-arrangements or plea bargains will be tolerated. If charged with a crime a person should be brought before a jury of their peers without a predisposed outcome. There shall be no parole system, and victimless crimes will not be considered for incarceration. While incarcerated the state shall be held responsible for the safety of the prisoners.

I believe that the education of children begins at home, and while schools may be considered for expediency they are no mandatory, and do not supersede the teaching handed down from generation to generation.  Public education shall be restricted to reading, writing, and the skills needed to secure a suitable income. Studies on public affairs may be included, but private affairs such as sex education will not be considered in a public school taught by people outside the family.

I believe in the right of the Republic to form a militia for the common defense of the people at any time up to and including against police agencies that have set themselves up above he people and the law. To defend the Republic against all enemies both foreign and domestic, and each of these militias will form a National Guard, with control given from the sheriffs to the Republic until such national crisis has abated.

I believe to total transparency of government in that the government is of the people, and the people cannot hide facts from themselves. There shall be no entity engaged in acts hidden from public view since the Republic of Texas does not attack other nations there is no need for any agency to engage in clandestine activities against any other nation.

I believe in other nations having the right to exist without interference from any other state other than the intrusion upon Texas sovereignty being the only reason for any international interaction. This interaction should be in the form of defense, and not an attempt to impose our ideas or holdings upon any other nation. Texas sovereignty of paramount and therefore no other nation, nor citizen thereof shall be allowed to hold property within the Republic of Texas. No foreign nation will be allowed to invest money with an expectation any greater than a reasonable profit.

 

Joseph Did You Know

Joseph Smith

Joseph did you know we’s all gonna ride the train? Sometimes when an idea pops up it takes on a life of its own. So it was with the founder of the Mormon faith on that hill long ago. Joseph Smith could not possibly have known how far his ideas would go when he concocted his story of the angel. The idea of golden tablets, Egyptian texts, magic glasses, all blend a story that is, frankly, extraordinary. This article is going to be a mixture of theology, psychology, and just a little common sense, but with a large dose of understanding. You must understand that most people are followers. A few lead. Humanity has to be this way if anything is going to get done. In religion your faith is divinely inspired, and everybody else is evil. Everyone has “the truth.”

“Pilate said to Him, ‘What is truth?” For humans, truth is whatever you perceive it to be right up until that final breath when you suddenly realize you were wrong. God is truth. God is truth because He is the creator, and if he says, “Be,” then it IS. Man can’t do that, but man has a way of saying “truths” over and over, and after a while it becomes man’s truth. . . right up ‘till that final breath.

Joseph Smith had these truths. Now, like Juan says, “I ain’t even gonna lie to you,” there weren’t any tablets in the woods. Swat them bees. Now, when you say that to Mormons they go spastic. I’ve seen them retreat, claiming the tablets were brass, may even have been copper, and the sheets were paper thin. There was no gold in Palmyra, New York except in the banks in somebody else’s name, but there was treasure in the mind of a small boy, and maybe, just maybe, there was an incredible occurrence on that hill. Inspiration is organic. God doesn’t come down and seize the hand of the writer of religious material. He filters it through the human psyche. When I wrote “Sharon” there were some people who claimed that I was inspired. Nope. Just made it up. That’s what a writer does. But if my words light a fire in someone’s mind, who’s to say that’s not a form of inspiration.

Mormons holding onto the golden tablets are like Catholics holding onto the Shroud of Turin. Hey, I was one of those. They ran that bathrobe through radio carbon and it came back bananas. I read all the theories, came up with one myself, sorry, no shroud! People constantly grasp for the tangible to prove the intangible. Jesus told us that no sign would be given. Don’t base your faith on parlor tricks. Verily, Verily, I say unto thee, if thou art perplexed thou understandith not the trick, and it’s all tricks, folks. I followed behind a Catholic “mystic” like a puppy, and she wasn’t anything more than a Tarot Card reader in short shorts. Never said I was a prophet, people.

Have you ever written a book? I have, let me tell you about it. It starts with a single page, and then, as the story develops, it evolves, and actually writes itself. A good story teller can weave a spell. Joseph Smith was such a story teller. It doesn’t matter if he made it up, stole it from some Presbyterian minister, or just found it in a jug of moonshine, the fact remains that he did not transcribe anything from any golden tablets, but he did start something that he, himself had no control over.

Does that nullify the Church of Latter Day Saints? Certainly not. Religion comes in two parts. The religion, and the culture that it generates. When a religion begins it is simple enough, but if it lasts it becomes a “theology.” Theology is refined by “theologians.”  Once these guys get involved you’re just screwed. The inspiration, and vision of the founder has long since dissipated, and it must be “revived” or explained, or, God forbid, canonized. That’s where you get holy underwear, funny little hats on Jews, and weird people kissing snakes in Arkansas. Each religion judges truths by what they perceive to be true, i.e. the Mormons can’t have a real temple because only the Jews than have one. Who said? I have seen the Temple in Salt Lake City, and it looked too holy for me!

So, how do you judge a religion? By the culture that proceeds from it, that’s how. Look at Islam, the “religion of peace.” Yeah, yeah, yeah, I heard all about Mountain Meadows, but I also heard about the Mormons getting burned out time and time again, finally fleeing to a salty lake in the desert. They didn’t try to take anything from America, they divorced America! Then, they built a culture that frankly works, magic underwear and all! It was all a lot of fun to burn them out in New York, Illinois and Missouri, but when the attackers of the LDS Church came barreling over the Wasatch Mountains and “John Wayne” was waiting on the other side it was a whole different critter. Nothing like a good ol’ country butt stomping to make you more tolerant of other cultures, huh?  I learned a lesson from C. J. Grisham. When you strap on an Ar-15, and stand up, the fat boys all fall down and pray. There’s a truth for you!

I’ve seen all the writing on how ex-Mormons “expose” the church, but the fact of the matter is, they couldn’t make it, while millions of others did. Does that make Mormonism true? Nah, no truer than any other man-made religion. God made man, man made religion. I hear all the stuff about how bad Mormonism is, but some people need patterns in their lives. Have you ever seen a bunch of kids playing with Yugioh Cards? I once made a video showing three little boys playing them, all from different cultures, but the rules of the game transcended the ethnic differences. Religion is like that. That is that “God Hole” I talk about. Man seeks organization, conformity, and answers. All religions put forth theories that seem ridiculous to the outsider. Know them by their fruits. If Mormonism doesn’t work for you then leave. Become a Hari Krishna or something, or make up your own. Recently, on a trip from Salt Lake City to Brigham City I observed the industry all along the I-15 for sixty miles or so. Industry built by a people who came here with nothing but a Book of Mormon and one crazy old man who was tired of getting burned out every time he prayed.

There is no way Joseph Smith knew what would become of his Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I don’t know if he ever discussed the Great Salt Lake during his life, but the movement he began evolved into that industry I observed along the fifteen that afternoon. That’s no accident! That is a culture that works for most of its members. I’ve heard that LDS people aree not Christian, or follow “another Jesus.” You wanna see anti-Christ? Look at Islam. When ISIS comes they’ll come for all of us. Those temples in Utah will look a lot better then. “And the woman fled into the wilderness, where she hath a place prepared of God that they should feed her there a thousand two hundred and two hundred and sixty days.” Joseph did you know we’s all gonna ride the train?

Teach The Angels How To Fly

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“We’re gonna teach the angels how to fly.” So uttered June Montgomery one second before she died in a car crash at the end of the book, “CigarBox.” There was some literary license taken in that book. Through all the edits over the years, the final version is vastly different from the first draft, but there is a back story within the pages that has remained constant, and a central character who was a real person, silently growing up in the shadow of events swirling around him.  The truth behind CigarBox boiled down to a simple ring, and a little boy who never forgot.

 

In the late nineties a young woman, her three-year-old son, and two girlfriends were racing across Jonesboro, Arkansas to a Christmas party. They apparently ran through a stop sign, crossing into the path of an SUV, which slammed into the side of their small car, killing the mother, one of her friends, and pitching the baby out through a side window, skidding him across the highway, bouncing him off a chain link fence, finally depositing in a field with two broken legs. The car spun and objects within it flew out into the road. One particular object was a cigar box, resting on the seat. Inside were pictures, letters, and then there was a ring. The first responders gathered up as much as they could, removed the dead, and the cigar box.

His parents were divorced. His father was staying with us in Texas. It was a bitter divorce; with all the frills you’d expect on “Dallas.” We got the call at noon, during Christmas dinner. The information was confused, and we were sure little Michael was dead, as was his mother. I stayed back in Texas to maintain the house, but everyone else rushed to Arkansas. When they got there the doctors told them that the baby, while being scraped up a bit, and with two broken legs, was going to be fine. There was no logical explanation as to how he got out of the car during the impact. The doctors said he just flew across that highway like Mighty Mouse. The baby became known as “Mighty.” Mighty came home to Texas, as did the cigar box.

Mighty’s dad became a police officer. He tried to join the Marines, but a bad ear kept him out. Later he would go to the Middle East to fight terrorists as a private contractor. He could hear terrorists just fine with his right ear. We raised Mighty in the big house at Berry Creek. He walked slightly bow legged, due to his injuries, and he loved to eat. In later years it was hard to get that boy up for school, and if you didn’t stay right on him he’d miss that bus every time. On the shelf of the study sat the cigar box.     Our family was Catholic. In the second year of my marriage to Mighty’s grandmother I had become Catholic. I wanted the four boys we were raising to have a good moral structure, and I found that attending Mass provided for that need. My boys fell right into the flow of the church. They had Father Everette, and all the people there, and Sunday was actually fun. My wife was divorced from Mighty’s grandfather in Arkansas, and the family was filled with hate. I had two boys, and she had two, and there was much animosity between them, animosity that remains until this day, but Mighty didn’t know about all that.

Years and tears went by, my wife’s son Bobby died, my son Timmy turned to drugs and went to prison, Wilbur did well in the Navy, but he lived in California so we rarely saw him, and Michael went over to Afghanistan to find Bin Laden. A girl named Jackie came and went, and there were five new little guys, but in spite of Jackie’s story there was another one, one we didn’t talk about, and on the shelf, in the study, was the cigar box. And so it came to pass, between my wife’s heart attack, and Jackie’s legal problems the family was torn apart. The house in Berry Creek was reduced to “empty chairs.” But, Little Mighty grew.     We hardly noticed little Mighty quietly growing up, not attracting much attention to himself. He loved to run up to the Country Club where there was a concession stand that served burgers outside, and Mighty had an open account. I had been very strong in my faith, but after all that happened I fell away. I still believed in God, but all the trappings of the Church were not as important to me anymore. I never questioned what had happened, I just adjusted and went on. I grew very used to being alone. Women can have emotional problems, men are not afforded that luxury.

IMG_2498Mighty eventually moved into his father’s new house about sixty miles away. While his dad worked his job overseas, he lived with his dad’s girlfriend. I don’t know her, but I understand the anger of the years has rested on he Her now, so the animosity lives on. Mighty began to go to the Church. Then, quietly, he began to take his classes. Then, he brought the family together to witness his confirmation. They all stopped and watched as Mighty made his mark on the family.  During that ceremony, he showed my now ex-wife a ring. I wasn’t there. I’m very distant from the family now, and haven’t been to church in years. The hate finally won, and my thirty years of marriage dissolved like cotton candy.  The ring he showed her was a simple thing. A little silver thing with a cross on it. He told her, “Grandpa gave me this when I was a little boy. I saved it for this day.” Then, he slipped it onto his finger. I didn’t tell him where that ring came from. During the confusion of that awful Christmas I opened the cigar box on my desk. Inside were simple things. A lock of hair, a child’s drawing, and a little silver ring.  I had never seen it before, but I kept it in a desk drawer until the boy was old enough to keep up with it because I suspected that someone else had worn it on that eventful day so long ago in Arkansas.

 

Mighty recently completed his USMC basic, and went to his assignment with the Corps. On his finger was a little silver ring with a cross on it. A gift from his mother, before she taught the angels how to fly. And, Mighty’s gift to me, from a little boy who never forgot. The cigar box has long ago been lost, but no matter. “June Montgomery” made her mark.
 

Arrested For Driving While Blind

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Arrested for driving while blind. Friends and neighbors, brothers and sisters, that old ZZ Top line is about the only thing I haven’t done, and I’ve done it all. If there is anything I missed, it’s only because no one told me about it. If you want to dig dirt on me, you’d better bring a dump truck. I have been in country music for forty plus years, and I mean the real music business. I wasn’t just hanging around some bar, hoping my family might drop in and hear me play a guitar, I was a writer, and I wrote my way all the way to Nashville. Unless you’ve been living under a big yellow rock you’ve probably heard something I have written.

My mother once told me that if I ever hurt a decent girl she’d beat me to death with an iron skillet, so for the first four marriages (yeah, I said four) I married sluts. Number five was a thirty year ordeal, where I kept trying to leave, and she kept following. We finally divorced, but she wouldn’t let me leave, so here I am. As time and tears went by I began to settle down. There were two major factors contributing to this: One, I got too damn old, and two, I got tired of making bail. Somehow I came through all of this with my health, which is a miracle, because I quit drinking when they invented the funnel. Today I will still take a little Jim Beam, but nowhere near my glory days. I’m partial to a martini.

So where am I going with all of this? It’s simple actually. I see people all the time living in the past. They had a bad childhood. Let me tell you about a bad childhood. I am certified white trash. The first time I saw a fruit display on a formal table I tried to eat the wax apple. I hear someone on Doctor Phil going on and on about an abusive father, but let me school you, my dad was a roofer in Texas for thirty years, and being a roofer in Texas is about as bad a job as you can get, if you don’t count being a slave. My dad wouldn’t whip us, he’d knock us through the wall. Good news was that we were quick, and he only had to knock us through one wall for us kids to catch on. We were so poor we thought the people on welfare had government jobs because they had a check!

Human beings become better through ordeal. Steel becomes stronger through tempering. What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Texas has never been easy. This is hard country out here. Our wages are low, and our hours are long, but we know the deal. You really have to believe in God, because if you don’t then none of this makes any sense. I couldn’t understand a word of the Bible until I was thirty-five years old. We had that old King James Version, and with all the “Thees” and “Thous” I just couldn’t connect the dots. Life connected the dots for me. I began to realize that if you cast your bread upon the water you’d get back a sandwich.

Writers are a special lot. For me, writing is therapy. As the words form on the page I vocalize, and when I vocalize, I begin to see the logic, and understand not only other people, but my own situation. I don’t believe in all this psychiatry stuff, and theories, or drugs, or mind control. I believe that most thinking people, over fifty years, can figure out what hurts, and what doesn’t hurt. You begin to see that there is room in the world for other ideas, and just because you don’t agree with them, they are just ideas. When I hear a liberal expounding some whacky “Bernie Sanders” plan, I know it won’t work, but rather than go tit for tat I understand that it’s all fine because good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, they’ll have the same fifty years that I had to figure it all out. It’s all so simple. This will put a meal on the table, and that won’t.

I do understand the Bible now, but there’s a lot of “fluff” in it. The truths that Jesus spoke of were down to earth facts. Don’t judge. I never judge! When someone does something that I think is bad, I’ll just remember back when I did exactly the same thing, and be glad the statute of limitations has run out. We have all fallen short of the glory, and I fell short the day the doctor said, “Hey,” and I said, “Huh?”

It all boils down to this: You get what you expect. If you dwell in the past you will always be there. If you set goals, no matter how remote, you may not get there, but you’ll be on the way, and the journey is half the joy. We all make mistakes. What seemed so serious back then, will just be funny as you recount it to a friend at a local pub. The sad part of life is if you live long enough to figure it out then you’ll come to the same conclusions that I did after you are old, and young people have it all “figured out,” and will not listen as they begin their journey toward “the truth.”

If you want to dig dirt on me, you’d better bring a dump truck, because I’ve done it all, and if there’s anything I missed it’s only because no one told me about it, and I’m man enough to admit it! I’ve found one person who totally understands me. She sleeps with me, eats with me, agrees with everything I say, and cries when I’m away. In the spirit of the recent Supreme Court ruling on marriage I have decided to marry my dog.

That Was The Week That Was

http://www.teapartytribune.com/2016/01/24/that-was-the-week-that-was/That 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

http://www.amazon.com/Simple-Boy-Austin-Wilbur-Witt/dp/1503179540/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1422121598&sr=8-1&keywords=Wilbur+Witt

Family

And Jesus said, “Who is my family?” The definition of family can take many avenues. There is great pain, and tribulation when one tries to secure the connections that were cut at the very moment of birth. From the moment the cord is severed at birth we strive to draw circles around ourselves and call it, “family.” The natural bonds can be dissolved in a moment, as the illusion dissolves before our very eyes.
People come into our lives, and we keep them at a distance because they aren’t, “Family.” People who were family leave us, divorce us, disown us, and suddenly, we’re no longer, “Family.” People whom we barely knew die, and one night, in deep contemplation we discover that they were, “Family,” only no one ever told us. The loss is just as real.
My granddaughter, Puck, is nowhere near related to me. Her mother, and father do not have one strand of DNA in common with me, and yet, Puck is, “Family.” My Ex’s deceased husband, Joe, became family, but I never knew it until his ghost came to me after his death, and I began to realize that he considered me, and all my grandchildren, “Family.”
The problem comes when we conceive family, but it’s simply not there. Remember, that cord is cut at birth. Family comes from common bonds, common purpose, and common needs. Family is my friend, Somer, running down to the house to help with the kids after she had hernia surgery. Family is Sonny, cleaning up the blood after Joe hit the floor. Family is New Baby waking me up every morning for and egg sandwich.
The birth family is just what we start with. The only reason that unit stays together
as long as it does is that we don’t have the physical, or economic ability to run away after we realize we drew for a busted straight. The Mormons believe that we all exist in heaven and choose our family. The Mormons are smoking rope. Either that or God is not as efficient as E-harmony.com! The reason most families stay together is they are stuck together. They stay together because they are either too stupid to leave, or too scared, or lazy.
What will happen is that one day you will look up and notice that certain people are always around. You look for blood, and it’s not there, but if you dig just a little deeper you’ll find that bond; the one you can’t see, and that’s, “Family!” The family you are born into makes you what you are. The combination of genes and DNA build up the physical body. The family you find during life makes you what you will be. If you hold on to the birth people who reject you then you become disillusioned. If you let go and qualify people for the role of family you will grow. Be appreciative of “noble ancestors,” but embrace the spiritual family you form as life progresses.
That family will sustain you. That family will nurish you. That family will have a common bond with you. Ever been to a “family” reunion and suddenly find that you have nothing to talk about, and yet, upon returning home, discover that you are sorry the bar is closing because you have been talking with friends for hours. Well, you just found, “Family!” A few days ago I sat on the steps of the Capitol in Austin. C. J. Grisham gave his speech announcing the first day of open carry for Texas. As I looked at the crowd I suddenly saw, “FAMILY!”

Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

http://www.amazon.com/Simple-Boy-Austin-Wilbur-Witt/dp/1503179540/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1422121598&sr=8-1&keywords=Wilbur+Witt

The Willow Switch and the Chocolate Factory

Down Laurel Street from my grandmother’s house in Shreveport was a chocolate factory. There was this huge window in the front, giving full view of the machines inside that twirled and pumped the candy out. When I was five years old my dad would walk me past it on the way to Cotton’s grocery, but we’d never stop and just look. All I’d get was a passing glance as we continued to the store. I could actually smell the candy seeping through the door.
Now you have to understand 1950’s Louisiana. Kids and dogs ran free. Yeah, I said dogs, too. In fact, when the leash law took effect there was almost a rebellion. Now, when I look back, and remember all the dogs running around I wonder what was in our minds? Anyway, it was a kinder, gentler society. By the time I was seven, my mother taught me how to get on a trolley, go downtown to the Strand Theater, watch a movie, and find my way home. I also knew how to cross the street at the light, not talk to strangers, and not talk at all when grownups were speaking.
Free range did not apply to five year olds! I was expected to stay on my block. . . period! My grandmother watched me, and if I couldn’t hear MaMaw’s voice I’d gone out of my range. Still, there was the chocolate factory. Sin begins by coveting, and I coveted them candy bars. They loomed before me. Then one day, while walking around my block I conceived a plan. I made a couple of trips around the block to check things out. Then I stood at the corner for the longest time. The forbidden fruit was across that street, and just to the left about a hundred yards or so. I took a deep breath, and stepped off into eternity.
When I’d crossed the street and lived I became bolder. I felt liberty surge through my blood. The sights and sounds invigorated me. My stubby little legs picked up more and more speed, and before I knew it the chocolate factory was in sight. I ran to the window. There it was! I didn’t understand how the candy was made, just that I was. All the machinery was bright steel, with steam coming out of one end. The candy would come out of one end and another machine would wrap it. Then the pieces would go into a box. I slavered at the mouth as I watched so much wealth parading before my young eyes. There was not a prayer of my getting a piece, which is astounding that the people inside could see my nose up against the glass and not slip me a single piece. I know they saw me.
I never heard the shot that got me. All I remember was the fire on my legs. Now, back in the day the kids wore shorts. We didn’t tend to wear shoes, in fact, in summer it was a rite of passage to walk the streets that were covered with oil, and get your feet tough. My feet were tough, but MaMaw wasn’t hitting my feet, she was cutting them legs with a willow switch! Let me tell you, if your sin was drinking water before that switch hit, you’d never drink water again. Switched me all the way home, and then took me to church that Sunday where a Baptist preacher told me I was “A goin’ to HAYELLL!” I was scared of Jesus until I was thirty years old. Bad chocolate factory!

Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

http://www.amazon.com/Simple-Boy-Austin-Wilbur-Witt/dp/1503179540/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1422121598&sr=8-1&keywords=Wilbur+Witt