Neighbors

IMG_3546

 

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.

Retrospect

IMG_2791

I get into a little light religion here and there, and really enjoy going on YouTube and watching the denominations tear each other up. On The Eighth Day God Made Texas was a little jab at a guy I caught trying to tear the Salt Lake City Temple down brick by brick.

Ah So! was actually a much older article, but the song has remained so much the same I just dusted it off and threw it up. Saw a Chinese billionaire today, as a matter of fact, and yet again wonderer, didn’t these people used to be communist?

I drew Scared from the fact that most people are scared of the government. You simply can’t watch Lavoy Finicum, Ruby Ridge or Waco (2) and not be scared. We’ve become a nation of people trying to keep our heads down. With the upcoming rally in North Texas on June 4th, security is a major concern because no one really knows what the BLM is going to do. These people make up the rules as they go along, and will shoot you on the side of the road! Scared! Yeah, good title.

What We Burn In Our Crazy Mind goes back to my theory that the government us useless.  I can’t name one time in my life that I’ve seen the government successfully carry out anything. And SECRETS? Clinton couldn’t carry out a date with the secret service on the lookout for the wife!

Every now and then one takes inventory. With a writer that involves getting up one morning and believing that they’ve never produced anything in their life worth a flip. Stripes was such an inventory. John Lennon had his moment right before he wrote “Nowhere Man.” After that dark moment you really should chart a course of action, hopefully one that works. Consequently, here you are reading this article. In the words of Billy Joe Shaver, “I sold some songs in Memphis, sold one in LA too. I’ve sold some songs in Austin, sold songs in Austin too. Unless I miss my guess folk, Ima sell this song to you.”

As soon as I pulled my head out of my little pity party my sense of humor returned, and I picked the funniest bunch of screw ups I could find to break out; The Federal Reserve. I’d actually just read a very informative article on this, but it was too wordy for Texas so I just boiled it down to My Business Plan. I had to come up with a good picture so I picked a pimp. I used a white pimp so the libtards couldn’t call me a racist.

The week wound up with I Don’t See No Trump Train. I was rather amused by Ted Cruz choosing a running mate the day after picking himself up off the mat. I’ll never understand politics. Donald Trump is putting the wood to the establishment and he’s establishment! The election is gonna be “Yuge!”

Arrested For Driving While Blind

Buddy

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

IMG_2072

Week that was this week started slow. I was battling sinus with Claritin and Aleve, and the ol’ brain wasn’t hooking up, but time marches on. I think my sinus came from a Sunday trip to San Antonio, which I detailed in The Battle of the Alamode. This had a funny, yet serious side. The antics if the grandkids were uplifting, unfortunately the United Nations had moved the Alamo to New York City or somewhere so they were deprived of that first visit. No matter, they hadn’t been taught what the building was all about anyway. I went to HEB and bought a copy of the Billy Bob Thornton movie to educate them, but the movie was overruled by “Teen Titans.”

As you know, Judge Scalia died this week. Actually, I dodged this because I couldn’t connect the dots to Texas, but eventually wrote Judge Scalia Saga when I found out that no autopsy was ordered, and Obama was being, well, Obama. Personally, I don’t see any mystery in his death, but hey folks, JFK got his head blown off in front of thousands of people and even he got an autopsy, albeit illegal because his body was spirited to DC so the CIA could set the results.

Once in a blue, blue moon I actually research a subject and try to be informative. The Great Peace was such an effort. I’ve learned that when I research a subject, and use four syllable words I fail miserably. Jus’ sayin’. All the article was saying was we, as a people, have “been there, done that.” ISIS is no crisis, and it really doesn’t matter who is in the White House, the song remains the same.

After the overwhelming success of that article I retreated to Texas subjects again, and wrote right off the top of my head. Texas Has Survived simply laid out facts that make the Yankees mad, and Texans glad. Texas is an easy subject because Norte’s are so bad. They barrel down here by the plane load just to tell us that we don’t know what we’re doing. Enjoy your brisket, gringos!

After a week of non-events, Donald Trump delivered Cruz a profound butt-stomping and I did a political article analyzing the contenders for the nomination, one not contending anymore as the Bush dynasty died nasty. Slobber and Vote wasn’t kind, but it brought things down to a manageable level with good common sense. I particularly like my last paragraph. It was apparent that the Claritin worked, and I could see my laptop again.

So, as we march toward Super Tuesday with anticipation Texas marches toward divorcing America like an unfaithful wife. I am reminded of the Talking Heads song saying, “Same as it ever was,” but liberals need “Start swimming, or they’ll sink like a stone because times they are a changing!” I get a laugh at all the Hollywood types who swear they’ll leave the US if Trump wins. I’m cool with that, just don’t come to Texas! The liberals have held sway for seven and one-half years, and as it draws to a close they are showing their colors. They put Obama in office because he’s black, and now they are trying to follow up by putting Hillary in office because she’s a woman. And they call me a racist!

In a healthy political environment you can disagree. The actual difference between a liberal and a conservative is about ten percent, but the libtards try to make it seem like conservatives are from another planet. That’s what happens when your kids don’t study the Alamo.

Slobber and Vote

IMG_2072

Slobber, vote. When watching politics one must remember that. Donald Trump is unique in politics in that I cannot recall someone not versed in politics coming this close to nomination for the top slot. There is a vast array of contenders, agreed one less this morning. (Bye bye Bush “die-nasty.) There are ideals, prejudice, and historical influences that play into the mix, and folks, that never changes.  I’d like to begin by exploding a myth, and losing a couple million subscribers. Obama didn’t divide the country. WE did! The first black president just removed a band aide, and exposed the innate racism that was always there. (Tip of the hat to Kent Franks.) Politicians use racism, and boys and girls, it works! In Austin there is a painting, “Dawn at the Alamo,” and creeping up behind Col. Travis is a leering, crouching Mexican. Cartoon caricatures of Japanese in WWII had slits for eyes, and huge buck teeth. People are attracted by like people are repelled by UNlike people, to which when they are repelled they will assign attributes to those people, and if they can’t come up with any, a politician will be more than happy to fill in the blanks for them.

Donald Trump is a bell ringer. The general population is just a bunch of Pavlov’s dogs. You ring the bell, they Slobber at the mouth, and they vote. “Hope and change!” Slobber . . . vote! “Free college,” Slobber. . . vote!” “Them Meskins are the whole problem!” Slobber . . . vote!” Is this a bad thing? Not really. You have to get a certain amount of “Slobber, Vote” if you ever expect to gain office. This is how politics works. The trick is to demonize the other guy’s Slobber voters while elevating theirs! All Sanders supporters are a bunch of homosexual potheads, but Trump supporters are all New York stock brokers. See how that works? And all politicians play that good ol’ race card! Oh, they do it low key. They just count heads and demonize the losers by dodging the issue. Sometimes, it’s just a word. “Immigration.” Slobber. . . vote!)

“Oh, Wilbur, you just called most of the voting population a flock of ignoramuses!” Well, yeah. Only about three percent of the voters do so from an informed position. Informed being knowing what they want, and fully aware that any candidate is only going to deliver about a tenth of what they promised, but will go with the lesser of two evils. I don’t even know what the percent of voters are on food stamps, but I’m sure it out numbers the afore-mentioned employed voters, and boys and girls, the welfare vote is not predominantly black! Whites comprise 62.6% of the US population, while black run up to 13.2%. Unless you are a functional idiot you must conclude that the blacks simply do not have the sheer numbers to outrun us crackers down to the welfare office.

There has always been an awareness of our different backgrounds. We need to change “awareness” to “appreciation.” When a person my age even mentions this awareness young people cry, “RACISM,” because they don’t know anything else. They have been trained by their handlers to believe that is the trump card for any discussion, and if they can attach that tag to any candidate you get, “Slobber . . . vote!” While Sanders people are slobbering after “free stuff” Trump supporters are slobbering after Mexicans.

And Hillary. Do you want to know what’ll happen if she gets elected? Exactly what happened the last time she took office. Nothing! This woman has never achieved anything except a date with Yoko Ono. She lost her law license in 2002 for not competing her “MCE” (mandatory continuing education.) Now it’s uh, 2016! She’s a tad out of date, but shucks folks, it’s an Arkansas law license. Hey, Arkansas legal question: If you are married in Arkansas, and divorced in Arkansas, are you still brother and sister? All jokes aside, this woman has never done a thing in her life except marry Bill, and even he had to find a date. She comes up with nice little sound bites before congressional hearings, “What does it matter?” In public she smiles knowingly, but in private cusses like a sailor. I don’t know if she has a drinking problem, but I do know she can’t walk a straight line without falling and bumping her head, but no harm done, there’s nothing vital there. She is falling prey to the same thing that took Jeb Bush out last night; the unbending faith that the machine will pull her through, and it might. Slobber. . . vote!

Ted Cruz. Ted is a wild card. He knows how to play the game. And he’s not playing. If Ted had had his way a couple years ago he’d have put the entire government in the unemployment line. He knows the constitution, believes in God, America, and mom’s apple pie. Naturally he offends gays, illegal immigrants, movie stars, and Michael Moore. While these people have no problem at all with Obama’s lineage, they’re all bent out of shape by Ted’s father, birthplace, and skin tone. Hey, if a witch doctor from Kenya can be president so can Ted. At least he doesn’t believe that Joseph built the pyramids to store grain for Pharaoh. Sorry, Dr. Carson, but you really said that. (Is he still running?) Both Trump and Cruz demonstrate something that’s been coming for a long time. Remember that pendulum I told ya’ll about a long time ago. Well, it’s swinging back to the right. It has to go all the way to the right before it turns around again, and comes back. It never stops in the middle, folks. Slobber, vote! Trump has a huge following, and Cruz knows just how to take it, and run with it. Did anyone say, “Iowa?” And don’t give me that stuff about dirty tricks, or cheating, he just won!

The only way Bernie Sanders will take the nomination is if Hillary dies and her body disappears. If they still have the body, the Democrats will nominate that. Maybe they could elect the body, and just let Bill do the job. That’ll work. Anyway, wanna know why Romney didn’t win? ‘Cause he was a Mormon, that’s why. I pointed that out way back when he through his hat in the ring ink 2011, and years later the MSM tenderly approached that simple fact. Just understand, Sanders won’t win. Those who have ears, let them hear.

Hillary’s got the machine, Trump has the numbers, and Cruz has the know-how. That’s how it really breaks down.  When the gate opens, and the ponies run, you will see lots of sex, lies, and video tape. Hillary will wave aborted fetuses, Cruz will wave the Bible, and Trump will wave his wallet. On the first Tuesday of November the bells will ring, the polls will open, and the population will. . . Slobber and vote. God save the King!

The Battle of the Alamode

IMG_2014

Yesterday I fought the battle of the Alamode. Embarked on a little field trip yesterday, and an effort to teach some Texas History to the grandkids. Therein lies madness. When I was nine I got on a trolley, went to downtown Shreveport, and watched John Wayne’s version of the Alamo. I know, I know, not historically accurate, and all that, but I still love that movie, in fact, to this day I still cry when the little girl in the end asks, “Where’s daddy, mommy?” When I was growing up in Texas, the history of the Lone Star State was mandatory! I was rather detached until I went on a high school trip to San Antonio during the Hemisfair, and actually saw the Alamo. I became a secessionist on that very day! I must have counted every stone in the building. Back in the day the Alamo had a “smell” to it that was a little bit like pepper. There was no air conditioning, but you could appreciate the wisdom of the old padres in the fact that it wasn’t really hot inside the chapel, which is really all that is left of the original mission.

So, yesterday we decided to take the kids down for the obligatory first trip to the shrine of Texas liberty. Let us pray! First off, my grandchildren are lazy. The Alamo sits on about a city block. There’s a parking lot right behind it, beside the Crockett Hotel, no, Davy Crockett didn’t stay there during the battle, that came later. Way back then it cost about a dollar to park there, but I quickly learned the price had been adjusted to account for Obamacare to twenty dollars.

So, we got all parked and began the walk around the back wall to the grounds. Unknown to me, the kids had understood the word, “Alamo” to be “Alamode,” and were slavering as we trekked around the wall. No Dairy Queen, no golden arches, just trees, and some old warehouse that they were not impressed with. Never one to be pushed back, I continued to herd the gang of five through the lawn toward the side where traditionally you could just walk around and go in the front door. Did I tell you the Daughters of the Republic of Texas lost control of the Alamo recently? Well, the first clue of this was the long line and barriers I found extending down the archways leading to the front of the building. You simply could not go that way, you had to get into line, and some nerdy guy would “allow” you to enter the chapel one at a time. I kissed Vickie Roberts under those arches back in ’68 for God’s sake! I had to go back around behind the building, and try to enter from the side door. NOT! People were being herded in a circle fashion from the front door, around to the rear and out. Like a Golden Corral. Oh, well, I’d just take the kids around to the front from the other side so they could at least see the famous front.

Did you know there is a little concrete ditch extending around the rear of the Alamo? Well, there is, and it has always had these rather large goldfish swimming in it. The first sign that something had gone terribly wrong was when I heard one of the twins, who are seven, yell, “CATFISH! CAAAAAAATFISH!” (Splash!) Oh, my bad, I forgot to tell you my grandchildren are white trash? The troops assaulting the mission in 1836 were more refined. We got past that with a simple wet jean, and a hoot of laughter from just about everyone, and proceeded to the front. I just knew that the very sight of the front of the Alamo would be an epiphany for the children. Well, it was an eye opener for me. Maybe I’m wrong, but it looked like someone may have sandblasted it because it had lost that pink glow it always had, and looked like the front of a Macy’s department store. And, of course, there was the line of Yankees, going in one at a time, not even aware that this was not the way it was supposed to be. Hesitantly, I checked for the Lone Star flag on the corner, and it was still there, but there was not an American flag on the front lawn. I don’t remember that.

We paraded the children to the front for the traditional photo shot. They stood there asking where the ice cream was. Then I took them to the monument in front. They were still scanning across the street for the Baskin Robins as I tried fruitlessly to explain the assault on the walls. Now, we are currently home schooling, but before that the children were at the mercy of the public school system. Not only did they not know what the Alamo was, they didn’t understand the word, “battle” because guns are so politically incorrect it can’t be stated that someone may have set off a firecracker during the Texas revolution.  As we retreated back to the car (do you like that word, “retreat?”) we made one last effort to expose the babies to at least some history by taking them into the museum that sits beside the chapel. When the Daughters of the Republic were booted out they took the stuff they had brought to the property with them, so in the courtyard where Travis drew his line in the sand there now sits a gift shop! By this time all the kids were dragging, and the little girl was complaining about wanting her iPad.

We slowly walked back to the car, keeping the twins away from the “catfish,” and hoping the New Baby wouldn’t decide to relieve himself on the rear of the chapel. The entire thing took less than an hour. I didn’t even circle around for one last look at the Shrine of United Nations skull doggery. We gonna do some history when we get home!

Old Dog, Same Ol’Tricks

The reason you can’t teach an old dog new tricks is because the dog knows that old tricks work quite well, and sees no reason to change. For the uninformed, I am an old dog, and I have a whole bag of tricks, most of them that have led me to many divorce courts that eventually allowed me to own about fifteen percent of myself. When I screw up there are usually two factors that play heavily into the formula for a disaster, exhaustion, and beer. Yeah, I really just said that. That’s why I’ll never succeed in politics. I tell the truth even when it makes me look stupid.

So it was last night at my little hide away. Hide away is an oxymoron. Killeen has a population of just over one hundred thousand, but there are only about one hundred actually from here, and they all know each other. I’m sitting there with a pitcher of beer, thinking I’m hidden while cell phones buzz all over town discussing where I am, what I’m saying, and who I’m with. There are certain prerequisites that are required when one is “Pub-Hiding,” the first being that you simply must lie to your significant other when the inevitable call comes inquiring as to your location. You run outside to the smoking porch so she can’t hear the juke box, and you tell her you are at a sandwich shop.

Now, this is how my mind works when I drink a pitcher of beer. I can discuss the intricacies of secession, but forget that I’m at a Bar and GRILL, when my beloved tells me to bring her a sandwich. The word you’re looking for here is, “drunk.” All I had to do was have Mamasan, the bar keeper to throw a burger on, and sack it up, and I wouldn’t have had a problem, but there was one more factor involved. When one decides to step out it is obligatory to stop by and pick up a fool to go with you. Naturally he has a lot to say, but the man can talk for an hour and not say anything. And he never shuts up! So, there I sat, drinking beer and listening the Emperor of the world explaining to me why I’m paying for all the beer.

Then then repeat phone calls commence. This is the other factor. My “Sniff the Other” always asks the same question, “Look out the window, tell me what you see.” Well, as I pointed out, I thought I was hidden, and simply couldn’t tell her what I saw was a neon sign flashing, “BEER, BEER, BEER!” As my reason slowly melted into the pitcher there before me, my lies became more elaborate, and of course the fool is texting her, finking me out at every turn. Now, before I get the Mad Mothers mad at me I wasn’t snot slinging drunk, I was more a mellow, stupid kind of drunk. I mean, I looked sober, but as my Puerto Rican friend, Juan would say, “I ain’t even gonna lie to chu!” I would not have showed up at the policeman’s ball at this point.

I finally got home, got into a big argument about the sandwich, left, and found my way to the fool’s house, where he continued to discuss everything from the Kennedy assassination to Pepsi, and the beer began to wear off. Funny how you turn a mental corner when the beer wears off. When he went to the rest room, I went to the car and took my silly butt home!
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

20160209-121712.jpg

Old Dog, Same Ol’ Tricks

dog

The reason you can’t teach an old dog new tricks is because the dog knows that old tricks work quite well, and sees no reason to change. For the uninformed, I am an old dog, and I have a whole bag of tricks, most of them that have led me to many divorce courts that eventually allowed me to own about fifteen percent of myself. When I screw up there are usually two factors that play heavily into the formula for a disaster, exhaustion, and beer. Yeah, I really just said that. That’s why I’ll never succeed in politics. I tell the truth even when it makes me look stupid.

 

So it was last night at my little hide away. Hide away is an oxymoron. Killeen has a population of just over one hundred thousand, but there are only about one hundred actually from here, and they all know each other. I’m sitting there with a pitcher of beer, thinking I’m hidden while cell phones buzz all over town discussing where I am, what I’m saying, and who I’m with. There are certain prerequisites that are required when one is “Pub-Hiding,” the first being that you simply must lie to your significant other when the inevitable call comes inquiring as to your location. You run outside to the smoking porch so she can’t hear the juke box, and you tell her you are at a sandwich shop.

 

Now, this is how my mind works when I drink a pitcher of beer. I can discuss the intricacies of secession, but forget that I’m at a Bar and GRILL, when my beloved tells me to bring her a sandwich. The word you’re looking for here is, “drunk.” All I had to do was have Mamasan, the bar keeper to throw a burger on, and sack it up, and I wouldn’t have had a problem, but there was one more factor involved. When one decides to step out it is obligatory to stop by and pick up a fool to go with you. Naturally he has a lot to say, but the man can talk for an hour and not say anything. And he never shuts up! So, there I sat, drinking beer and listening the Emperor of the world explaining to me why I’m paying for all the beer.

 

Then then repeat phone calls commence. This is the other factor. My “Sniff the Other” always asks the same question, “Look out the window, tell me what you see.” Well, as I pointed out, I thought I was hidden, and simply couldn’t tell her what I saw was a neon sign flashing, “BEER, BEER, BEER!” As my reason slowly melted into the pitcher there before me, my lies became more elaborate, and of course the fool is texting her, finking me out at every turn. Now, before I get the Mad Mothers mad at me I wasn’t snot slinging drunk, I was more a mellow, stupid kind of drunk. I mean, I looked sober, but as my Puerto Rican friend, Juan would say, “I ain’t even gonna lie to chu!” I would not have showed up at the policeman’s ball at this point.

 

I finally got home, got into a big argument about the sandwich, left, and found my way to the fool’s house, where he continued to discuss everything from the Kennedy assassination to Pepsi, and the beer began to wear off. Funny how you turn a mental corner when the beer wears off. When he went to the rest room, I went to the car and took my silly butt home!

Knockout

Knockout. In a boxing or MMA match that’s usually the definitive moment. Iowa delivered some surprises Monday. One was Sanders coming on as strong as he did, but the main event was the Cruz/Trump event. I was mesmerized by the crowds at the Trump rallies, and frankly began to wonder why Ted Cruz was running at all. Trump was so confident he told Fox to shove it, doing his own show instead, and left Iowa early. Blame it all on his roots, Ted showed up in boots, and ruined Trump’s black tie affair!
Ok, let’s get to the crotch of this. That’s not a typo, it’s where Ted Cruz kicked Donald Trump Monday! The logic seemed to follow the theory that if you can make a billion dollars then you can run a country. Shucks folks, El Chapo can make a billion dollars. C’mon! As much as we don’t like it, politics is a vocation. Playing the crowd, and working the polls are two different things, and I’m not talking about opinion polls of people who may, or may not vote, I’m talking about people who actually get up and go and vote! Two different critters.
I love it when Trump talks about bombing the Arabs off the map, building the “Trump Wall” on the border, and booting all the Muslims out of the country, but do you really want that guy with his finger on the trigger? Ted Cruz is a master debater, and more than that, he’s a politician! I know that’s a bad word, but hey, we need proctologists, too, ok? He judged, worked, and played the numbers. The right numbers, not the media event.
Of course people will show up in a stadium to see Donald Trump. They’d show up to see Osama bin Laden, that’s just how people are. Everybody wants to get next to a “happening” guy. But, they don’t vote for him. While Trump was playing the crowd, Cruz was playing the numbers, and let’s be up front, Ted Cruz is a Senator! He’s done this before. An underdog who surprised almost everyone, and he surprised everyone but himself on Monday!
So, what’s a Donald to do? Well, he’s not going just dry up and blow away, the man’s a winner. One loss in a game he’s never played before is not going to give Donald Trump PTSD. He’ll hit the other primaries, and let’s look at this as it really is. Trump has drawn interest, if not votes, to issues that we’ve all got to address. We really do have to tighten up the immigration. Islam really is infected with the craziest pricks we’ve seen in a thousand years, and someone really should drop a few nukes on some camels to get the attention of the Middle East. Donald Trump has now made his mark. Ben Franklin never won the presidency either.
And now for the lighter side. In America we have to have a two party system. I mean someone has to run against someone to make it all at least look democratic. Therefore we have the Democrats. Hilliary and Bernie. That race was so corrupt they ended up in some kitchen somewhere flipping a quarter to see who won. They got the quarter from Bill so Hilliary won six out of six, go figure. Hillary won by the skin of her teeth, but no matter, everybody was watching Ted Cruz anyway. The funny thing is that she thinks she’s a powerhouse. This idiot is two horse lengths ahead of the posse and she’s galloping along like she has good sense.

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

Flat Earth and Beer

Jumped off into a twelve pack last night, and started surfing YouTube. Always an interesting evening. Watching YouTube you almost certainly have no private life! Anyway, I watched a few plane crashes, the latest ISIS beheadings, and Mark Cunningham hypnotizing Ivy again. (Don’t look that up!) Then I came upon the Flat Earth Society! OMLG! Oh, little note here. I use OMLG, meaning, “Oh, My LIVING God.” As you may or may not know, I’m just an old “reptile bait,” but on the slight chance that Saint Peter is asleep when I arrive, I don’t want that on the books. Anyway, where was I, oh yes, the Flat Earth Society.
This shows just how far a conspiracy theory can go. Ten beers down, and it still didn’t make any sense, but I kept on watching. Hey, I give everybody a chance. Now, I’m not saying these people are stupid, but they are somewhere along the level of the chick I met once that believed me when I told her the Vermouth in a Martini neutralized the Gin, and the more she drank, the more clear headed and intelligent she’d get. She ended the night babbling like Einstein, and wearing my T-shirt. (I’m sorry I did that Lord, I promise I won’t do that anymore.) Well, these people are her cousins.
One video purported that if you fly up in a hot air balloon you can easily see that the moon will not move, but in fact will appear the same in Australia as it does in New York. I crappith Thee NOT! You can’t make this stuff up folks. Then an aeronautical engineer went through great lengths explaining that you could prove the theory by booking flights from Africa to Brazil, and observing that you had to first fly to Europe because the curvature of the earth is a myth which can easily be shown by the Mercator projection. (Open another beer.) Now I know where all those plane crashes I was watching came from.
And they look so sane! People! These are the guys in the Laughing Academy who eat the checkers. How did they get so stupid without meth? And all their dots connect. Every single one. I went and bought another twelve pack. Marching on (for four hours) I absorbed everything I could concerning this “theory.” What was it Hitler said? Oh, yes. If you make a lie big enough, and tell it often, Fox News will pick it up, or words to that effect. Well, I started looking at the people making these videos, searching for a girl. No Discovery Channel hotties here. Anyone who took the time to make a video expounding a flat world has too much time on their hands, and absolutely nothing to donate to the gene pool.
Since I was outside, on my porch, I looked up at the moon. How did they miss that? Under their idea, I suppose they would claim the moon is tilted in such a way so as to expose its total surface to earth, because it, too, has to be flat. Then, I saw the reinforcement claiming that when Antarctica was first explored, they came upon this huge wall constructed to keep us from walking off the edge. Pop a top, my friend. I think I’ll have another round.
I will say that this eased the events of this week. I’ll also say that these people are bat-crap crazy. What some folks burn in their crazy minds. Consider this when you hear of “magic” bullets, falling towers, and anything Megyn Kelley has to ask Trump.
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