As the decades went by the story of little Carol Ann only became better as the years passed, and now, years later, deep in the pines, an old black man settled in for the night. He was a slightly stooped man, which didn’t show his inner strength.  He sported a light beard, but not from being groomed as was the fashion in Austin, where a beard was never quite finished, but always in the act of being grown. No, his beard was from not shaving on days he just felt too sore to do it.  He wore a plaid flannel shirt tonight to ward off the damp that was emanating from the pine trees that surrounded his place like so many druids waiting to take up some long forgotten ritual.  He had dark slacks with dark suspenders.  He was lean, and had no fat on him. After eating his nightly bowl of red beans and rice, he made himself a stiff glass of whiskey and water with two cubes of ice from his little “ice box” he kept on his porch.  The slight chill in the night air made it heavy even for September, and his could feel his lungs labor a bit as he breathed.  The doctor would call it asthma, but he called it old age, and had lived with it all his life.  As the years went by it was harder and harder for him to breathe out here at night, but he did not surrender to medicine, drinking his whiskey instead, until the air became lighter. His house was an unpainted shack, but it had a big front porch.  The boards were coming up on the ends here and there, and his old rocker wobbled on them as he rocked.  He lit his cigarette and puffed on it, drinking his whiskey and staring out at the night. What harm the cigarette did to his lungs the whiskey would repair; such is the balance of life.  His whiskey, and Camel cigarettes were all he had left at this late stage, and he did as he pleased.  His name was Manjang, just Manjang!  He never let anyone know if it was the first or last name, and many a bail jumper cowered in years past upon hearing that “Manjang” was at the door.  As Manjang would tell anyone, he lived by his damn self.  He did this same thing every night.

Manjang had never married, but lived a solitary life here in these woods. He’d hunted men before he got his Social Security, and this style of living fit him just fine.  He’d never saved a dime in his whole life.  He lived on what he had.  When he made good money back then he lived well, and now he lived as he had to, making ends meet and not asking anything of anyone.  The bonding companies in Houston or Austin would call and Manjang had just the technique, and the will to track a man anywhere he needed to, and bring him back. He still had an outhouse, and if the county hadn’t put in electricity he’d have gotten along just fine without it.  He had no TV, but did like his ice cubes. His shack sat in a clearing with the tree line not far from him.  There were scattered pines between him and the thick of the forest, and in some of them he’d hung an ornament.  It made little tinkling sounds when what little wind the pines allowed in these woods moved them, but that wasn’t their real purpose.  Their real purpose was hidden in his heart, dark secrets that he carried from his years as a man hunter.  There was a red dirt road leading up to the place from the county road. The road was rough, but he had an old Jeep he took the four miles into town and anywhere else in the woods that he desired to go when it would start up, and all through these pinewoods hung the chimes that he’d placed there.  Each night was the same.  Jim Beam and cigarettes until he got tired of them, and then retiring to his single bed. This night would be no different.


Centerville sits in the middle of a thick pine forest, strangely reminiscent of the place where you played during summer break. The kind of place where your grandmother lived. You just knew she was born old, and lived there all her life. Her house usually would sit off the main drag, at the edge of the woods and she had a name like “Nanner” or some other southern phrase that meant “little old lady who lives by the woods.”

Centerville was such a place, drawn from a distant time when things were much simpler, and people worked, and lived, and knew their place. The tall pines impugning their scent and shade to its streets, and the summer’s heat and humidity clinging to you like an antiperspirant you purchased at the dollar store, and now wished that you hadn’t. The town was the only clearing in the forest of tall pines, which lurked at the edge of it as if waiting to take the land back again and swallow it up.  If you grew up in Centerville, you knew all the old usual stories about hapless travelers who’d wandered down the wrong road back into the woods never to find their way back to civilization again. These stories were likely just that, stories because no one ever came “to” Centerville they just “passed through” on their way to Houston, or Austin, or anyplace other than Centerville.  The state highway split the town right down the middle, and divided it into two equal halves and there were the usual run down cafes, and unpainted shops one finds when they pass through a small rural town.  There were no national “chains,” because Centerville didn’t need national chains. There was a bar-b-que shop situated directly across the street from Centerville’s one and only “convenience” store. It was owned and operated by a family of Pakistani immigrants from New York who’d been the last “big” news in Centerville.

If you had passed through Centerville at different times during the year you would notice that that highway was always “under construction” and they never seemed to finish it, becoming worse and worse as the years dragged by, and heaven forbid you should ever pass through the town at night because the plastic barrels on the road, and the signs that accompanied them were never right, invariably leading one to several potholes, or false detours making the unlucky traveler very glad when he was finally leaving Centerville, and heading back to the main portion of the highway, and the sanity of the civilized world once again! For the stranger, or traveler, going through Centerville at night gave a sense of foreboding, fear, and loneliness that one gets in the woods; in the dark.

Centerville had no Wal-Mart, no large grocery store, and no beer!  It was a “dry” town, as many in the state were, clinging to the legacy of prohibition that, failed bit of foolishness that empowered the mafia so long ago.  Oh, not that the residents of the town did not drink, they did, but since you could not purchase alcohol in the town, if you desired to indulge you had to get on the state highway, and go ten miles out of town where a lonely, but well supported liquor store sat on the side of the road in the “county” where such things were allowed.  There were no synagogues, no Catholic churches, and no vagrants in Centerville. There was a Baptist church at one end of town, and the “People’s Assembly Church of God in Christ” directly situated at the opposite end. The congregations therein were split right down racial lines as surely as the state highway split the little town.  The Baptist church was mainly for the white community, and the People’s Assembly was black.  It was not that there was an issue there; it’s just that that was the way it had always been, and that was the way it always would be.  There were never any problems because everyone got along in Centerville because everyone in Centerville knew their place. The “People’s Temple” had been pastored by Elmo Taylor for several years.  He came to town, a single man, and took over the church from the retiring minister who had made what was his life there.  Elmo dedicated his life to the church, and to the community on “that” side of town.  He was loved, and respected by the black community.  Opposite his church, on the other side of the tracks was the Baptist church, pastured by a meek, mild, Baptist preacher, who’s only forceful statements were when he railed against the liquor store out in the county (where such things were allowed.)

The law enforcement in town consisted of the two-man police department that worked out of a small wood frame building over near the bank.  There was a small window unit air conditioner which hung haphazardly out of the window on the side and provided the sound of air conditioning, if not any cool air of any merit. With what little ever went on in town the two men could handle things just fine.  They never set up speed traps because there was absolutely no way a human being could do anything near the posted speed limit in the torn up streets of Centerville anyway, much less speed!  There were absolutely some times that both officers were home with their families, their phones forwarded, and so it goes without saying that the town had no jail because that would require someone to be at the police station at all times.  Should anyone ever need to be arrested (which was highly unlikely) they would simply have to be taken to the county seat some twenty-five miles away and incarcerated there.  Any real investigations would be handled at the county level by the district attorney Nelson or Billy Ray, his chief investigator.  Beyond that was the state department of public safety, better known as the highway patrol, which had the equipment and diagnostics needed for crimes more serious than a drunk driver.  That was in case any real crime happened, because the last and biggest criminal event in town was back in 1947 when little Carol Ann Baker disappeared from the schoolyard.  The townspeople searched for days with no luck and then her battered and violated form was found in the pines, at the edge of a stream, known in those parts as a “bayou.”  It was obvious that the little twelve-year-old had been the victim of a deranged pedophile who, after having his way with her, had bashed her little head in with a rock.  Though everyone knew the killer had been Johnny Johnson he was never captured or convicted of the crime.  He was the dim-witted son of a bitch named Velma Johnson who had no husband, and waited tables in the bar-b-que shop, sidelining as Centerville’s only working prostitute.  The townspeople had put up with Johnny, made fun of him, but considered him to be of no consequence, that is until they found little Carol Ann. At any rate, he was never seen again in Centerville, and everyone believed that when he realized what he’d done he simply went far away so he would never have to face justice for the crime that he’d committed.

After that the town settled pretty much into the life that it lived to this day. Oh, every now and then some hunter, or hiker would be lost in the pines, but that was “normal” for Centerville.  They would find them, dead of exposure, or just dead with no real cause, but those things happened in the woods, and if you were a true citizen of Centerville you knew never to wander much past the tree line. If you grew up in the little town you would certainly know all the ghost stories emanating from the pines with all the gory details about little Carol Ann waiting like a she-devil for any grown man who dared to intrude within her domain.  And the stories had some foundation because there were more than a few disappearances in the woods around Centerville, few more than the law of averages would allow. The only thing that threw a monkey wrench into this ghostly theory was old Manjang living in his shack in the woods. He had made his living in Houston chasing down bail bond jumpers until he finally showed up in Centerville, and purchased a small “tourist cabin” situated three or four miles from the Centerville city hall.  The old man would drift into town to check his mail at the post office every day except Sunday, and no one ever dared to ask him about spirits or carryings on out in the woods because everyone in town knew that Manjang was a man of no nonsense. He kept to himself and didn’t have time for such things as gossip, or the welfare of anyone else but his “damn” self!  It was widely known that he carried a pistol, and had used it, indeed would use it again with little or no provocation what so ever!  He had no dealings with any of the occupants of this one-horse town and they steered clear of him! No one knew where Manjang had come from and no one in Centerville wanted to pry.

There were three schools in Centerville.  There was the elementary school, where little Carol Ann had been abducted, a middle school, and a high school, all appropriately named “Centerville” this or that.  The football team never won a game in the high school circuit, and no student from Centerville ever ran off to become a famous movie star or writer or anything. Every once in a very blue moon someone would leave the little town and venture to exotic places like Houston or Austin, but they never came back.  They would simply never be spoken of again. They would never again be seen at the “Dairy Dream” eating ice cream, and would never show up in church anymore.  Like a dead thing that no one wants to turn over for fear of the smell.

The community had one funeral home that naturally was locally owned and had been operated “with dignity” for the last fifty years by a local family of funeral directors whom everyone in town knew and naturally gave all their business to when the need should arise. There were no racial lines drawn there because there was simply no place else to go when you went!  There was a chapel at the home, but it was rarely used because everyone who passed was either Baptist church or People’s Assembly and the two preachers took care of the need of a service. When death reared its ugly head the funeral would be conducted at either one of the churches, and one end of town or the other will be clogged with cars because everyone knew everyone in Centerville. The funeral home had been founded by Randal Pulhman way back in the depression. He’d operated it “with dignity” for a number of years, his sons coming in behind him, and the business had done well.  Randal had embalmed little Carol Ann, or what was left to be embalmed. That was a closed casket affair if there ever was one. The rock that had crushed her little head in had been a very large rock indeed, and had so disfigured her face that literally her own mother would not have known her. Even Randal Pulhman was taken aback by the ferociousness of the attack. In his point of view there was absolutely no reason at all to kill the little girl; that is unless she knew her assailant, and that went on to further prove that it must have been Johnny Johnson.  The sexual assault further proved it had been Johnny because he was an “idiot kid” and everyone knew that “idiot kids” were over sexed!  There was a big funeral; everyone came, and little Carol Ann was laid to rest in the graveyard near the Baptist church, where she rests until today, or rather her body rests until today, because everyone knows that her spirit, maddened by her untimely death, prowls the woods around Centerville taking vengeance on the male population whenever possible.  Or so the local legend told.

The Pulhman Funeral Home prospered and grew all through those early years and Randall Pulhman became a very wealthy undertaker, but, as it comes to us all, and indeed came to all of Randall’s customers, death came to visit him one Sunday afternoon while he was consuming turnip greens and ice cream on his porch.  What he had taken to be acute indigestion turned out to be a heart attack and they found him sprawled in his antique rocker with his melted Blue Bell ice cream all over his favorite “Dallas Cowboys” T-shirt and his pants full of shit.  He was buried in the same graveyard as little Carol Ann, “with dignity.”  With the passing of the patriarch the family felt the need of hiring outside of the family to fill the shoes of the senior undertaker, and the very fact that there no other undertakers in the family left to fill his shoes so this dilemma led them to Leon Chisholm, aspiring young mortician born and raised in Dallas, Texas, married to the young and comely Heather.  One more thing was added; Leon was black!  This dazzling urbanite seemed to fill the bill quite well for the chicken fried funeral home, and they rolled out the red carpet enticing him to see things their way.

For years it had been an issue as to the care of the black patrons of the funeral home.  Certain things were different in this area, but had never been addressed properly by the establishment and therefore were merely tolerated by the black community as a whole who had no place else to take their departed.  The surviving members of the firm decided to change this by deliberately hiring a black funeral director and he would be the one who would handle the funerals that required his special attention.



IMG_0043Slingvote. Remember that, there’ll be a quiz later. Texas Nationalists have long held to the idea that somewhere in the agreement that brought Texas in to the Union there was some kind of pre-nuptial agreement that provides an easy exit should Texas ever decide to go it on its own. I, myself have spoken of this many times. Well, truth be known, while that was discussed back then, it was never formalized in writing.

You see, the whole Texas plan from day one was to rip the territory away from Mexico and join the United States. There was never any doubt what the filibusters were doing down here, and the Republic formed after San Jacinto was almost with the understanding that the Republic of Texas would someday be the State of Texas, and Mexico could just suck it up. When the treaty between Texas and The United States was signed, however, there was no “divorce” clause. I know! I tried to find it today to quote here, and nada!

There is, however, a slippery little way for Texas to put it to the US, and make them think it’s their idea. Texas was go gosh darn big that it was decided that should the citizens therein ever decide to break it up that they could split into as many as five different states. Just like that! It’s part of the deal, folks, check it out. These would be along regional lines, i.e. East Texas, West Texas, North Texas, South Texas, and, of course, an area I like to call Costa Royal. (That would be the Texas “SoCal.”) These divisions of the Lone Star State would be separate, yet still the heritage of old time Tejas. These fellas have met!

Don’t you wanna know what happens next? Why, what was formally Texas gets eight more senators, that’s what! What was formerly Texas has ten senators up in Washington, and boys and girls, they’ll probably vote in a block. Some folks call this a slingvote, some call it gerrymandering, I call it a slingvote, um hum! Want to know how votes work? Well, sometimes things get crazy, and all the senators gravitate toward a foregone conclusion, but most of the time the vote is close, so close that the president starts twisting arms just to get one or two senators to go his way. There was this guy back in the day who commanded a huge slot of voters. He was  very into prohibition. He had this theory. He didn’t have to get fifty-one percent of any vote. He just had to control that ten percent of loyal followers who’d vote any way he told them to. This was guaranteed to swing just about any vote in any election anywhere, and by golly that’s exactly what he did! Using this idea he unseated governors, congressmen, senators, and dog catchers any time he wished. He just tell them there tea-totalers what box to mark and “God’s” will would be done. That’s how we got prohibition.

So, you end up with ten Texas senators where two used to be. When they cast their votes the board just met. The tail would officially wag the dog, and since American liberals and conservatives can’t even agree on which restrooms to use we’ll tell ‘em all to squat!. Heeere’s your sign. If we ever start moving in that direction the Nortes will squat, and lose their selective ca ca. Even New York and California will be our, well, just think of a slang term for a female dog. Some folks call it a slingvote, some call it gerrymandering, I call it a slingvote, um hum! Secession? We won’t have to secede, they’ll secede from us!



Scared. I want ya’ll to write that down ‘cause there’s gonna be a quiz later. Scared dictates a lot of things that people do. I’ve said it before, and I’m gonna say it again, Texas is in fact a republic, a “de-facto” republic. Back in World War II just because Hitler invaded France, and put his troops in there, that did not mean that France was not a republic. France was a republic under occupation. Texas has been under occupation since 1865. We had special laws passed against us because they thought that our ability to carry a gun might lead back to the Republic of Texas. They have been scared of us in America ever since.

The scared part comes in like when we show up down in Austin to do these rallies with speakers driving in, and you get down there, and you get thirty-five or forty people. We’re all sitting around wondering well, what’s going on here?  What’s going on is people are scared. Right now at the Republican convention in Texas there is going to be an effort to put in a plank on the platform to ask how many people would like the opportunity to vote and voice their opinion of the secession issue. Now, I’d like to point out you can call us “nuts” or “fringe” but four years ago they wouldn’t let us in the door, and now we’re in the door, and actually going to have a vote.

The general population, getting up and going to work every morning is not thinking about seceding from the United States, they don’t even understand it, but you would think that with a rally in Austin that they’d show up just to see what we look like, see what’s going on, but the problem is that they’re scared. This is what’s happened in the United States. Waco, Ruby Ridge, things like that have put people on point. Where ten or twenty years ago you’d see a Department of Public Safety officer walking around the grounds you’d think nothing about it, he’s supposed to be there, but now, with the events of the last two to four years attitudes have changed and people are scared. Take your average nerd in Austin on a Saturday with nothing to do, and hears there’s going to be a rally at the Capitol and they wonder what’s going on. Now, if it’s a bunch of Mexicans dancing they run down and join the party, but if it’s a bunch of Texas Nationalists giving speeches about seceding, well, they get scared. No one wants to show up and watch the arrests, and all the other nonsense that goes with them.

But, Texas is a republic. Just because we’re occupied doesn’t mean it’s not. We’re beginning to act like a republic with things like our gold bullion, our emphasis on our borders, and our attracting people to Texas. We have to protect our borders, the United States doesn’t give a flip. The droves of people coming here because of the quality of life, the climate, and economic factors opinions are being formed. When someone first gets here they think that Texas is just like any other state, but it’s not, it is a functioning republic.

Will we be able to secede? No. I don’t think that short of an armed conflict that the United States will ever let us secede from the Union. Can we in fact be a different part? Well, we in fact are. Texas is different. Ruby Ridge, Waco, and LaVoy Finicum have reminded us that the government will do anything to maintain power. Ignore the constitution, ambush, burn, anything. I was watching last night as an engineer explained how the top fifteen floors on the World Trade Center could not possibly collapse the entire building. On another video I saw building seven erupt in explosions as it, too, pancaked to the ground, and that, people, is the length your government will go to in order to maintain power. There are sinister elements within the American Federal government, and those sinister elements are there to maintain power.

Texas, believing that borders matter, all borders, even those between us and the US, and that is a stumbling block to those who would erase those borders in their quest for a new world government. Texas has more oil than all other counties in the world combined except Russia. We’ve got cattle, tech, climate, people, economics, and God knows we have all the Mexicans, and that is a big stumbling block for the power brokers in New York and Washington. They want to infiltrate Texas and turn it into “CalTex.” California was a beautiful place, beautiful people, everybody wanted to be there. These same people who have set their sights on Texas went in there, and it’s still a beautiful place, but it’s not California anymore. It’s a joke now. Texas has a way of sitting back, watching someone screw up, and making sure that we don’t go down that same path.

We are not a bunch of rednecks, or fools. We have education, people, resources, enterprise, we have all these things in Texas! If you want to know how stout we are, how’d that Ebola work out for you? The world was coming to an end, the religious nuts were citing the Book of Revelation, and all of the sudden there weren’t no more Ebola! That’s because it came to Texas.

But, people are scared. The fact is that if ten thousand people showed up at a rally in Austin then the power brokers would be scared. You can arrest a man, but you can’t arrest a battalion. Power is inherent in the people! If you have a bunch of people saying this is the way it is then that’s the way it is! The power flows up from the people. This enema called the American Federal Government is an inversion of the way the constitution was laid out.

It’s not going to be easy. There will be more Ruby Ridges, there will be more LaVoy Finicums, but one day those people will show up, and then the illuminati will be scared. We Texans have proved two things of the last two hundred years or so. We are the people who will back up in an old church and shoot at you, and we can’t count to five thousand.

Ah SO!


Charlie Chan used to say, “Ah SO!” Things have changed since Charlie’s day.  Global economics are dynamic. The one thing you must remember is this “global” thing is fairly new. Never before in history has the world been able to communicate so completely as it can today. Just look at it. The Romans thought they controlled the world. What did they really control? The Mediterranean area. Oh, I hear you. They conquered Europe! Heck, Hitler did that! Did it in a shorter time, too. Attila the Hun? Same deal. Didn’t even conquer Rome and died in bed with a teenage girl. Hey, I’m impressed. And so it has gone all down through history. Up until now!

People are used to governments being the powerhouse on the world stage. Well, there’s a new kid on the block. Governments, kings, and unions ruled by the power of armies. Let’s not forget to throw in religion. Long about 600 AD or so, when the Romans were desperately trying to learn German, Mohammed came screaming across the desert with a new flavor. He figured out that if he could get everyone on a rug, facing Mecca that he could virtually erase national boundaries. The Holy Roman Empire followed suit, and by 1000 AD we had two factions, suited up and ready for what really amounted to the real World War I.

Now, I hate to say this about my noble ancestors, but Europeans are an unstable bunch of pricks! Oh, they look down their noses pretty good now, with gun control, free marijuana, and lots of polite talk about how bad we Americans are, but we learned from the best. I watched a most interesting video last night. It was a time lapse thing showing the shifting European borders changing over the last thousand years, and brothers and sisters, the most stable borders were when Hitler was doing his thing. Imagine THAT!

With this latest push in the Ukraine the lame stream media tries to make it seem as though this is something new. They look across someone’s border and say, “Oops! Someone’s over there speaking Russian. That’s MINE!” And this isn’t restricted to just Russia. Oh no! You had the Roman Empire, the British Empire and the American Empire. Swat them bees, swat them bees! And Americans are like roaches. Once you get ’em, they never leave! Americans haven’t learned a single thing from history. When you defend YOUR borders, that’s cool. When you defend someone ELSE’S border, not so much! You would be hard pressed to find a single area on the globe where there is not an American presence of some kind. And it’s all very politically correct, of course. Americans have an uncanny knack for peeing down someone’s back, and tell them it’s raining! Meanwhile, while worrying about Russia, America’s borders have less security than Disneyland.

But, while we white folk are worried about the price of vodka there has been a group of people slowly rising, getting ready, and slipping onto the world stage through the back door. The Chinese! Now wait, wait, before you start laughing and calling me a Texas redneck, hear me out. Within one lifetime China has evolved. Back in the 1930’s and ’40’s the Japanese kicked their butts all OVER the Gobi Desert. It was like the little skinny kid in the school yard slapping the fat kid and the fat kid just stood there crying and sucking snot. And just think about it. China has actually never invaded ANYBODY! They are famous for building WALLS to keep to themselves. Well, in the words of Bob Dylan, “Times They Are A-Changing!”

We of European decent invented the corporation. The Chinese took it to the Nth degree. China doesn’t HAVE an economy. Their economy is whatEVER the Chairman says it is. So when you value the dollar up against the yen you basically have a sliding scale. The yen comes across as a poor cousin. Only problem is that yen is buying stuff. The Chinese are BUYING America. The same little yellow guys who built the railroads that spanned the continent are now bidding for them, and Americans are too greedy, or too stupid to see this. Who controls Long Beach, the only deep water port on the west coast? Just look it up. Who completed the largest corporate sale in the last five years? Here, have a bowl of rice. When did these guys stop being communist?

There is only one teeny, tiny little bump in the Manchurian Highway. TEXAS! Our old fashioned, racist, redneck, tobacco chewing gun toting population of nationalists casts a jaundiced eye toward such Yankee shenanigans. They are three types of people slipping across our southern border. First, of course, you have the Mexicans. Then, Central Americans, but the third group is Chinese. So, on one hand we have them trying to buy Los Angeles, and on the other we have a whole new brand of wetbacks slipping across the border.

The Texas Nationalist Movement is more American than you might imagine. We actually believe in things like borders, real money, mommy and daddy, and hot apple pie, and then, there’s that nasty ol’ constitution. When Texas secedes we don’t even have to write a constitution. We’ll just use theirs, they’re not doing anything with it right now. While the Nortés are picking one from column B and two from column A, and paying for it by selling their souls, the Texas contingent is drawing a very politically incorrect line in the sand. When it comes down to it, and the Republic of Texas becomes a reality, the western United States will have a choice. Will they eat rice, or will they eat steak. Frankly, I don’t know. I look out at California and I see men marrying men, women marrying women and dogs marrying cats, and I really can’t see that bunch of wine heads standing up for much of anything. Oh, by the way “dudes,” check out the Chinese view of homosexuality.

Most people of common sense are migrating to Texas as I write. Shucks, Ireland put an Embassy in Austin. Toyota, Carl’s Jr, you name it. They’re all coming here, and Uncle Remus at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. can’t seem to figure that out. The lines are being drawn, people. You can’t run away. Texas is the last bastion of liberty left. We don’t intend to sell it, or give it away. Yeah, yeah, yeah, Lone Star Beer and Moon Pies, but we have a real good time. Aaaaah SO!

That Was The Week That Was


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.

Texas Has Survived


Texas has survived in spite of continual attacks for the last one hundred and eighty years! From the time that Santa Anna crossed the Rio Grande until the attacks on the Red River by the BLM, Texas has been a target for outlanders looking to clean up on the Lone Star State. During this entire time Texas has maintained at least a semblance of sovereignty, forging ahead to create the tenth largest economy in the world. Low taxes, willing workers, and a fine climate have lured corporations not back to the United States, but back to Texas!

The secessionist movement draws a lot of negative attention, but the Texas movement is one of seriousness. When Houston, Austin, Crockett, and others, fought for independence in 1836, they formed a coalition under the rule of law, with many arguments as to who controlled what, where the money was going to come from, declarations of independence, and planning the war against a lawless regime, quite similar to the one the Americans have imposed today!

Entrenched governments always have more guns than they need, and they use those guns to impose their will. Notice in the events in Nevada, and Oregon, the rule of law was second, guns were the tools of choice when government tries to make its point. Now they have Cliven Bundy in custody, and are stacking up to ninety-six years prison time on him, and they’re still ignoring the rule of law, and still depending on their guns!

Ok, let’s get to the bottom line. If Nevada or Oregon secedes from the union what does America really loose? Vegas and a few fish. If Texas leaves they lose the bottom dollar supporting just about their entire show, a butt-load of gasoline, cars, cows, and even that little pill they have to take every night to keep their girlfriends happy!   Texas has it all, hell ya’ll, we’ve even got Ebola!

The main stream media rails against Texas, making fun of our hats, girls, and our guns, but the alternative media streams more from Texas than any other place. Raging Elephants, Alex Jones, and even Glenn Beck continue to pound facts up the MSM’s posterior, and after Glenn’s little statement about God killing Judge Scalia, I’ll agree he’s two bubbles short of plumb, but he’s still in Texas! Ted Cruz is from Texas! Hey, if that African witch doctor in the White House can say he’s from Hawaii, Ted can say he’s from Houston, ok? You see, Texas is not all bent up about where your feet hit the ground first so long as you got to Texas as soon as you could.

You won’t see a great war of independence in Texas, you’ll just wake up one day and we’ll be gone. Texas is a de-facto republic, and I’ve sat on the Capitol grounds, listening to some Yankee go on and on about how silly we are, but that’s why he was in Texas in the first place. Weren’t no money left in New York! The main thing you need to know is that Texas will survive. The economy will continue to grow, people will continue to stream across the borders, and yes, oil prices are down, but the gas still burns! The only thing we have to watch out for is people bringing liberal ideas in, ruining a good thing. California is just a pretty prison. The state of Nevada belongs to the Fed, and Syria is safer to live in than Chicago, and boys and girls, if you don’t believe that, then I’ve still got that bridge on sale!

Radical Islam


Radical Islam. I said that because I wanted this article to be as politically incorrect as possible. Yesterday, in Ohio, we were again entertained by the “Religion of Peace.” Mohammed Barry decided to take a machete and start chopping away at patrons in a place called the Nazareth Café. Interesting note is the owner is a Christian from Israel. Anyway, Mohammed went nuts, and did exactly what all Muslims do when they go nuts, which is kill someone. Bad news is that some people got hurt, but not killed, good news is that when the “Servant of Allah” lunged out of his car, after leaving the café, an attacked a police officer, he was promptly issued his seventy-two virgins.

I want you to take special note in the above I said, “All Muslims.” I meant that. Until they get a grip on things all Muslims need to be suspect, and all Muslims need to be deported. Politically incorrect enough for you? Now that you Muslims have tasted my mutton, how do you like it, huh? We have gotten so stupid in this country that some guy named Weiner, hey, that’s rich, Weiner, anyway, Weiner said, “There was no rhyme or reason as to who he was going after. Right now there’s nothing that leads us to believe that this is anything but just a random attack.”

OH MY LIVING GOD! Ok, “Weiner,” the “rhyme or reason was someone in the café was probably eating a ham sandwich. I particularly like when the police continually refer to the dead camel jockey, with the knives in his hands as a “suspect.” I “suspect” he came here to do exactly what he did, which is to kill anyone he could because he was what. . . Radical Islam!

These people have not, and will never assimilate into western society. They don’t want to. They not only hate us, they hate each other. They will not be happy until Paris, New York, Dallas, and L.A. are exactly the same sewer that Islam has made of every other nation they have dominated since Mohammed slithered out of his cave and commenced to marrying five year old girls. I don’t even watch ISIS executions anymore, not because I’m a sensitive guy, but in the words of Hillary, “What difference does it make?” None, nada, no difference what so ever because the liberal west has decided that they can stop the mayhem by ignoring it or renaming it. And the Imam in the White House continually reinforces this lunacy.

Hey, funny note: Barry was on an FBI watch list. Remember when I said the FBI was a joke? I mentioned that they could find a pubic hair in a gas station in North Hollywood, and conclude that Shirley Temple killed JFK? Well, like the homeboys say in Killeen, “WHOMP. . . Dey it is!” Wanna know why they hadn’t zeroed in on Barry? Because they were too busy arresting that dangerous terrorist, Cliven Bundy out in Portland because he’d written a letter to Obama telling him the constitution still applies, that’s why!

Now, let’s address another issue. There was a subliminal in the article. An employee grabbed “something” from beneath the counter and stopped the attack. No one is addressing that, but since practically everyone else was running, or throwing chairs, just what do you suspect the employee grabbed. Could it be a gun, perhaps, we don’t know, but I’d say is was a bit more than a spatula. I’m not even going to jellyfish here, but I’m going to let you know, if I’m sitting there having a burger, and some nut comes in waving a two foot knife, I’m going to shoot him right between his beady little eyes and try to act like I’m not having a good time.

The message is simple. These people don’t fit in. These people come from a failed culture of death. Their religion is not a religion, it is a system designed by a mad man, and if you want to live, when any Muslim comes into a public place you need to go to code red right then and forget about being nice, correct, or uninvolved. If there are “moderate” Muslims, and I seriously doubt that, they’d better police their shop, because from Ohio, to Austin, to L. A. there are Americans who will!

Before doing this article, I made my morning coffee run to a local convenience store, and as I was leaving, an Arab came in. He was smiling, greeted me, and went to the coffee. I smiled back, looked at his hands, watched closely, and eased out the door to my car where my gun was. Hey, dude. . . just playing by the rules you set. Radical Islam!

That Was The Week That Was Was The Week That Was

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

Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

The Last Picture Show

During lunch today I got into a discussion about growing up in Central Texas in the sixties. When you really look at things from a realistic point of view it becomes enlightening, and a bit amusing. First off I was poor white trash, as opposed to rich white trash, which is a totally Texas phenomenon. Poor white trash takes a girl to the drive in movie in an old pickup. Rich white trash takes the girl in a new pickup. The mud, of course, is optional. It was much later that liners were added to the beds of the newer models to negate picking up anything in the pickup.
In The Last Picture Show, there were things that didn’t ring true about that period of time in Texas. First off, the girls did not look like that little blonde who bailed off in the pool with her boyfriend’s gift of a new watch. All the girls I went to school with looked like Olive Oyl. No girl was allowed to wear jeans in school, and that was good because none of them had any reason to wear them. They worked on keeping their front teeth white, but if you looked at them from the side you could see that everything behind the canines was a shade of yellow. When you took them to the drive in and reached your arm around their shoulders, and did the little sneaky snake thing, trying to reach down, that was pointless because until the government pumped up the milk with all those hormones there was nothing to reach for!
The other thing that was off in the movie was all the booze. We were poor! When the weekend came around, providing we had gas, which involved a collection ranging up to about two dollars, we’d swing around to the 7/11 and pick up a quart of Borden’s chocolate milk. That was a big deal, and if we had a Burger Chef Burger, Oh, my LIVING God! We wouldn’t have to eat again until Monday, which was fine because we all got free lunches at school. School lunches were pre-Michelle, so you could actually live off of them. When you serve a poor kid who’s been living off turnip greens a stalk of broccoli you just made a friend for life.
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!
Then, of course, there was the fight. Five guys and one girl, you do the math. It was a winner take all situation, unless Santos showed up. For the uninformed, Santos was the seventh grader with a mustache. If he come over to the car he got the girl, and we got the shaft. I think the only movie I actually watched was The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. All the other times I was trying to get my hand down Lillian Sprinke’s blouse. I never made it.

Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin

The Little Park

There is a little park on Avenue D in Killeen, Texas. It doesn’t amount to much, just about three quarters of a lot, not even a commercial lot, about fifty, or sixty feet wide, planted with trees, a little entry way, and some benches here and there. It’s not a park that you’d turn your children loose in, more of a meditation kind of thing, only the people who frequent that part of town don’t meditate much, indeed, if they sat too long there it would almost certainly lead to imperial implications.

The park sits on a lot formally occupied by the Blue Bonnet Café, owned and operated by Mr. Joseph Safady. “Mr. Joe,” as he was known, had cafes and dry goods all over Killeen. The Blue Bonnet was a “greasy spoon” restaurant. I never saw any greasy spoons, but I did see the pitted concrete floor in the kitchen. Billy Joe was the cook, and Crazy Sarah, a Comanche, was the dishwasher. Sarah would carry bus tubs and a Lucky Strike at the same time.

Mr. Joe was a Syrian immigrant, not a refugee, and Mr. Joe believed in America! He believed in America so much that he joined the army and fought for America in the trenches of World War I. When he returned he eventually found his way to Killeen and started a café. I was told that he had coins Scotch Taped to a piece of cardboard with the denominations in Arabic so he could make change. By the time I met him he had cafes all over town. There was the Blue Bonnet, and of course his flagship, the Venus, down on Highway 190. The Venus had three huge dining rooms and served the GIs after the clubs closed at two A. M.

Billy Joe could never show up on time for work. He was supposed to be there at seven, but he was always twenty minutes late. That was because he had to pick up a beer on the way in, and sales of beer began at seven. Mr. Joe struck me a deal. At fifteen, I was charged with prepping the grill. While my mother counted the register, I put on the coffee, and lit the grill, lining it with sausage and bacon. For my labor I got a free breakfast before school. On weekends I got a ham and cheese sandwich.

Mr. Joe began to bring relatives over from the old country. They weren’t refugees either. He’d get them here, put them in school to get citizenship, and set them up in a café, pool hall, or rentals. Being a vet, he knew the soldiers liked clubs, and food. He provided both. I remember at three in the morning it was standing room only, as the GIs waited for tables to eat from Mr. Joe’s, “greasy spoon.”

We didn’t have homeless back in the sixties, we had old drunks, and out of work construction people. More than a few found their way to the back of the kitchens of Mr. Joe’s cafes for a free meal, or a little work cleaning up the area. I remember a commercial back then from Lay’s Potato Chips. In it there were gangsters sitting around contemplating counterfeiting the Lay’s chip bag and stuffing it with their own chips. An old Don asked, “Who buy counterfeit potato chip bag?” Then, he sampled the chips, made a face and they all got up to leave. That was Mr. Joe to a “T.”

He went back to the old country for a visit years later. As he saw the children running around dirty and sick he was so moved that he built a hospital in Syria. I don’t know if it’s still there. He came back to Texas, and was running his businesses. One day, he eased out only Highway 190, and got slammed by a guy speeding through the light. We all said goodbye to Mr. Joe three days later.

I found myself at the place where the Blue Bonnet once stood the other day. I sat on one of the benches and looked at Avenue D. I didn’t hear the rattle of pots and pans, or Billy Joe yelling, “Order up!” Pat Anderson’s head shop across the street was long gone, and the block is decorated by all those little black fences the city of Killeen put up, along with Victorian lamps, pretending it is Salado. I don’t know why the city bulldozed the Blue Bonnet, and put the little park there, but I’m glad it did, because for me, it is a monument to Mr. Joe.