The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
It was horrible! It was terrifying! It was probably very distasteful as well. I'll let you know for certain, when I recover.
I recently found myself walking around the Super Wal-Mart. I normally avoid those types of places, because as Yogi Berra said about a restaurant, "Nobody goes there anymore. It's too crowded."
You could have fun in a place like that, if you liked playing catch the javelin in your youth.
They have almost as much stuff in that store as I have in my garage. They have food of all types. They have clothing for all three sexes. They have entertainment devices.
Gee whiz, the list goes on forever. I mean heck, you can get a haircut there. You can get your nails done, with three quarters of the population of Texas watching you.
Books, jewelry, garbage cans, (to dispose of the old worn out jewelry), dog food.
Yeah, dog food. Which made me think about the tainted dog food that came from China. Not the dishes, I checked and most of them are made in Britain. I think they called the dinnerware "China", to see if any of us noticed.
I read that the fellow who was in charge of the people responsible for killing people cats and dogs, was executed for his part in an international embarrassment to his homeland.
Well, I thought that perhaps that punishment may have been a touch severe. I mean I've seen Marvin Zindler, and it seems that there have been more than a few Chinese Restaurants which have been closed down for "kitty control", in the past.
It was somewhere around this point in time that I started really looking around in the super Wal-Mart. They have all of this merchandise, (excluding the food), and I began looking at the labels.
Almost all of it was manufactured outside of good ole U.S.A.
That was when I realized the symmetry of the world.
You can, thanks to the visionaries who run this gargantuan conglomerate, toss your old, used old jewelry, clothing, electronic accessories, and just about everything else from that store, into a trash bin, manufactured in China.
It's sort of a fitting homecoming for all of that stuff. There is something, which gently touches my heart, as I think of the funeral arrangements.
Heck, it almost makes me want to drape the trash can with a Chinese Flag, and play the Chinese National Anthem, and, as a sign of respect for their demise.
It was then that I had, what I figured was a brilliant idea. (uh huh, Steve).
We have a garbage problem here in the U.S.A., of immense magnitude.
Everybody seems to be shipping their garbage out of state, for landfill.
We could try getting the Chinese to take it, (or better still, buy it), but they only seem to want our scrap metal these days.
Homeland Security!
China has The Great Wall!
We don't have that, but we have something just as good!
We have ……….. GARBAGE!!! Which judging from Wal-Mart's sales numbers, is predominantly of Chinese origin.
That is when I thought about the illegal immigration problem.
We could take all of this Chinese garbage, and build our own, (some assembly required), Great Wall.
All that we need to do is pile the landfill trash about 40 feet high along the border. Keep the walls at an extreme angle, and pile dirt on top.
If the steep climb didn't stop the illegals, the smell alone would kill them.
Just imagine all of the tourists that would flock here to see it!
And then we could sell them garbage to take home as a momento! (Not like uno momento)!
And think of the message it sends to terrorists. "Don't trash America!"
The more I think of it, the more positives I can see!
If we build it, they will come. ….. Or not.
And then each state it covers could decorate it, whichever way they'd like. Just think about it! Bluebonnets in the Texas portion. Cacti in the Arizona sector. Dead, yet golden and sensitive, caring grass in the California section!
I don't know what they'd use in the New Mexico part, but perhaps they could try something with a Roswell flavor. Kind of the alien, native thing.
It would bring this country together.
Facilitate Homeland Security.
Help solve the illegal immigration problem.
Jeez, we could even put a huge statue of Sam Walton on top of it!
Yup! It'd be a Great Wall!
Thursday, August 23, 2007
The Scent Of A Woman
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
I have always tried, with varying degrees of success, or unsuccess, to keep a relatively low profile in public places. I'm making a valiant effort to do so at this very moment. But I don't think it's working very well. The eyes of Alton and Dan are upon me, trying to figure out what the heck I am up to here.
They keep looking over and smiling as they are talking. They're probably working on a way to rag on me when I get done with this.
I sure am glad that I don't have any paranoid tendencies, because they scare the heck out of me!
Boyd and Holly like to rag on me too. I think it's because they are from western Canada and they talk funny. Boyd told me he has a friend named Clifford who hates my column. "Clifford says there are idiots everywhere Steve."
"So he reads my column?"
"Yeah, every week. .. He hates it." Holly said.
"Jeez, that hurts Holly" I replied.
I never got the opportunity to meet Clifford when he was in town recently. I am truly sorry about that. I like people from Saskatchewan. I even cheered for the Roughriders for years. So I just wanted to tell Clifford howdy!
Somehow thinking about all of this Saskatchewan stuff made me think of the hometown of the Roughriders, Regina.
Regina is the Latin word for Queen.
Which reminds me of Clark, and the thong flyswatter,
which reminds me of sports,
which reminds me of football,
which reminds me of the Roughriders,
which reminds me that according to Toronto sport writers the Canadian Football League was dead in the seventies,
which reminds me of Latin, which is a dead language,
which reminds me once again, that Regina is the Latin word for Queen,
which reminds me that The Queen of England is a woman, (unlike some of the other queens of this planet).
And then, thinking of women, reminded me of One Draft Phil.
Which reminded me of Rick the Homeland Security guy, who is a friend of ours.
The three of us were having a beer and a great conversation one night recently, when the waitress approached the table to inquire how we were doing. Well to make a long story even longer, we succumbed to her charms and ordered another round.
I think it's one's patriotic duty, to keep the economy chugging away, so that was my reason for placing the order.
I guess chugging begets chugging.
When Heather returned with our order, Rick paid the bill. Then he looked up like a deer caught in headlights of his own BMW.
"Heather. May I ask you a question?" he asked.
"Sure." she replied. "What is it?"
Now before I say anymore, it's very important that everyone knows that Rick is a very happily married man.
"That perfume you're wearing smells very nice. What is it?"
Rick was thinking that if he got the name of it, he'd stop by the store to get some for his wife. A special gift, from the man who adores her. Very romantic.
Well Heather started to giggle, and began to walk away from our table.
Rick called her back. "I'm serious, what is it? It smells really nice. I want to get some for my wife."
Heather smiled sweetly and said, "I was gardening in the yard before I came in. The only thing I have on is bug spray."
It was at that very moment that One Draft Phil morphed into Two Draft Phil. I think the second one filled Phil, because he left.
"Yes, but it smells beautiful," Rick continued, "Which one is it?"
"It's called Off Active." She replied.
"Very apropos, don't you think?" I asked Rick.
He left shortly thereafter, and we haven't seen him since.
Go figure!
I have always tried, with varying degrees of success, or unsuccess, to keep a relatively low profile in public places. I'm making a valiant effort to do so at this very moment. But I don't think it's working very well. The eyes of Alton and Dan are upon me, trying to figure out what the heck I am up to here.
They keep looking over and smiling as they are talking. They're probably working on a way to rag on me when I get done with this.
I sure am glad that I don't have any paranoid tendencies, because they scare the heck out of me!
Boyd and Holly like to rag on me too. I think it's because they are from western Canada and they talk funny. Boyd told me he has a friend named Clifford who hates my column. "Clifford says there are idiots everywhere Steve."
"So he reads my column?"
"Yeah, every week. .. He hates it." Holly said.
"Jeez, that hurts Holly" I replied.
I never got the opportunity to meet Clifford when he was in town recently. I am truly sorry about that. I like people from Saskatchewan. I even cheered for the Roughriders for years. So I just wanted to tell Clifford howdy!
Somehow thinking about all of this Saskatchewan stuff made me think of the hometown of the Roughriders, Regina.
Regina is the Latin word for Queen.
Which reminds me of Clark, and the thong flyswatter,
which reminds me of sports,
which reminds me of football,
which reminds me of the Roughriders,
which reminds me that according to Toronto sport writers the Canadian Football League was dead in the seventies,
which reminds me of Latin, which is a dead language,
which reminds me once again, that Regina is the Latin word for Queen,
which reminds me that The Queen of England is a woman, (unlike some of the other queens of this planet).
And then, thinking of women, reminded me of One Draft Phil.
Which reminded me of Rick the Homeland Security guy, who is a friend of ours.
The three of us were having a beer and a great conversation one night recently, when the waitress approached the table to inquire how we were doing. Well to make a long story even longer, we succumbed to her charms and ordered another round.
I think it's one's patriotic duty, to keep the economy chugging away, so that was my reason for placing the order.
I guess chugging begets chugging.
When Heather returned with our order, Rick paid the bill. Then he looked up like a deer caught in headlights of his own BMW.
"Heather. May I ask you a question?" he asked.
"Sure." she replied. "What is it?"
Now before I say anymore, it's very important that everyone knows that Rick is a very happily married man.
"That perfume you're wearing smells very nice. What is it?"
Rick was thinking that if he got the name of it, he'd stop by the store to get some for his wife. A special gift, from the man who adores her. Very romantic.
Well Heather started to giggle, and began to walk away from our table.
Rick called her back. "I'm serious, what is it? It smells really nice. I want to get some for my wife."
Heather smiled sweetly and said, "I was gardening in the yard before I came in. The only thing I have on is bug spray."
It was at that very moment that One Draft Phil morphed into Two Draft Phil. I think the second one filled Phil, because he left.
"Yes, but it smells beautiful," Rick continued, "Which one is it?"
"It's called Off Active." She replied.
"Very apropos, don't you think?" I asked Rick.
He left shortly thereafter, and we haven't seen him since.
Go figure!
Accentuate The Positive
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
"You've got to accentuate the positive, Eliminate the negative, Latch on to the affirmative, Don't mess with Mister In Between." Lyrics from an old song written by Johnny Mercer and Howard Arlen.
I discovered recently that I, apparently, have an accent.
Real Texans have an accent too, … they just aren't aware of it I guess.
When some of my more frugal compadres feel the need for an inexpensive vacation, they just ask me to say "Out and about", "Oil", and "Ouch".
Then they lean their heads back and smile.
So what's that all about, eh?
I recently returned home for a vacation, secure in my mind that I would finally be free, temporarily at least, from the linguistic derision I face on an almost daily basis.
I was wrong of course.
You shouldn't go to a place populated with French speaking guys, with that type of unrealistic expectation, even if you did attend high school in the sixties.
The Customs and Immigration Gentleman, wearing the turban, asked me "And what exactly is your citizenship, little Texas guy?" I thought I looked pretty good in burnt orange.
I know I'm a bit naïve, but I thought my accent might have given it away.
I was wrong again. And his accent was even funnier than mine.
So I told him that I'm Canadian, … for now. He looked confused and I suppose, decided a test was in order.
He handed me a pen and told me to spell Quebec. So I asked him if he wanted me to spell it in English or French.
"It is spelled thee same in both of these official languages, Mr.Texas smart guy."
"Yeah but it's got an accent over the "e" in one of them, kinda sorta like you have an accent sir." I replied with a smile.
The RCMP have very nice offices in the airport in Montreal. But they don't seem to have a very refined sense of humor, (which is spelled humour, there), in at least one of those, aforementioned, official languages.
There are times when I am a fairly quick study, so this being, what I figured was one of the times I needed to be that, I became one. As quickly as I could.
After my release from custody, by an absolutely gorgeous, French accented, RCMP chick, I wasted no time in getting out of the building.
Then I went to the car where my sweetie was waiting. She loves my accent.
We met a couple of my siblings for a drink. When I talked, they chuckled. (They don't realize it, but they have accents. Even when they laugh at me.)
To make a long story short, they tell me I have a drawl now, like that is humorous or something.
God, it was good to come back home to Texas after that verbal abuse.
I much prefer the verbal abuse I get here, because I get that in pretty much one accent.
Then I thought about "Fabulous Frank."
When I first met him he told me he was originally from "New Yoke, New Yoke." I told him I didn't want him to feel nervous and he needn't stutter.
If you are the only person in The Woodlands who doesn't know and love Fabulous Frank, he arrived here from New Yoke, New Yoke after a 50 year layover in Joejah, where I'd be willing to wager, everybody knew him. He's shy like me.
But he talks even funnier than the guy at the airport in Montreal who needs a radical turbanectomy.
I know several other people who arrived here from New Yoke, New Yoke. They all talk funny if you ask me. It doesn't matter how long ago they left there.
I mean, it's the only accent on the planet that makes a visit to the pawn shop sound like they were buying dirty movies or something.
They're fun people, but hey guys, lose the accent already. Y'all sound like you're from "Flaarida" for crying out loud.
When I start thinking of all these places that all of these folk are from, I start thinking about all the different, great food you can only get there.
But you can get spaghetti anywhere, and it's always good.
So I'm going to the grocery store to get the ingredients I need to make it, like beef, sausage, tomato sauce, garlic etc.
But I need one more ingredient that draws out the flavor.
Accent™.
Cause I figured out what has been lacking in my sauce.
It was the song that inspired me.
So everybody reading this, put everything else you are doing on hold for just a minute, and join me in the song.
Bing Crosby did it.
Willie Nelson did it too.
Now we all can do it, I unison.
So everybody sing along!
"You've got to, Ac-cent-uate the pasta dish."
"Elim-in-ate the empty dish"
"De-odor-ize the curry dish"
"And sip a little vino in between"
Y'all sound just beautiful!
"You've got to accentuate the positive, Eliminate the negative, Latch on to the affirmative, Don't mess with Mister In Between." Lyrics from an old song written by Johnny Mercer and Howard Arlen.
I discovered recently that I, apparently, have an accent.
Real Texans have an accent too, … they just aren't aware of it I guess.
When some of my more frugal compadres feel the need for an inexpensive vacation, they just ask me to say "Out and about", "Oil", and "Ouch".
Then they lean their heads back and smile.
So what's that all about, eh?
I recently returned home for a vacation, secure in my mind that I would finally be free, temporarily at least, from the linguistic derision I face on an almost daily basis.
I was wrong of course.
You shouldn't go to a place populated with French speaking guys, with that type of unrealistic expectation, even if you did attend high school in the sixties.
The Customs and Immigration Gentleman, wearing the turban, asked me "And what exactly is your citizenship, little Texas guy?" I thought I looked pretty good in burnt orange.
I know I'm a bit naïve, but I thought my accent might have given it away.
I was wrong again. And his accent was even funnier than mine.
So I told him that I'm Canadian, … for now. He looked confused and I suppose, decided a test was in order.
He handed me a pen and told me to spell Quebec. So I asked him if he wanted me to spell it in English or French.
"It is spelled thee same in both of these official languages, Mr.Texas smart guy."
"Yeah but it's got an accent over the "e" in one of them, kinda sorta like you have an accent sir." I replied with a smile.
The RCMP have very nice offices in the airport in Montreal. But they don't seem to have a very refined sense of humor, (which is spelled humour, there), in at least one of those, aforementioned, official languages.
There are times when I am a fairly quick study, so this being, what I figured was one of the times I needed to be that, I became one. As quickly as I could.
After my release from custody, by an absolutely gorgeous, French accented, RCMP chick, I wasted no time in getting out of the building.
Then I went to the car where my sweetie was waiting. She loves my accent.
We met a couple of my siblings for a drink. When I talked, they chuckled. (They don't realize it, but they have accents. Even when they laugh at me.)
To make a long story short, they tell me I have a drawl now, like that is humorous or something.
God, it was good to come back home to Texas after that verbal abuse.
I much prefer the verbal abuse I get here, because I get that in pretty much one accent.
Then I thought about "Fabulous Frank."
When I first met him he told me he was originally from "New Yoke, New Yoke." I told him I didn't want him to feel nervous and he needn't stutter.
If you are the only person in The Woodlands who doesn't know and love Fabulous Frank, he arrived here from New Yoke, New Yoke after a 50 year layover in Joejah, where I'd be willing to wager, everybody knew him. He's shy like me.
But he talks even funnier than the guy at the airport in Montreal who needs a radical turbanectomy.
I know several other people who arrived here from New Yoke, New Yoke. They all talk funny if you ask me. It doesn't matter how long ago they left there.
I mean, it's the only accent on the planet that makes a visit to the pawn shop sound like they were buying dirty movies or something.
They're fun people, but hey guys, lose the accent already. Y'all sound like you're from "Flaarida" for crying out loud.
When I start thinking of all these places that all of these folk are from, I start thinking about all the different, great food you can only get there.
But you can get spaghetti anywhere, and it's always good.
So I'm going to the grocery store to get the ingredients I need to make it, like beef, sausage, tomato sauce, garlic etc.
But I need one more ingredient that draws out the flavor.
Accent™.
Cause I figured out what has been lacking in my sauce.
It was the song that inspired me.
So everybody reading this, put everything else you are doing on hold for just a minute, and join me in the song.
Bing Crosby did it.
Willie Nelson did it too.
Now we all can do it, I unison.
So everybody sing along!
"You've got to, Ac-cent-uate the pasta dish."
"Elim-in-ate the empty dish"
"De-odor-ize the curry dish"
"And sip a little vino in between"
Y'all sound just beautiful!
Fiddling On The Roof
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
Bob, (y'all remember Bob don't you?), and I were chatting recently and he recounted his weekend experiences.
It was his daughter's birthday recently, so he decided, being the "Super Dad" that he is, he would take her and a friend to the Mall for some "Birthday Bonding."
Bob's a really great guy and father, but sometimes I think he's riding a bike with no chain.
Under no circumstance I am able to think of, is it advisable to enter the mall with teenaged girls, unless you are armed with someone else's American Express card, and even then I don't think it's a wise idea. Actually, I don't think it's wise to enter the Mall period, but that may just be the old "agoraphobia" thing kicking in.
He survived the trip, even though his daughter kept telling him that it would be a lot more fun being with her mother. Of course her mother would be armed with someone else's, (Bob's), American Express card, and that would have been fun for all of them, … well unless you were Bob, maybe.
Needless to say, teenaged girls, being the type of animals that they are, they got hungry. So Bob took them to get a bite at one of the restaurants. As he recounted this joyous little adventure, he told me his daughter's friend ordered this "Cattle-ameria" thing. "You know what Cattle-amaria is don't you?", he asked me.
"It's Calamari, Bob." I replied, "Yeah, it's deep fried squid." I wanted to show him what a cosmopolitan type of person he was dealing with. "Yeah, that's it." he said, "You ever tried it?"
"Yeah," I replied. "I tried it once. I didn't like it. It stuck to the roof of my mouth. I think it must have been those suction cup things or something."
Then I recalled the story about the giant squid that recently washed up on the shore in New Zealand, or was it New York? Or New Mexico? Anyway I think it was one of those "New" places. I bet the "Cattle-amaria" from that bad boy would be the size of one of the tires you see on those Monster Trucks.
It would probably suck your brain from the roof of your mouth, after it attached itself.
The "sticking to the roof of your mouth" talk, reminded me that one of the big stores announced recently that they had , unknowingly, sold tainted peanut butter.
Hey, it was an accident, apparently.
I wonder what ever happened to quality control? They must have farmed it out to Ethiopia, or one of those other "wanna be" American countries.
I imagine that after one of the quality control inspectors was found writhing on the floor in agony, someone up the food service chain, decided that there was a distinct possibility that something he was testing might , possibly, have been responsible for his painful floor exercises. This of course would have been after discounting the possibility that he may have contracted some type of romantic sounding tropical virus.
Naturally, they would have to work their way down the list of what this poor fellow had ingested, and after dismissing the Cattle-amaria, they arrived at their final answer.
If you throw enough peanut butter at the wall, some of it is bound to stick. Somewhere.
Growing up in a large family, I learned at a very young age that peanut butter is a distinct food group. Just like pizza.
As I previously mentioned, Mr. Bob has a penchant for devouring things which have only recently been added to the food chain list. But he does that after work.
During work hours, he is fond of munching on crackers.
Peanut butter laced crackers!
Bob's a complete mess now!
He is paranoid that his "peanut butter crackers" may be filled with the dreaded, tainted P.B., from that vast chain of stores.
As I mentioned, Bob is riding a bike with no chain to begin with, so now he is terrified that that, self-same, bike with no chain, may have been carrying a basket of poison peanut butter crackers.
Don't take them to grandma's Bob.
Take her some of that Cattle-amaria stuff instead.
Heck, she's old and won't know the difference.
Her taste buds probably left this, wildly careening orb, years ago. But being the sweet, intelligent lady that she is, she has learned to rely on all of her other senses to fill in the gaps.
If it sticks to the roof of her mouth, she knows it can't be her teeth.
So, ergo, it must be peanut butter.
Back in her day, Cattle-ameria probably didn't even exist.
Or if it did, they called it bait. People were a lot brighter back then. They didn't even need calculators as they did their grocery shopping. If you had to think about it, you couldn't afford it.
Old age delivers wisdom to he who waits.
And I'd be willing to wager that right at this very moment, she's probably standing by the door, waiting for her darling grandson, riding the bike with no chain, to come wheeling up her driveway with a basketful of "Polligrip", … which works almost as well as peanut butter, … which tastes nothing like Cattle-ameria, … with baited breath.
Bob, (y'all remember Bob don't you?), and I were chatting recently and he recounted his weekend experiences.
It was his daughter's birthday recently, so he decided, being the "Super Dad" that he is, he would take her and a friend to the Mall for some "Birthday Bonding."
Bob's a really great guy and father, but sometimes I think he's riding a bike with no chain.
Under no circumstance I am able to think of, is it advisable to enter the mall with teenaged girls, unless you are armed with someone else's American Express card, and even then I don't think it's a wise idea. Actually, I don't think it's wise to enter the Mall period, but that may just be the old "agoraphobia" thing kicking in.
He survived the trip, even though his daughter kept telling him that it would be a lot more fun being with her mother. Of course her mother would be armed with someone else's, (Bob's), American Express card, and that would have been fun for all of them, … well unless you were Bob, maybe.
Needless to say, teenaged girls, being the type of animals that they are, they got hungry. So Bob took them to get a bite at one of the restaurants. As he recounted this joyous little adventure, he told me his daughter's friend ordered this "Cattle-ameria" thing. "You know what Cattle-amaria is don't you?", he asked me.
"It's Calamari, Bob." I replied, "Yeah, it's deep fried squid." I wanted to show him what a cosmopolitan type of person he was dealing with. "Yeah, that's it." he said, "You ever tried it?"
"Yeah," I replied. "I tried it once. I didn't like it. It stuck to the roof of my mouth. I think it must have been those suction cup things or something."
Then I recalled the story about the giant squid that recently washed up on the shore in New Zealand, or was it New York? Or New Mexico? Anyway I think it was one of those "New" places. I bet the "Cattle-amaria" from that bad boy would be the size of one of the tires you see on those Monster Trucks.
It would probably suck your brain from the roof of your mouth, after it attached itself.
The "sticking to the roof of your mouth" talk, reminded me that one of the big stores announced recently that they had , unknowingly, sold tainted peanut butter.
Hey, it was an accident, apparently.
I wonder what ever happened to quality control? They must have farmed it out to Ethiopia, or one of those other "wanna be" American countries.
I imagine that after one of the quality control inspectors was found writhing on the floor in agony, someone up the food service chain, decided that there was a distinct possibility that something he was testing might , possibly, have been responsible for his painful floor exercises. This of course would have been after discounting the possibility that he may have contracted some type of romantic sounding tropical virus.
Naturally, they would have to work their way down the list of what this poor fellow had ingested, and after dismissing the Cattle-amaria, they arrived at their final answer.
If you throw enough peanut butter at the wall, some of it is bound to stick. Somewhere.
Growing up in a large family, I learned at a very young age that peanut butter is a distinct food group. Just like pizza.
As I previously mentioned, Mr. Bob has a penchant for devouring things which have only recently been added to the food chain list. But he does that after work.
During work hours, he is fond of munching on crackers.
Peanut butter laced crackers!
Bob's a complete mess now!
He is paranoid that his "peanut butter crackers" may be filled with the dreaded, tainted P.B., from that vast chain of stores.
As I mentioned, Bob is riding a bike with no chain to begin with, so now he is terrified that that, self-same, bike with no chain, may have been carrying a basket of poison peanut butter crackers.
Don't take them to grandma's Bob.
Take her some of that Cattle-amaria stuff instead.
Heck, she's old and won't know the difference.
Her taste buds probably left this, wildly careening orb, years ago. But being the sweet, intelligent lady that she is, she has learned to rely on all of her other senses to fill in the gaps.
If it sticks to the roof of her mouth, she knows it can't be her teeth.
So, ergo, it must be peanut butter.
Back in her day, Cattle-ameria probably didn't even exist.
Or if it did, they called it bait. People were a lot brighter back then. They didn't even need calculators as they did their grocery shopping. If you had to think about it, you couldn't afford it.
Old age delivers wisdom to he who waits.
And I'd be willing to wager that right at this very moment, she's probably standing by the door, waiting for her darling grandson, riding the bike with no chain, to come wheeling up her driveway with a basketful of "Polligrip", … which works almost as well as peanut butter, … which tastes nothing like Cattle-ameria, … with baited breath.
THE G-MEN
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
I have a really good buddy that, for arguments sake, I'll call Alton.
I think he'd like that name, because, oddly enough, his mother picked the same one for him. This was long before I ever met him, so apparently she and I have the same taste in names.
Alton is a great guy, and he makes, absolutely, the very best jerky in Texas, which is the same as saying, in the world.
Alton is very picky about the people he hangs out with, but he lets me hang out with him anyway. I think it's a sympathy thing for the immigrant.
If I ever grow up, I think I'd like to be like Alton, someday.
He has, (with all due respects to Boz), absolutely the finest garage in Texas, which, as I noted earlier, is the same thing as saying, in the entire world.
Boz, to give credit where it's due, has a really fine garage too, with surround sound. This is something which gives him additional "style points", and has him a really close number two in the great garage contest.
Alton even shared his jerky recipe with Boz, who is admittedly a novice in the "jerky world" of Texas. I haven't noticed anyone writhing in agony in his driveway, so I can only surmise that the recipe is working out for him. This has an added side benefit of helping keep the neighborhood "litter free", (unless you count the cats, … and there are too many cats.).
Alton has probably got the biggest heart of anyone I have ever met, but Boz makes awesome chicken wings, so there's a wash there, somewhere.
In the place from whence I have been exiled, garage parties did not exist. One would have to serve frozen entrees for the greater part of the year.
Back home, we parked the vehicle in the garage in the hopes that it would start in the morning. I'm pretty sure that I like this set up better.
Boz, deep fries his wings in oil. I'm not certain as yet whether this is a Texas petroleum thing, or if he was inspired by one of his old Harley's.
Alton doesn't deep fry anything, so far as I know, but he can cook up a storm on his smoker.
They both have beer fridges in their garages, so again it's a sister kisser.
Alton has some really amazing old toys and the like in his garage. Boz has a Harley in his, which kind of gets in the way of the football game, but it looks nice. And the ladies like it too.
Sometimes I think I should get one of those "Harley" things for my garage too. I wouldn't attempt to ride the thing, so it wouldn't even need an engine that runs. That might save me some money, perhaps. But none the less, my garage would look a lot better than it does currently.
Who knows, I might make the front cover of "Better Garages and Gardens" or something.
I'm not so big a fool that I wouldn't realize it was likely because of the "Harley" thing, with the non functional, infernal combustion engine, but it would be good for my currently bruised ego.
Bob, (we spoke about him in the last column), has a garage as well, … but I've never actually seen the inside of it. My guess is that it's probably full of cats though. Bob loves his cats, hence the title of his company, "Fat Cat Productions", (just one of the 1,843 projects we had on the go last week.")
As I also mentioned in the last column, Bob likes to cook "weird" things.
I really think it would be a lot better if I never do see the interior of his garage, given that scenario. The name "Fat Cat", frankly, worries me, although Bob doesn't look Chinese any more than I look "Texan" in my ten gallon touque. (that's a French Canadian version of a "garcon vache" hat, as a matter of clarification. Kinda sorta like a ski hat for the linguistically limited.)
There is a reason that the Frenchie folks escorted me out of Quebec years ago. ("AAAAY Henglish, go dat way han see hif you can discover someplace 'ot.") It was only a few years ago I realized where they were really telling me to just leave quietly.
Well off I wandered, and I missed Lowsyanna by a few miles, but I discovered "Alton's Garage" and Boz's, "Garage Party World Headquarters."
Next I'm going to begin my search for the disabled Harley thing.
I'd search out the garage sales, but I can't due to the fact that they are legal everywhere in the world except in The Woodlands, it would definitely increase my "degree of difficulty" to an un bearable level.
I think they're illegal because it would be too difficult to police the food sales and Marvin Zindler might show up in town. If he were born in Montreal like me, his snippets on garage sales and Harley things would have been renamed "Ice on the slime Machine".
Over the Christmas Season, I drove around several neighborhoods to look at the decorations. Then I had an idea.
Now that Spring is fast approaching, I think I'm going to drive through the same neighborhoods and check out garages, … and garage parties, …. and food, … and disabled Harley things.
And maybe, just maybe, I might find one even better than Alton's.
But I doubt it.
That's why I'll start from his garage and leave a trail of bread crumbs behind me as I go.
Then I'll legally change my name to Hansel.
But then again …
I have a really good buddy that, for arguments sake, I'll call Alton.
I think he'd like that name, because, oddly enough, his mother picked the same one for him. This was long before I ever met him, so apparently she and I have the same taste in names.
Alton is a great guy, and he makes, absolutely, the very best jerky in Texas, which is the same as saying, in the world.
Alton is very picky about the people he hangs out with, but he lets me hang out with him anyway. I think it's a sympathy thing for the immigrant.
If I ever grow up, I think I'd like to be like Alton, someday.
He has, (with all due respects to Boz), absolutely the finest garage in Texas, which, as I noted earlier, is the same thing as saying, in the entire world.
Boz, to give credit where it's due, has a really fine garage too, with surround sound. This is something which gives him additional "style points", and has him a really close number two in the great garage contest.
Alton even shared his jerky recipe with Boz, who is admittedly a novice in the "jerky world" of Texas. I haven't noticed anyone writhing in agony in his driveway, so I can only surmise that the recipe is working out for him. This has an added side benefit of helping keep the neighborhood "litter free", (unless you count the cats, … and there are too many cats.).
Alton has probably got the biggest heart of anyone I have ever met, but Boz makes awesome chicken wings, so there's a wash there, somewhere.
In the place from whence I have been exiled, garage parties did not exist. One would have to serve frozen entrees for the greater part of the year.
Back home, we parked the vehicle in the garage in the hopes that it would start in the morning. I'm pretty sure that I like this set up better.
Boz, deep fries his wings in oil. I'm not certain as yet whether this is a Texas petroleum thing, or if he was inspired by one of his old Harley's.
Alton doesn't deep fry anything, so far as I know, but he can cook up a storm on his smoker.
They both have beer fridges in their garages, so again it's a sister kisser.
Alton has some really amazing old toys and the like in his garage. Boz has a Harley in his, which kind of gets in the way of the football game, but it looks nice. And the ladies like it too.
Sometimes I think I should get one of those "Harley" things for my garage too. I wouldn't attempt to ride the thing, so it wouldn't even need an engine that runs. That might save me some money, perhaps. But none the less, my garage would look a lot better than it does currently.
Who knows, I might make the front cover of "Better Garages and Gardens" or something.
I'm not so big a fool that I wouldn't realize it was likely because of the "Harley" thing, with the non functional, infernal combustion engine, but it would be good for my currently bruised ego.
Bob, (we spoke about him in the last column), has a garage as well, … but I've never actually seen the inside of it. My guess is that it's probably full of cats though. Bob loves his cats, hence the title of his company, "Fat Cat Productions", (just one of the 1,843 projects we had on the go last week.")
As I also mentioned in the last column, Bob likes to cook "weird" things.
I really think it would be a lot better if I never do see the interior of his garage, given that scenario. The name "Fat Cat", frankly, worries me, although Bob doesn't look Chinese any more than I look "Texan" in my ten gallon touque. (that's a French Canadian version of a "garcon vache" hat, as a matter of clarification. Kinda sorta like a ski hat for the linguistically limited.)
There is a reason that the Frenchie folks escorted me out of Quebec years ago. ("AAAAY Henglish, go dat way han see hif you can discover someplace 'ot.") It was only a few years ago I realized where they were really telling me to just leave quietly.
Well off I wandered, and I missed Lowsyanna by a few miles, but I discovered "Alton's Garage" and Boz's, "Garage Party World Headquarters."
Next I'm going to begin my search for the disabled Harley thing.
I'd search out the garage sales, but I can't due to the fact that they are legal everywhere in the world except in The Woodlands, it would definitely increase my "degree of difficulty" to an un bearable level.
I think they're illegal because it would be too difficult to police the food sales and Marvin Zindler might show up in town. If he were born in Montreal like me, his snippets on garage sales and Harley things would have been renamed "Ice on the slime Machine".
Over the Christmas Season, I drove around several neighborhoods to look at the decorations. Then I had an idea.
Now that Spring is fast approaching, I think I'm going to drive through the same neighborhoods and check out garages, … and garage parties, …. and food, … and disabled Harley things.
And maybe, just maybe, I might find one even better than Alton's.
But I doubt it.
That's why I'll start from his garage and leave a trail of bread crumbs behind me as I go.
Then I'll legally change my name to Hansel.
But then again …
WHEN ELECTRICITY CAME TO TEXAS
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
In the year 1600 AD, an English scientist by the name of William Gilbert, first coined the term "Electricity", from the Greek word for Amber. It really wasn't anything new, as Westerners had known, as early as 600 BC, that amber becomes charged, when rubbed. But Willie figured " What the heck, I'll give it a name.", thereby making a name for himself, somewhere in the annals of history.
In the Texas of 1830 something, very few, if any Texans, had ever heard of this William Gilbert fellow. Not yet having the luxury of indoor plumbing, they were still in the process of catching up to the Roman Empire, much less the damned British one. Real cowboys drank coffee on the range, and whiskey at the bar. Tea, as all cowboys knew, was for sissies who rode side saddle, (on saddles with no horns, ... how danged ridiculous!) and went "Tch, tch, instead of giddyup".
In the Texas of 1830 something, our old friend, Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, with a wife, a young child, (God only knew how many more were to come), and a mortgage, was back in the saddle, herding cows, to make ends meet. Jose had never heard of Luigi Galvani, who had discovered, in 1786, that the discharge of static electricity, (presumably during a thunder storm in France), would make a frog's leg jerk. And, even if Jose had known of the existence of Alessandro Volta and his battery, it would have mattered little, as he needed a battery for his horse, just about as badly as he needed a block heater for it.
In the summer of 1830 something, Texas was suffering in the midst of a mild drought, which made herding cattle, (which required regular watering), somewhat of a pain in the backside.
Every so often, the wind would pick up, blowing dust across the plain, making it rather difficult to keep track of all the cattle. Jose and his fellow cowboys, soldiered on, and were doing a darn fine job of keeping the cattle drive on schedule, under trying circumstances.
One particularly windy summer evening, Jose was dispatched to cover the western edge of the herd, ensuring that there were no cattle straying away and getting lost. The trail boss knew that given the drought conditions, and the inevitable loss of cattle due to the effects of dehydration, the price per head would rise dramatically. So there was extra pressure placed on the cowhands, to limit the loss of cattle which wandered off into the unknown on every cattle drive.
As the wind picked up in strength, dust was flying everywhere that evening, and visibility was diminished to practically nothing. Jose Igor Sean Washington the first tried his level best to control the cattle on his side of the herd, but given the conditions, it was getting to be a powerful tough job to do.
Herding cattle can be an awfully lonely job at times, Jose knew. To fight the loneliness, (as well as the boredom), he had, over the years, picked up the habit of talking to the cattle, while tending to them. To further alleviate the boredom, and to help build stronger personal relationships with them, he had also given each one its own name. Although cattle have a tendency to look remarkably similar, as any cowhand worth his whiskey knows, they each have
some trait, unique unto themselves. So this practice of giving each a name, also helped Jose to keep his mind sharp.
Jose's cattle were given such names as Bessy, Dottie, Belle and Elma. Sometimes after a barmaid somewhere, others for characters from the Bible, and still others from towns he had either been through or heard of from other cowhands.
As the wind continued to howl that evening, one of the cows, "Elma", was sidling away from the herd. Jose, somehow caught sight of her as she was wandering off, and turning his horse, took off to retrieve her. Jose was pretty certain that she was nearby, but the dust storm was picking up strength, and the sun was just about over the horizon. Jose, who by this time had built a solid relationship with Elma, was distraught. He swivelled his head from side to side, but he could see nothing. Just as he was about to give up, he saw a glow through the dust and dark. With great trepidation, Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, turned his steed, and rode, cautiously, toward the light. As he neared, Jose saw Elma, bathed in a light, emanating from her horns.
Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, as religious as he was, (having followed several of his forefathers' many and varied religions, at various times in his life), and knowing nothing of static electricity, leapt from his horse and dropped to his knees on the ground by Elma. There was no doubt, in the mind of Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, that he was privy to "A Miracle"!
"Holy Cow!", he exclaimed, bowing his head before all the many and varied God(s) of his forefathers.
Slowly, the glow faded, and Jose, summoning all the courage he could, remounted his horse and escorted the cow he now called, "St. Elma", (in view of his recent religious experience), back to the herd.
Back in camp, Jose, still shaking, recounted his religious experience to the other cowhands, who were certain that Jose must have been eating peyote buttons out there. " Sure Jose, a burning cow, huh?", they laughed. That night, as the dust storm continued to rage, several of the other cowboys, (seeing the exact same apparition Jose had described), discovered that he had not. Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, (although he was not aware of it at the time), had discovered "electricity" in Texas, ... in what cowboys, would come to call, "St. Elma's Fire".
And, as a historical footnote, it also gave birth to the famous line in the Christmas Carol that goes, " The cattle are glowing, the poor baby lays.".....
In the year 1600 AD, an English scientist by the name of William Gilbert, first coined the term "Electricity", from the Greek word for Amber. It really wasn't anything new, as Westerners had known, as early as 600 BC, that amber becomes charged, when rubbed. But Willie figured " What the heck, I'll give it a name.", thereby making a name for himself, somewhere in the annals of history.
In the Texas of 1830 something, very few, if any Texans, had ever heard of this William Gilbert fellow. Not yet having the luxury of indoor plumbing, they were still in the process of catching up to the Roman Empire, much less the damned British one. Real cowboys drank coffee on the range, and whiskey at the bar. Tea, as all cowboys knew, was for sissies who rode side saddle, (on saddles with no horns, ... how danged ridiculous!) and went "Tch, tch, instead of giddyup".
In the Texas of 1830 something, our old friend, Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, with a wife, a young child, (God only knew how many more were to come), and a mortgage, was back in the saddle, herding cows, to make ends meet. Jose had never heard of Luigi Galvani, who had discovered, in 1786, that the discharge of static electricity, (presumably during a thunder storm in France), would make a frog's leg jerk. And, even if Jose had known of the existence of Alessandro Volta and his battery, it would have mattered little, as he needed a battery for his horse, just about as badly as he needed a block heater for it.
In the summer of 1830 something, Texas was suffering in the midst of a mild drought, which made herding cattle, (which required regular watering), somewhat of a pain in the backside.
Every so often, the wind would pick up, blowing dust across the plain, making it rather difficult to keep track of all the cattle. Jose and his fellow cowboys, soldiered on, and were doing a darn fine job of keeping the cattle drive on schedule, under trying circumstances.
One particularly windy summer evening, Jose was dispatched to cover the western edge of the herd, ensuring that there were no cattle straying away and getting lost. The trail boss knew that given the drought conditions, and the inevitable loss of cattle due to the effects of dehydration, the price per head would rise dramatically. So there was extra pressure placed on the cowhands, to limit the loss of cattle which wandered off into the unknown on every cattle drive.
As the wind picked up in strength, dust was flying everywhere that evening, and visibility was diminished to practically nothing. Jose Igor Sean Washington the first tried his level best to control the cattle on his side of the herd, but given the conditions, it was getting to be a powerful tough job to do.
Herding cattle can be an awfully lonely job at times, Jose knew. To fight the loneliness, (as well as the boredom), he had, over the years, picked up the habit of talking to the cattle, while tending to them. To further alleviate the boredom, and to help build stronger personal relationships with them, he had also given each one its own name. Although cattle have a tendency to look remarkably similar, as any cowhand worth his whiskey knows, they each have
some trait, unique unto themselves. So this practice of giving each a name, also helped Jose to keep his mind sharp.
Jose's cattle were given such names as Bessy, Dottie, Belle and Elma. Sometimes after a barmaid somewhere, others for characters from the Bible, and still others from towns he had either been through or heard of from other cowhands.
As the wind continued to howl that evening, one of the cows, "Elma", was sidling away from the herd. Jose, somehow caught sight of her as she was wandering off, and turning his horse, took off to retrieve her. Jose was pretty certain that she was nearby, but the dust storm was picking up strength, and the sun was just about over the horizon. Jose, who by this time had built a solid relationship with Elma, was distraught. He swivelled his head from side to side, but he could see nothing. Just as he was about to give up, he saw a glow through the dust and dark. With great trepidation, Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, turned his steed, and rode, cautiously, toward the light. As he neared, Jose saw Elma, bathed in a light, emanating from her horns.
Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, as religious as he was, (having followed several of his forefathers' many and varied religions, at various times in his life), and knowing nothing of static electricity, leapt from his horse and dropped to his knees on the ground by Elma. There was no doubt, in the mind of Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, that he was privy to "A Miracle"!
"Holy Cow!", he exclaimed, bowing his head before all the many and varied God(s) of his forefathers.
Slowly, the glow faded, and Jose, summoning all the courage he could, remounted his horse and escorted the cow he now called, "St. Elma", (in view of his recent religious experience), back to the herd.
Back in camp, Jose, still shaking, recounted his religious experience to the other cowhands, who were certain that Jose must have been eating peyote buttons out there. " Sure Jose, a burning cow, huh?", they laughed. That night, as the dust storm continued to rage, several of the other cowboys, (seeing the exact same apparition Jose had described), discovered that he had not. Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, (although he was not aware of it at the time), had discovered "electricity" in Texas, ... in what cowboys, would come to call, "St. Elma's Fire".
And, as a historical footnote, it also gave birth to the famous line in the Christmas Carol that goes, " The cattle are glowing, the poor baby lays.".....
Andy Walks With Me … Andy Talks With Me
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
I had the opportunity to sit with my good friend Andy, recently.
Andy is very likely, the most intelligent person I know. I have absolutely no idea why he likes to sit around and pass the time with me, but apparently he does, and I'm grateful for that little blessing in my otherwise turbulent existence.
When I first saw Andy, he was sitting by himself, enjoying a cold draft beer and some overpriced, exotically flavored, potato chips, while valiantly attempting to make some kind of sense out of Judge Judy. Haute cuisine at it's finest, enhanced by entertainment directed lethally, at the lowest common denominator.
I think he does this to rest his brain and rejuvenate himself. It's his version of intellectual yoga or something of that nature.
Andy is on the cutting edge of a lot of things, but to be truthful, fashion isn't one of them. I love the way he dresses, but it is, admittedly, a little off the runway. Oh heck, …. it isn't anywhere even approaching the "Area Code" of the airport.
Just like Bob, Andy has "ideas". But unlike Bob, Andy's ideas actually turn a profit, which to the best of my knowledge, is a good thing.
He's made a lot of money with his ideas over the years. Money he apparently has spent wisely, rather than wasting it on frivolous items such as fashionable clothing.
One time, way back when gas prices were still within the means of us "poor people", Andy saw something on the news that planted a seed in his mind.
Andy only watches the news after his "Judge Judy", intelligence stretching exercises. Mental calisthenics, designed to insure that you don't strain your brain, or tear a mental muscle, while digesting CNN's daily, blue plate special.
Andy had completed his mental warm up routine, when he saw something on the blue plate special which caught his attention. "Steve" he said to me, "do you have any money?" "Enough for a couple of the one dollar draft specials." I replied. "Why? Are you planning on going to The Shop For Men or something?"
Andy laughed with me, .. or maybe at me, I'm not really sure which. "No.' he replied, "But there's trouble percolating in the Middle East sand, and I think if you bought a couple of tankers full of gas and parked them for a few weeks, you could sell them back and turn a tidy little profit."
I have absolutely no idea how he clairvoyantly sees these things, but I figured, a couple of weeks later, that had I been astute enough to take him seriously, I would have been sitting pretty, in the finance department.
Ever since that time, I pay attention to everything he says.
Well, almost everything. I am still hanging on to my own fashion sense, which after watching "Judge Judy" the other day, has me questioning that decision.
Being the halcyon days of Crawfish Season, (or would that be Seasoned Crawfish?), we discussed in depth, the sanity of paying three dollars a pound for a commodity that yields about 2 ounces of edible tissue as a return on investment. And those suckers are growing everywhere.
You don't even have to feed them, unlike the goldfish I used to buy for my daughter when she was young. Those babies would last about a week, which would be followed by our burial at sea service, at which time we would place our hands over our hearts, drop the fish, (which I told her was sleeping and dreaming of going back home because it missed its mom), into the commode, say goodbye, and reverently pull the handle, sending it home to mama. Very touching!
So Andy and I decided that it might be a financially prudent move, to go into the "Crawfish Business". But we're going to do it better. Crawfish are messy eating, due to all the guts and stuff that go flying about during the dining phase of the season. So we devised, what we are certain is a better idea.
At first we thought that perhaps, a "Crawfish Fondue", would be kind of cool, until we remembered that they have to be cooked "live", and the stabbing with the fondue fork, and the ensuing, deafening screams of pain they would surely emit, might be construed as cruelty to animals, and we'd have those PETA folks after us. So we placed that idea on the back burner.
But then we arrived at a better idea. A big "thank you", to Judge Judy and all our friends at CNN.
We could "purge" them prior to cooking, thereby getting rid of that yucky yellow stuff, and enhancing the entire dining experience. "Yeah, but we'd need to buy one of those jewler's eyepiece things to do the enema. It'll be tough to get the hose up there, and it might be kind of labor intensive. We'd need to get about fifty bucks a pound, which is a little on the "dear" side, even for Cajuns." I said.
So we placed that idea toward he back burner, (right next to the fondue), until we had what, (if I do say so myself), may conceivably, evolve into the idea of the millennium.) ("Lord it truly is, hard to be humble.)
I looked at Andy. "Hey, they usually boil the buggers. Why don't we just put them in water full of Ex-Lax prior to the big boil, … and let'em purge themselves!"
As I mentioned at the beginning of all of this, Andy is brilliant, so not much gets by him, even on a bad day (and this had been looking like one of those bad days, prior to the idea of the millennium thing.)
Andy's eyes lit up, and he smiled sagely at me. "Great idea Steve!" he said, and then added,
"Then we could rinse them off before boiling them, so people don't end up getting loose bowels from the purging solution."
As I said, Andy is a brilliant man, but even "brilliant men", miss something once in a while.
"Why bother rinsing them?" I asked. "Cook them like that. The purging water would be like the Cajun equivalent of "Picante Sauce." "Besides, look at the spicy crap they put in the water normally. Everyone who eats them is gonna end up with a mild case of diarrhea anyway, so what's the big deal?"
That was when he stood up, and grabbed his 4 pounds of crawfish from the table, straightened his straw fedora, smiled and said, "I like it!"
Then he started to walk away with a smile on his face.
A few steps removed from the table, he turned back toward me.
"Well we need to be careful Steve. We don't want to get sued for copyright infringement or something."
"What copyright infringement?" I asked.
"Well I was at the seafood store last week."
"They already sell something they call Crappie."
Hearing someone call my name, I turned away for a mere second and when I turned back toward Andy, he was gone.
"Who was that?" my friend asked, as he pulled up a chair.
"That was Andy." I replied.
"Well he sure disappeared in a hurry. … but he left something on the table."
"What?" I asked.
"It's just a lone, silver fondue fork."
I had the opportunity to sit with my good friend Andy, recently.
Andy is very likely, the most intelligent person I know. I have absolutely no idea why he likes to sit around and pass the time with me, but apparently he does, and I'm grateful for that little blessing in my otherwise turbulent existence.
When I first saw Andy, he was sitting by himself, enjoying a cold draft beer and some overpriced, exotically flavored, potato chips, while valiantly attempting to make some kind of sense out of Judge Judy. Haute cuisine at it's finest, enhanced by entertainment directed lethally, at the lowest common denominator.
I think he does this to rest his brain and rejuvenate himself. It's his version of intellectual yoga or something of that nature.
Andy is on the cutting edge of a lot of things, but to be truthful, fashion isn't one of them. I love the way he dresses, but it is, admittedly, a little off the runway. Oh heck, …. it isn't anywhere even approaching the "Area Code" of the airport.
Just like Bob, Andy has "ideas". But unlike Bob, Andy's ideas actually turn a profit, which to the best of my knowledge, is a good thing.
He's made a lot of money with his ideas over the years. Money he apparently has spent wisely, rather than wasting it on frivolous items such as fashionable clothing.
One time, way back when gas prices were still within the means of us "poor people", Andy saw something on the news that planted a seed in his mind.
Andy only watches the news after his "Judge Judy", intelligence stretching exercises. Mental calisthenics, designed to insure that you don't strain your brain, or tear a mental muscle, while digesting CNN's daily, blue plate special.
Andy had completed his mental warm up routine, when he saw something on the blue plate special which caught his attention. "Steve" he said to me, "do you have any money?" "Enough for a couple of the one dollar draft specials." I replied. "Why? Are you planning on going to The Shop For Men or something?"
Andy laughed with me, .. or maybe at me, I'm not really sure which. "No.' he replied, "But there's trouble percolating in the Middle East sand, and I think if you bought a couple of tankers full of gas and parked them for a few weeks, you could sell them back and turn a tidy little profit."
I have absolutely no idea how he clairvoyantly sees these things, but I figured, a couple of weeks later, that had I been astute enough to take him seriously, I would have been sitting pretty, in the finance department.
Ever since that time, I pay attention to everything he says.
Well, almost everything. I am still hanging on to my own fashion sense, which after watching "Judge Judy" the other day, has me questioning that decision.
Being the halcyon days of Crawfish Season, (or would that be Seasoned Crawfish?), we discussed in depth, the sanity of paying three dollars a pound for a commodity that yields about 2 ounces of edible tissue as a return on investment. And those suckers are growing everywhere.
You don't even have to feed them, unlike the goldfish I used to buy for my daughter when she was young. Those babies would last about a week, which would be followed by our burial at sea service, at which time we would place our hands over our hearts, drop the fish, (which I told her was sleeping and dreaming of going back home because it missed its mom), into the commode, say goodbye, and reverently pull the handle, sending it home to mama. Very touching!
So Andy and I decided that it might be a financially prudent move, to go into the "Crawfish Business". But we're going to do it better. Crawfish are messy eating, due to all the guts and stuff that go flying about during the dining phase of the season. So we devised, what we are certain is a better idea.
At first we thought that perhaps, a "Crawfish Fondue", would be kind of cool, until we remembered that they have to be cooked "live", and the stabbing with the fondue fork, and the ensuing, deafening screams of pain they would surely emit, might be construed as cruelty to animals, and we'd have those PETA folks after us. So we placed that idea on the back burner.
But then we arrived at a better idea. A big "thank you", to Judge Judy and all our friends at CNN.
We could "purge" them prior to cooking, thereby getting rid of that yucky yellow stuff, and enhancing the entire dining experience. "Yeah, but we'd need to buy one of those jewler's eyepiece things to do the enema. It'll be tough to get the hose up there, and it might be kind of labor intensive. We'd need to get about fifty bucks a pound, which is a little on the "dear" side, even for Cajuns." I said.
So we placed that idea toward he back burner, (right next to the fondue), until we had what, (if I do say so myself), may conceivably, evolve into the idea of the millennium.) ("Lord it truly is, hard to be humble.)
I looked at Andy. "Hey, they usually boil the buggers. Why don't we just put them in water full of Ex-Lax prior to the big boil, … and let'em purge themselves!"
As I mentioned at the beginning of all of this, Andy is brilliant, so not much gets by him, even on a bad day (and this had been looking like one of those bad days, prior to the idea of the millennium thing.)
Andy's eyes lit up, and he smiled sagely at me. "Great idea Steve!" he said, and then added,
"Then we could rinse them off before boiling them, so people don't end up getting loose bowels from the purging solution."
As I said, Andy is a brilliant man, but even "brilliant men", miss something once in a while.
"Why bother rinsing them?" I asked. "Cook them like that. The purging water would be like the Cajun equivalent of "Picante Sauce." "Besides, look at the spicy crap they put in the water normally. Everyone who eats them is gonna end up with a mild case of diarrhea anyway, so what's the big deal?"
That was when he stood up, and grabbed his 4 pounds of crawfish from the table, straightened his straw fedora, smiled and said, "I like it!"
Then he started to walk away with a smile on his face.
A few steps removed from the table, he turned back toward me.
"Well we need to be careful Steve. We don't want to get sued for copyright infringement or something."
"What copyright infringement?" I asked.
"Well I was at the seafood store last week."
"They already sell something they call Crappie."
Hearing someone call my name, I turned away for a mere second and when I turned back toward Andy, he was gone.
"Who was that?" my friend asked, as he pulled up a chair.
"That was Andy." I replied.
"Well he sure disappeared in a hurry. … but he left something on the table."
"What?" I asked.
"It's just a lone, silver fondue fork."
Sole Man
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
A few weeks ago, The College Park High School PTA held a fundraiser at Papa's Icehouse, which featured "The Grateful Geezers", a fabulously entertaining band, that plays all the music we old (?) folks got into trouble to, in our own high school days.
Revisiting the scene of the crime, in my mind's eye, brings back a flood of memories, which for a product of the sixties, is no easy task. Come to think of it, it was no easy task in the sixties either.
Looking around these days, I don't think I'd like to be in high school now, possibly due to one of those "flashback" things I hear and read about, because truthfully, I didn't particularly want to be in high school then, either. You wouldn't have known that from my grades, because a recent review of them indicates to me now, that I was seriously attempting to get another year or two in.
I was by Papa's recently, and visited with a few of my more astute friends, who are able to solve all the problems of the world, in a matter of mere minutes.
We were having a wonderful time of it, and had pretty much saved the free world, as well as a vast portion of the un-free world, and I can only surmise that we must have been feeling a little smug about how talented we were. That was when Rich shook his head sadly, looked down at his foot and declared he had suffered a blowout and was going to head over to Academy to upgrade his decrepit "plimsoles".
He held his foot up, for the viewing, and sure enough, he had run right out of one ply of rubber, leaving the bottom looking like a racing slick.
Upon closer inspection, I thought to myself that perhaps he ought to head over to see Tim, at Discount Tire instead. I didn't know they made shoes that were that big, unless they painted USS on the sides of them.
When I was younger, I thought I had big feet, but fortunately, they stopped growing by the time I was twelve, to let the rest of my body catch up. It never did, and apparently my brain and my feet were marching lockstep in the growth department.
That, in a nutshell, would completely explain my immaturity. I sleep well at night now, thanks to that revelation.
Rich lowered his foot, right after the "viewing', and someone who shall remain anonymous, (in the best interests of his own longevity), smiled cunningly, and spoke up. "Hey, Rich must have had a date last night, … too bad he had to sell his sole for it."
I have read Heloise in the newspaper, and you can remove blood stains by washing them off with cold water.
Heloise was in the newspaper, (and old looking), way back when I was in high school. So I figure she's probably even older now, and she must know a lot of stuff. I wonder if she was married to Moses once upon a time, back when she was a "cub" columnist.
I would write and ask her, but you need to send a self-addressed, stamped envelope with your question. But if I did that, she'd know where I live, and she could track me down, hurt me REAL BAD, and I know she knows how to remove the blood stains. So I think I won't bother asking.
"Hey Rich", someone else piped up, "you selling "sole food" in the kitchen now?"
Being bright enough to figure out not to write Heloise with a roadmap enclosed, I thought to myself, (knowing full well that I was myself), I wouldn't take a chance teasing a guy, who can apparently run right out of the soles of his shoes.
I would never have believed it possible, but the conversation actually deteriorated after that.
"The Beatles had an album named after those Nicaraguan Gunboats Rich." "What was that?" came his reply.
"Rubber Sole"! "Number One … with a rubber bullet!"
Then the entire Moron Tabernacle Chorus, began singing, "I'm a Sole Man", in several keys, including one or two which had never been known to mankind previously.
Some people should not be permitted to sing in public. If you don't believe me, just show up for a Karaoke Night.
I thought that we should have won some kind of award for our sparkling rendition, … but the entire place emptied out for some reason.
It couldn't have been because of Alton's dancing. Fred Astaire would've turned green with envy.
I think they probably went over to Academy.
To get dancing shoes like Alton's.
Or maybe to get running shoes like Rich's.
Or horse shoes, (we were, after all, a little off pitch.)
So I thought about it a little longer, and it came to me!
They sell ear plugs for hunters in that place.
Really good ear plugs! The kind that muffle gunshots.
Gunshots from guns which may be loaded with rubber bullets!!
"I'm a Sole Man!"
"Go dig a hole, man!"
……… Jeez! Everybody's a critic these days.
A few weeks ago, The College Park High School PTA held a fundraiser at Papa's Icehouse, which featured "The Grateful Geezers", a fabulously entertaining band, that plays all the music we old (?) folks got into trouble to, in our own high school days.
Revisiting the scene of the crime, in my mind's eye, brings back a flood of memories, which for a product of the sixties, is no easy task. Come to think of it, it was no easy task in the sixties either.
Looking around these days, I don't think I'd like to be in high school now, possibly due to one of those "flashback" things I hear and read about, because truthfully, I didn't particularly want to be in high school then, either. You wouldn't have known that from my grades, because a recent review of them indicates to me now, that I was seriously attempting to get another year or two in.
I was by Papa's recently, and visited with a few of my more astute friends, who are able to solve all the problems of the world, in a matter of mere minutes.
We were having a wonderful time of it, and had pretty much saved the free world, as well as a vast portion of the un-free world, and I can only surmise that we must have been feeling a little smug about how talented we were. That was when Rich shook his head sadly, looked down at his foot and declared he had suffered a blowout and was going to head over to Academy to upgrade his decrepit "plimsoles".
He held his foot up, for the viewing, and sure enough, he had run right out of one ply of rubber, leaving the bottom looking like a racing slick.
Upon closer inspection, I thought to myself that perhaps he ought to head over to see Tim, at Discount Tire instead. I didn't know they made shoes that were that big, unless they painted USS on the sides of them.
When I was younger, I thought I had big feet, but fortunately, they stopped growing by the time I was twelve, to let the rest of my body catch up. It never did, and apparently my brain and my feet were marching lockstep in the growth department.
That, in a nutshell, would completely explain my immaturity. I sleep well at night now, thanks to that revelation.
Rich lowered his foot, right after the "viewing', and someone who shall remain anonymous, (in the best interests of his own longevity), smiled cunningly, and spoke up. "Hey, Rich must have had a date last night, … too bad he had to sell his sole for it."
I have read Heloise in the newspaper, and you can remove blood stains by washing them off with cold water.
Heloise was in the newspaper, (and old looking), way back when I was in high school. So I figure she's probably even older now, and she must know a lot of stuff. I wonder if she was married to Moses once upon a time, back when she was a "cub" columnist.
I would write and ask her, but you need to send a self-addressed, stamped envelope with your question. But if I did that, she'd know where I live, and she could track me down, hurt me REAL BAD, and I know she knows how to remove the blood stains. So I think I won't bother asking.
"Hey Rich", someone else piped up, "you selling "sole food" in the kitchen now?"
Being bright enough to figure out not to write Heloise with a roadmap enclosed, I thought to myself, (knowing full well that I was myself), I wouldn't take a chance teasing a guy, who can apparently run right out of the soles of his shoes.
I would never have believed it possible, but the conversation actually deteriorated after that.
"The Beatles had an album named after those Nicaraguan Gunboats Rich." "What was that?" came his reply.
"Rubber Sole"! "Number One … with a rubber bullet!"
Then the entire Moron Tabernacle Chorus, began singing, "I'm a Sole Man", in several keys, including one or two which had never been known to mankind previously.
Some people should not be permitted to sing in public. If you don't believe me, just show up for a Karaoke Night.
I thought that we should have won some kind of award for our sparkling rendition, … but the entire place emptied out for some reason.
It couldn't have been because of Alton's dancing. Fred Astaire would've turned green with envy.
I think they probably went over to Academy.
To get dancing shoes like Alton's.
Or maybe to get running shoes like Rich's.
Or horse shoes, (we were, after all, a little off pitch.)
So I thought about it a little longer, and it came to me!
They sell ear plugs for hunters in that place.
Really good ear plugs! The kind that muffle gunshots.
Gunshots from guns which may be loaded with rubber bullets!!
"I'm a Sole Man!"
"Go dig a hole, man!"
……… Jeez! Everybody's a critic these days.
Oh No, I’ve Been “Googled”
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
I received an e-mail from an old friend recently. I hadn't heard from him this millennium, and had wondered where he was these days.
So I e-mailed back, to catch up on what had transpired in his life since we last communicated.
To make a long story short, he's still as boring as he ever was, and as a result, absolutely nothing has happened in his life, …. for a very long time.
He has no idea of how fortunate he is!
So I asked how he had located me.
"I Googled you." he replied.
Well to be absolutely honest, I was taken aback. Hey, I'm a guy! I don't think guys don't like getting Googled! It's unnatural or something.
He told me that I was at the top of the list, so he knew I'd been "Googled" a lot lately. "You've been hit on a bunch, judging from what I can see." He told me.
For some strange reason I felt violated!
(But kind of exciting, in a perverse sort of way.)
Well after regaining my composure I made an executive decision.
I headed to "Papa's" for a beer.
Jeez, I was shook up. I'm a single guy, who survived the sixties and seventies, but knowing you've been "Googled" would probably shake up anyone I know.
I mean, I've been to the Doctor for the prostate thing, (which wasn't a lot of fun really) but being "Googled!" Man, that was upsetting, even to an unbalanced individual like myself.
So I got into the car, damp hands shaking, turned the key in the ignition, shoved the car into "Drive", and got the heck out of the neighborhood as quickly as my Firestones would take me.
It's not easy driving when your heart is beating out of control, and your feet are shaking nearly as badly as your hands.
Somehow I made it in one piece, shut off the engine and got out of my vehicle. I took a veeeery deep breath, and proceeded to the entrance, vainly attempting to look as nonchalant as possible.
As I entered "Papa's", it felt as though every eye in the place was staring at me.
So I looked at the assembled throng and smiled confidently.
"Give me a Bud Light please." I said to the barmaid, who smiled broadly at me in response. She deftly reached down and plopped an icy bottle on the bar. And she smiled some more.
I picked the bottle up with one of my sweaty shaking hands and took a sip.
"God, ….she knows!" I thought to myself.
I turned around and it seemed like everyone was smiling at me.
"What are y'all smiling about?" I asked defensively. "It's Saturday Steve. What's your problem?"
I hesitated for a second, and then figure it was time to be honest. "I just got "Googled" by a friend of mine."
"No kidding? How's it feel?" Alton asked me.
Alton doesn't "Do" computers, so I immediately felt a whole lot worse than I did when I walked in the door. Everybody sitting at the table giggled at his comment, because they can be like children, and children can be cruel.
Alton called the waitress over, "Hey, have you ever Googled Steve? Apparently he's been getting a lot of Google lately." She smiled and blurted out, "Not yet," and she kind of blushed, " .. but I don't have anything going on tonight." She continued. "Maybe I'll just stay in and Google him at home."
Apparently some people found this funny, although I don't know why. Carl came over to the table and tossed in his two cents worth. "Have you ever Googled yourself Steve?"
"Well, yeah I have." I admitted sheepishly. "everybody does it. But you have to be careful, because it can be addictive." "How'd it feel?" Carl asked, and everybody started to chuckle.
I would have gotten a lot more upset, but I know Rhonda will fix him for it.
Then Rich, my "Sole Brother" from a previous column, asked how often I Googled myself, and he smiled too.
"You trying to tell me you've never ever Googled yourself? Not even when you were home alone?" I countered. "Nope! I don't need to. I have a girlfriend." (I think he was bragging.)
"I let her Google me. She likes doing that."
"Well what's the result when she does?" I asked. "Oh, it's a mess. I show up way down the list." He fired back. "Well I guess you don't get Googled enough." I relied.
All of this Google talk was getting out of hand.
"Look! I don't want to talk about it anymore." I said. "It's a very personal thing!"
I looked over towards Alton, "It's really nort funny ya know. You meet people at a bar, they get your name, then they go home and Google you! And you don't even realize it's happening sometimes."
"Don't get so worked up about it Steve." he said.
"You're right, Alton." I answered. "But I'm getting out of here and heading back to the house. And since you think it's so danged funny, I think I'm gonna Google you when I get there!"
The chuckling stopped right then and there!
Until Alton smiled and said, "You can try, ….. but I'll tell you now, I ain't that kind of guy!"
So if you're reading this, I dare you to go home tonight and try it. Try "Googling" yourself tonight.
But I bet you'll like it so much that you do it more than once!!!
I received an e-mail from an old friend recently. I hadn't heard from him this millennium, and had wondered where he was these days.
So I e-mailed back, to catch up on what had transpired in his life since we last communicated.
To make a long story short, he's still as boring as he ever was, and as a result, absolutely nothing has happened in his life, …. for a very long time.
He has no idea of how fortunate he is!
So I asked how he had located me.
"I Googled you." he replied.
Well to be absolutely honest, I was taken aback. Hey, I'm a guy! I don't think guys don't like getting Googled! It's unnatural or something.
He told me that I was at the top of the list, so he knew I'd been "Googled" a lot lately. "You've been hit on a bunch, judging from what I can see." He told me.
For some strange reason I felt violated!
(But kind of exciting, in a perverse sort of way.)
Well after regaining my composure I made an executive decision.
I headed to "Papa's" for a beer.
Jeez, I was shook up. I'm a single guy, who survived the sixties and seventies, but knowing you've been "Googled" would probably shake up anyone I know.
I mean, I've been to the Doctor for the prostate thing, (which wasn't a lot of fun really) but being "Googled!" Man, that was upsetting, even to an unbalanced individual like myself.
So I got into the car, damp hands shaking, turned the key in the ignition, shoved the car into "Drive", and got the heck out of the neighborhood as quickly as my Firestones would take me.
It's not easy driving when your heart is beating out of control, and your feet are shaking nearly as badly as your hands.
Somehow I made it in one piece, shut off the engine and got out of my vehicle. I took a veeeery deep breath, and proceeded to the entrance, vainly attempting to look as nonchalant as possible.
As I entered "Papa's", it felt as though every eye in the place was staring at me.
So I looked at the assembled throng and smiled confidently.
"Give me a Bud Light please." I said to the barmaid, who smiled broadly at me in response. She deftly reached down and plopped an icy bottle on the bar. And she smiled some more.
I picked the bottle up with one of my sweaty shaking hands and took a sip.
"God, ….she knows!" I thought to myself.
I turned around and it seemed like everyone was smiling at me.
"What are y'all smiling about?" I asked defensively. "It's Saturday Steve. What's your problem?"
I hesitated for a second, and then figure it was time to be honest. "I just got "Googled" by a friend of mine."
"No kidding? How's it feel?" Alton asked me.
Alton doesn't "Do" computers, so I immediately felt a whole lot worse than I did when I walked in the door. Everybody sitting at the table giggled at his comment, because they can be like children, and children can be cruel.
Alton called the waitress over, "Hey, have you ever Googled Steve? Apparently he's been getting a lot of Google lately." She smiled and blurted out, "Not yet," and she kind of blushed, " .. but I don't have anything going on tonight." She continued. "Maybe I'll just stay in and Google him at home."
Apparently some people found this funny, although I don't know why. Carl came over to the table and tossed in his two cents worth. "Have you ever Googled yourself Steve?"
"Well, yeah I have." I admitted sheepishly. "everybody does it. But you have to be careful, because it can be addictive." "How'd it feel?" Carl asked, and everybody started to chuckle.
I would have gotten a lot more upset, but I know Rhonda will fix him for it.
Then Rich, my "Sole Brother" from a previous column, asked how often I Googled myself, and he smiled too.
"You trying to tell me you've never ever Googled yourself? Not even when you were home alone?" I countered. "Nope! I don't need to. I have a girlfriend." (I think he was bragging.)
"I let her Google me. She likes doing that."
"Well what's the result when she does?" I asked. "Oh, it's a mess. I show up way down the list." He fired back. "Well I guess you don't get Googled enough." I relied.
All of this Google talk was getting out of hand.
"Look! I don't want to talk about it anymore." I said. "It's a very personal thing!"
I looked over towards Alton, "It's really nort funny ya know. You meet people at a bar, they get your name, then they go home and Google you! And you don't even realize it's happening sometimes."
"Don't get so worked up about it Steve." he said.
"You're right, Alton." I answered. "But I'm getting out of here and heading back to the house. And since you think it's so danged funny, I think I'm gonna Google you when I get there!"
The chuckling stopped right then and there!
Until Alton smiled and said, "You can try, ….. but I'll tell you now, I ain't that kind of guy!"
So if you're reading this, I dare you to go home tonight and try it. Try "Googling" yourself tonight.
But I bet you'll like it so much that you do it more than once!!!
What Else Is There To Say?
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
The good Lord works in mysterious ways sometimes.
I've heard it said many times, but I just had an epiphany as I stood at the urinal, of all the unlikely places in the world to have one of those things.
As I stood there, I thought about my dad.
I'm still not certain as to why I thought about him, because there were several scenarios which come to mind, none of them more likely or credible than the others.
It may have been the recollection that the report cards I brought home in high school would get him p---d off with my seeming lack of effort.
Or it may have been that when he came to visit, I know he stood at the very same spot and did what nature makes beer drinkers do.
In the grand scheme of things, it is of no major importance why I thought about him at that very moment, it was just something that happened.
I remembered as well, how when I was a teenager, heading out the door on the weekend, he would look me in the eye and give me those instructions of his, "Try and stay out of trouble!"
I think I scared him because I was the eldest son, and every time I screwed up, it was the first time he had to deal with something one of his kids had done wrong, because the girls never did anything bad. My younger brothers would watch my every adventure carefully, cataloguing my misdeeds in their minds for future reference.
They teach you a lot of useful information in our school system, but they don't teach you how to be a good parent, a fact that I discovered for myself when I became one.
I was fortunate, because my dad was a quick learner, so by the time one of my brothers would make a bad decision, dad would just shake his head and say, "It's nothing to worry about, Steve did that 5 years ago."
It always amazed me, (and does so to this day), how he matured so quickly.
Dad used to come here and visit my family and me sometimes. My dad loved Texas, and all of my friends down here. He'd sit and have a beer and regale all of my buddies with tales of the long past misadventures of his eldest son.
I guess it was payback of sorts, for those infamous report cards. They didn't seem to p---s him off any longer. I knew back then that he would get over them someday.
I recall once he told me he thanked God, every day for putting me in his life. I had taught him all about patience and understanding. I still like to believe that it was a compliment of some type.
He once told me that he was happy that I live here. "You have really good friends Steve, and they like you." He didn't say it, but I think he liked the fact that I was far enough away that I wouldn't embarrass him in a public place from that big a distance.
I also remembered that one time, that he discovered a poem I had written. He took it and went to work, so I thought to myself, "Oh God, I did it again."
He was a super athlete and was as distraught about his eldest boy's skinny legs as his eldest son was. And now he thought I was a writer. Definitely not a "jock" kind of thing to be.
I was shocked when he came home that evening, armed with my poem, which had been typed up by his secretary, and about ten other copies of it.
He handed me the neatly typed copy, and held onto the other ten. "What about the others?" I asked him. He looked at me sternly and replied, "They're for me. I'm going to show them off to my friends."
I drew a deep, relieved breath, walked to the door and said, "See ya later dad, I'm heading out to meet my friends."
He kind of smiled, gave me a hug and said to me, "Have fun. … try and stay out of trouble."
He really enjoyed this column, and bragged about it to all his buddies in Vancouver apparently. Just like I bragged about him to all of my buddies in Houston.
I/We lost him last night.
He's in a better place now. And I like to think that that better place is better because he's there.
I talked to him Sunday. He sounded really weak and told me he had to lie down. "Thanks for calling Steve."
"I love you dad." I told him.
I'll never get to do that again, so with your permission, I'd like to say it again, … one last time."
"I love you dad."
"I miss you."
"Thanks for everything you did for me."
… "Try and stay out of trouble if you can."
The good Lord works in mysterious ways sometimes.
I've heard it said many times, but I just had an epiphany as I stood at the urinal, of all the unlikely places in the world to have one of those things.
As I stood there, I thought about my dad.
I'm still not certain as to why I thought about him, because there were several scenarios which come to mind, none of them more likely or credible than the others.
It may have been the recollection that the report cards I brought home in high school would get him p---d off with my seeming lack of effort.
Or it may have been that when he came to visit, I know he stood at the very same spot and did what nature makes beer drinkers do.
In the grand scheme of things, it is of no major importance why I thought about him at that very moment, it was just something that happened.
I remembered as well, how when I was a teenager, heading out the door on the weekend, he would look me in the eye and give me those instructions of his, "Try and stay out of trouble!"
I think I scared him because I was the eldest son, and every time I screwed up, it was the first time he had to deal with something one of his kids had done wrong, because the girls never did anything bad. My younger brothers would watch my every adventure carefully, cataloguing my misdeeds in their minds for future reference.
They teach you a lot of useful information in our school system, but they don't teach you how to be a good parent, a fact that I discovered for myself when I became one.
I was fortunate, because my dad was a quick learner, so by the time one of my brothers would make a bad decision, dad would just shake his head and say, "It's nothing to worry about, Steve did that 5 years ago."
It always amazed me, (and does so to this day), how he matured so quickly.
Dad used to come here and visit my family and me sometimes. My dad loved Texas, and all of my friends down here. He'd sit and have a beer and regale all of my buddies with tales of the long past misadventures of his eldest son.
I guess it was payback of sorts, for those infamous report cards. They didn't seem to p---s him off any longer. I knew back then that he would get over them someday.
I recall once he told me he thanked God, every day for putting me in his life. I had taught him all about patience and understanding. I still like to believe that it was a compliment of some type.
He once told me that he was happy that I live here. "You have really good friends Steve, and they like you." He didn't say it, but I think he liked the fact that I was far enough away that I wouldn't embarrass him in a public place from that big a distance.
I also remembered that one time, that he discovered a poem I had written. He took it and went to work, so I thought to myself, "Oh God, I did it again."
He was a super athlete and was as distraught about his eldest boy's skinny legs as his eldest son was. And now he thought I was a writer. Definitely not a "jock" kind of thing to be.
I was shocked when he came home that evening, armed with my poem, which had been typed up by his secretary, and about ten other copies of it.
He handed me the neatly typed copy, and held onto the other ten. "What about the others?" I asked him. He looked at me sternly and replied, "They're for me. I'm going to show them off to my friends."
I drew a deep, relieved breath, walked to the door and said, "See ya later dad, I'm heading out to meet my friends."
He kind of smiled, gave me a hug and said to me, "Have fun. … try and stay out of trouble."
He really enjoyed this column, and bragged about it to all his buddies in Vancouver apparently. Just like I bragged about him to all of my buddies in Houston.
I/We lost him last night.
He's in a better place now. And I like to think that that better place is better because he's there.
I talked to him Sunday. He sounded really weak and told me he had to lie down. "Thanks for calling Steve."
"I love you dad." I told him.
I'll never get to do that again, so with your permission, I'd like to say it again, … one last time."
"I love you dad."
"I miss you."
"Thanks for everything you did for me."
… "Try and stay out of trouble if you can."
Fairy Tales Can Come True
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
"Once upon a time, long, long ago and far away, there was a beautiful young woman."
Jeez, that should have been warning enough right there, but I wasn't paying attention again!
Heck, as though it wasn't bad enough that I have to enter the pharmacy to buy those "female" type products for my daughter, but it actually got even worse than that recently.
Yes Virginia, there is a sanity clause. I've seen it. It was sneaked into my contract by Bob, when I wasn't paying attention.
The last time I wasn't paying attention.
I'm fairly certain that Bob has "an out" this time, but he just doesn't realize it, because he's my publisher and doesn't bother reading anything that I write.
I think he must have spell check, as well as a "sanity clause" in his own contract as well, and is simply protecting his family.
I've never asked him before, but I'd be willing to bet that his daughter sends him to the pharmacy for "female" type products as well. (I think it's some kind of a "daughter thing", their mother's teach them.)
It's pointless to speculate, but a lot of what I do is pointless anyway, so bear with me on this one.
Recently, my sweetie was coming to visit. "Can I ask you a big favor?" she said.
Well, as I said, I guess I wasn't paying attention again. "Sure thing sweetie! Just name it."
I may have said something dumber than that at some point in my past, … but I'll never admit it publicly.
"Well since I'll only be there for a few days, and since I won't be there long enough to do any shopping, would you be a darling and pick something up for me at the store?"
Now, given my earlier statement regarding "dumber statements", I have no alternative other than to admit that my reply came really close, but I consider it a tie at best.
I buy the groceries every week, so no big deal. "Ok, what do you want me to get? Those "Chili Peanuts?"
"No." (pregnant pause), "I was thinking more along the lines of that "secret" place you have down there."
"Aaaaaaaargh!"
I screamed in terror, as visions of "doing the mall" assaulted my mind.
But I took a deep breath, calmed myself down, stopped shaking and answered timidly, "Ok sweetie."
Tentatively, I stepped out the door, got into the car and headed off to visit "Miss Vickie's".
I think I'm going to go into the lingerie business. They get a lot of money, for very little material, in that particular store. I think it's because they have to buy micro needles and surgical thread to stitch that stuff together.
Victoria's Secret is sort of like "Six Flags Over Testosterone" for us old guys. It's actually a really good place to meet women if you're a single guy, but it costs a lot of money.
So I entered the store and started looking around, trying to appear like I knew what I was doing. Yeah suuuure!
I looked so danged healthy with that red flush to my cheeks. As quickly as possible I chose a couple of items I thought she would like, wandered sheepishly to the cash, and was asked by the sensitive young lady if I wanted an "Angel Card." That would entitle me to be a member of the free panty of the month club or something. At least I think that's what she said. I was having a lot of trouble concentrating on anything other than getting out as quickly and inconspicuously as humanly possible. "Besides" I thought to myself, "what do I need an Angel Card for? I think I'm in heaven already."
And then I thought to myself, "What if I meet one of my neighbors? Or one of the guys I coached baseball with. Or even worse, one of my kids, or one of their friends."
Well, to make a long story even longer, that was when I discovered just what Victoria's Secret is.
At one point in my life, I thought it was that you would probably have to be about 16 to fit into any of that stuff, but I was wrong.
Victoria's Secret is that they only have bright, florescent pink bags that scream out to everyone in the mall, just where exactly you have been.
There are no secrets in the mall, a fact that was becoming blatently obvious to me by the minute.
I strode quickly towards the exit when a sudden realization struck me, right between my "Shirley Temple" baby blues.
All the women were smiling at me!
"Damn. Maybe they think I was shopping for me!!!"
"Maybe they think I'm a little light in the Tony Lama's!"
Well, for the sake of historical accuracy, (as well as truth in journalism), I set a personal best time, and quite conceivably a land speed record for exiting the mall.
I started up the car and headed directly for the hospital, where I was treated for third degree wind burn.
I'm going to be all right.
They told me so at the hospital.
But I still get the shakes now, every time I hear that old Beatles song.
You probably remember it. If you're old enough.
I never want to hear it again.
"Listen"
"Do you want to know a secret"
"Do you promise not to tell."
Once upon a time, long, long ago and far away, there was a beautiful young lady."
Thank God.
So all you lovely ladies who may have seen me at the mall, I just want you to know that this is NOT a Fairy Tale!
Y'all got that?
"Once upon a time, long, long ago and far away, there was a beautiful young woman."
Jeez, that should have been warning enough right there, but I wasn't paying attention again!
Heck, as though it wasn't bad enough that I have to enter the pharmacy to buy those "female" type products for my daughter, but it actually got even worse than that recently.
Yes Virginia, there is a sanity clause. I've seen it. It was sneaked into my contract by Bob, when I wasn't paying attention.
The last time I wasn't paying attention.
I'm fairly certain that Bob has "an out" this time, but he just doesn't realize it, because he's my publisher and doesn't bother reading anything that I write.
I think he must have spell check, as well as a "sanity clause" in his own contract as well, and is simply protecting his family.
I've never asked him before, but I'd be willing to bet that his daughter sends him to the pharmacy for "female" type products as well. (I think it's some kind of a "daughter thing", their mother's teach them.)
It's pointless to speculate, but a lot of what I do is pointless anyway, so bear with me on this one.
Recently, my sweetie was coming to visit. "Can I ask you a big favor?" she said.
Well, as I said, I guess I wasn't paying attention again. "Sure thing sweetie! Just name it."
I may have said something dumber than that at some point in my past, … but I'll never admit it publicly.
"Well since I'll only be there for a few days, and since I won't be there long enough to do any shopping, would you be a darling and pick something up for me at the store?"
Now, given my earlier statement regarding "dumber statements", I have no alternative other than to admit that my reply came really close, but I consider it a tie at best.
I buy the groceries every week, so no big deal. "Ok, what do you want me to get? Those "Chili Peanuts?"
"No." (pregnant pause), "I was thinking more along the lines of that "secret" place you have down there."
"Aaaaaaaargh!"
I screamed in terror, as visions of "doing the mall" assaulted my mind.
But I took a deep breath, calmed myself down, stopped shaking and answered timidly, "Ok sweetie."
Tentatively, I stepped out the door, got into the car and headed off to visit "Miss Vickie's".
I think I'm going to go into the lingerie business. They get a lot of money, for very little material, in that particular store. I think it's because they have to buy micro needles and surgical thread to stitch that stuff together.
Victoria's Secret is sort of like "Six Flags Over Testosterone" for us old guys. It's actually a really good place to meet women if you're a single guy, but it costs a lot of money.
So I entered the store and started looking around, trying to appear like I knew what I was doing. Yeah suuuure!
I looked so danged healthy with that red flush to my cheeks. As quickly as possible I chose a couple of items I thought she would like, wandered sheepishly to the cash, and was asked by the sensitive young lady if I wanted an "Angel Card." That would entitle me to be a member of the free panty of the month club or something. At least I think that's what she said. I was having a lot of trouble concentrating on anything other than getting out as quickly and inconspicuously as humanly possible. "Besides" I thought to myself, "what do I need an Angel Card for? I think I'm in heaven already."
And then I thought to myself, "What if I meet one of my neighbors? Or one of the guys I coached baseball with. Or even worse, one of my kids, or one of their friends."
Well, to make a long story even longer, that was when I discovered just what Victoria's Secret is.
At one point in my life, I thought it was that you would probably have to be about 16 to fit into any of that stuff, but I was wrong.
Victoria's Secret is that they only have bright, florescent pink bags that scream out to everyone in the mall, just where exactly you have been.
There are no secrets in the mall, a fact that was becoming blatently obvious to me by the minute.
I strode quickly towards the exit when a sudden realization struck me, right between my "Shirley Temple" baby blues.
All the women were smiling at me!
"Damn. Maybe they think I was shopping for me!!!"
"Maybe they think I'm a little light in the Tony Lama's!"
Well, for the sake of historical accuracy, (as well as truth in journalism), I set a personal best time, and quite conceivably a land speed record for exiting the mall.
I started up the car and headed directly for the hospital, where I was treated for third degree wind burn.
I'm going to be all right.
They told me so at the hospital.
But I still get the shakes now, every time I hear that old Beatles song.
You probably remember it. If you're old enough.
I never want to hear it again.
"Listen"
"Do you want to know a secret"
"Do you promise not to tell."
Once upon a time, long, long ago and far away, there was a beautiful young lady."
Thank God.
So all you lovely ladies who may have seen me at the mall, I just want you to know that this is NOT a Fairy Tale!
Y'all got that?
Life Is A Carnival
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
"Ooh wee, Ooh wee baby,
"Ooh wee, Ooh wee baby"
"Won't you let me take you on a sea cruise"
Sort of close to the words of an old song I haven't heard for a long time.
I stood at the dock at Galveston and stared at the bright, white, "Carnival" cruise ship, pinching myself.
I went through my mental checklist, ticking things off.
Passport ... Check.
Green Card, (which is yellow, probably because of the French surname as near as I can guess) ... Check.
Immodium ... Check.
Duct Tape. (In the event the Immodium doesn't kick in quickly enough, you can tape the cheeks together.) ... Damn!!!! (Forgot the duct tape.)
Rosary. (For the rapid effectiveness of the Immodium.) ... Check.
Girlfriend ...... Check. (Would have been at the top of the list, but I had to let the Immodium take top billing cause without it there might not be a girlfriend to worry about.)
Drawing a deep breath, I strode confidently up the gangplank, double checking my pockets for the Immodium.
After setting the baggage into the cabin, it was time to explore my temporary, new home. I discovered very quickly that it sure is easy to get lost on one of those things. The announcement came over the P.A. system that we all needed to head back to our cabins to get our life preservers and head to the lounge for the mandatory Life Boat Drill.
Somebody told me where to go, and I thought to myself that this was pretty much a normal state of affairs in my life.
Now I've never been on a cruise before, so as we headed for our Life Boat Station, (that's where you go in the event that you hit an iceberg in The Gulf Of Mexico and the ship decides to do it's impersonation of a submarine with screen doors), I thought that the people sitting at the restaurant by the pier, viewing 2,000 people in ugly orange life jackets, wouldn't have been too inspired to go on the next cruise.
As we headed out into the gulf, I made a mental note to drop a line to the marketing department of Carnival, in the event we made it back home. I realize that they have to do the drill, but perhaps they might consider doing it after leaving the port.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Well, we all survived the lifeboat drill, and were more than happy to shed the orange life jackets, especially the Aggies on board. I guess Aggies weren't meant to take cruises or something. Or at least not for the sinking part.
There are a lot of bars on a cruise ship. After the confidence inspiring lifeboat drill, I understood just why that is.
Yup, we were underway! The left-handed, French Canadian/Irish crossbreed, immigrant guy was set to invade Mexico. But I figured out that before a fellow such as myself does one of those friendly invasion things, it is necessary to arm oneself.
The weapon of choice was the terrifying, not to mention inspiring, "Umbrella Drink".
They are very fine people at Carnival Cruise Lines, and they change the ammunition every day. All of it, very effective.
I sat by the pool each day, insuring that I was well armed for the invasion of Mexico, with Bob. (not Bob my publisher Bob), but Bob from San Marcos, as well as his wonderful wife Jean, and of course, my sweetie.
I have to mention that the staff on the "Ecstasy, took very good care of each and every one of the invasion party. (And what a party it was!)
I worked diligently on my tan, because if you are a Mexican National, there is probably nothing more insulting than being invaded by an army of people led by a guy in a bathing suit, with really skinny legs, the color of Edam cheese. It's a respect thing.
I had checked all over the ship and discovered that someone must have stolen the Crow's Nest, because it was gone. But they left the pool and the poolside bar in its place, so it seemed to be a good trade to me. And there was food everywhere! All day and all night!
But then I discovered the best part, I didn't have too clean the table or do the dishes.
And then there was the formal dinner, designed especially so I could spill stuff all over my tie at someplace other than a wedding or a funeral.
Well I was now completely sated. I was well loaded with umbrella drink ammo. No need to clean the room, because they have people who do that for you, kind of like my kids have at home.
The bed was so comfortable I slept like a baby, and dreamt of Mayans and the forthcoming Invasion of Mexico.
And I still had the entire pack of Immodium!
Oh yeah, …. Where's the girlfriend?
There she is!!!
I gazed from the bow of the ship, early the next morning, armed with a cup of coffee, and spied the Island of Cozumel.
I was gonna be a jeep commando!
The invasion was imminent!
The pilot boat pulled along side the ship to guide us in safely to the dock.
A calmness enveloped my entire body, including the now tanned if still skinny legs.
"Sergio! Bring me a damned umbrella drink! Destiny awaits! The invasion is on!"
Sergio wasn't anywhere to be seen.
The bar hadn't opened yet.
The best planned invasion in my life was starting to go awry before it even began.
I placed my hand in my pocket.
I felt the Immodium still there.
A confident smile spread across my face.
The bar opened.
"Por favor senor, pour some more!"
"Viva Stevie!"
We have seen the enemy! And he is us!!!!!!!
TO BE CONTINUED...
"Ooh wee, Ooh wee baby,
"Ooh wee, Ooh wee baby"
"Won't you let me take you on a sea cruise"
Sort of close to the words of an old song I haven't heard for a long time.
I stood at the dock at Galveston and stared at the bright, white, "Carnival" cruise ship, pinching myself.
I went through my mental checklist, ticking things off.
Passport ... Check.
Green Card, (which is yellow, probably because of the French surname as near as I can guess) ... Check.
Immodium ... Check.
Duct Tape. (In the event the Immodium doesn't kick in quickly enough, you can tape the cheeks together.) ... Damn!!!! (Forgot the duct tape.)
Rosary. (For the rapid effectiveness of the Immodium.) ... Check.
Girlfriend ...... Check. (Would have been at the top of the list, but I had to let the Immodium take top billing cause without it there might not be a girlfriend to worry about.)
Drawing a deep breath, I strode confidently up the gangplank, double checking my pockets for the Immodium.
After setting the baggage into the cabin, it was time to explore my temporary, new home. I discovered very quickly that it sure is easy to get lost on one of those things. The announcement came over the P.A. system that we all needed to head back to our cabins to get our life preservers and head to the lounge for the mandatory Life Boat Drill.
Somebody told me where to go, and I thought to myself that this was pretty much a normal state of affairs in my life.
Now I've never been on a cruise before, so as we headed for our Life Boat Station, (that's where you go in the event that you hit an iceberg in The Gulf Of Mexico and the ship decides to do it's impersonation of a submarine with screen doors), I thought that the people sitting at the restaurant by the pier, viewing 2,000 people in ugly orange life jackets, wouldn't have been too inspired to go on the next cruise.
As we headed out into the gulf, I made a mental note to drop a line to the marketing department of Carnival, in the event we made it back home. I realize that they have to do the drill, but perhaps they might consider doing it after leaving the port.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Well, we all survived the lifeboat drill, and were more than happy to shed the orange life jackets, especially the Aggies on board. I guess Aggies weren't meant to take cruises or something. Or at least not for the sinking part.
There are a lot of bars on a cruise ship. After the confidence inspiring lifeboat drill, I understood just why that is.
Yup, we were underway! The left-handed, French Canadian/Irish crossbreed, immigrant guy was set to invade Mexico. But I figured out that before a fellow such as myself does one of those friendly invasion things, it is necessary to arm oneself.
The weapon of choice was the terrifying, not to mention inspiring, "Umbrella Drink".
They are very fine people at Carnival Cruise Lines, and they change the ammunition every day. All of it, very effective.
I sat by the pool each day, insuring that I was well armed for the invasion of Mexico, with Bob. (not Bob my publisher Bob), but Bob from San Marcos, as well as his wonderful wife Jean, and of course, my sweetie.
I have to mention that the staff on the "Ecstasy, took very good care of each and every one of the invasion party. (And what a party it was!)
I worked diligently on my tan, because if you are a Mexican National, there is probably nothing more insulting than being invaded by an army of people led by a guy in a bathing suit, with really skinny legs, the color of Edam cheese. It's a respect thing.
I had checked all over the ship and discovered that someone must have stolen the Crow's Nest, because it was gone. But they left the pool and the poolside bar in its place, so it seemed to be a good trade to me. And there was food everywhere! All day and all night!
But then I discovered the best part, I didn't have too clean the table or do the dishes.
And then there was the formal dinner, designed especially so I could spill stuff all over my tie at someplace other than a wedding or a funeral.
Well I was now completely sated. I was well loaded with umbrella drink ammo. No need to clean the room, because they have people who do that for you, kind of like my kids have at home.
The bed was so comfortable I slept like a baby, and dreamt of Mayans and the forthcoming Invasion of Mexico.
And I still had the entire pack of Immodium!
Oh yeah, …. Where's the girlfriend?
There she is!!!
I gazed from the bow of the ship, early the next morning, armed with a cup of coffee, and spied the Island of Cozumel.
I was gonna be a jeep commando!
The invasion was imminent!
The pilot boat pulled along side the ship to guide us in safely to the dock.
A calmness enveloped my entire body, including the now tanned if still skinny legs.
"Sergio! Bring me a damned umbrella drink! Destiny awaits! The invasion is on!"
Sergio wasn't anywhere to be seen.
The bar hadn't opened yet.
The best planned invasion in my life was starting to go awry before it even began.
I placed my hand in my pocket.
I felt the Immodium still there.
A confident smile spread across my face.
The bar opened.
"Por favor senor, pour some more!"
"Viva Stevie!"
We have seen the enemy! And he is us!!!!!!!
TO BE CONTINUED...
Shake Your Booty
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
I was sitting in the rear of Papa's, when Rich walked over to me.
"Whazzup?" he asked.
"Trying to write my column." I replied.
"Trying?" he asked.
"Very." I responded.
Rich shook his head. "What's it about?". I told him it was about my cruise, "You know, the Invasion of Mexico."
"Well, pardon me for saying it, but you look kind of stressed. Must be the ice water you're drinking."
Rich is a good guy, but he knows nothing about the stress of an invasion.
"It's supposed to be a humorous column, but I'm depressed." I told him. "You look it." he said. "But you looked pretty relaxed when you came back. You had a nice tan too."
"It was the umbrella drinks, and my cell phone didn't work."
"Well what happened between then and now?" he asked me.
"Life."
"Huh?"
"You know. Kids, bills, …no more umbrella drinks, … all that kind of thing."
"Well the umbrella thing I can see, but the other stuff is normal life Steve. Don't let it get you down."
"Yeah right. But then there's the fact the invasion didn't go down very well."
"What do you mean? You looked pretty happy when you got back. I saw you."
"I had a Jeep and drove all around the Island trying to find people to conquer."
"Well, didn't you find any?" He looked at me quizzickly.
"Yeah, bunches of them."
"Well what happened?"
"I tried to get them to surrender."
"And?"
"They didn't."
"Why not?"
"Guess I'm a lousy invader or something. Might have been the damned skinny legs. May have been the fact I shaved before I got off the bloody ship."
"The fact you shaved?!!!"
"Yeah, I think invader types usually have beards or something. It adds to the intimidation factor. And I think they have better legs or something."
"Yeah, you might be onto something there." He smiled, (or stifled a laugh). "You know you could go to the doctor and talk to him. They have happy pills for depressed people."
"Happy people make even lousier conquerors than I was."
"Well what did you do or say to get them to surrender anyway?"
"Well, the only people I met who spoke English were the tourists on the beach. So there wasn't any sense in conquering tourists as near as I could tell."
"And?"
"Well my Spanish is close to non existent. So I yelled at them."
"What did you yell?"
"I forgot my spanish/English dictionary at home so I yelled the only thing I could think of in Spanish."
"What was that?"
"Cerveza!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Then what happened?"
"Well, at least I scared them I think."
"Why's that Steve?"
"Cause they all started to try and suck up to me. They brought me beer! I think they were trying to make friends with me or something. It kind of worked I guess. You lose your ferocity after a few beers, …so we made friends instead, which really sucks when you're trying to be a conqueror. I read that somewhere."
"You know what Cerveza means in Spanish, right Steve?"
"Yeah it means surrender I think."
"Only if you're a chick." he replied.
"And what about your sweetie? What did she think of it?"
"I don't think she was real impressed. Not even one bloody person surrendered."
"What else did you do?"
"Oh, I wanted to see where the Mayan's lived. So we looked around, avoiding lizards and stuff for a while."
"How was that?"
"It sucked too. All I saw was a bunch of messed up rocks. I think I know why they left now. The place was ruined. I could have just gone to that Houston Gardens place and looked at the gravel pile. Would have saved a lot of money too."
"So you didn't bring back any treasure I guess, huh?"
"Nope. They have a casino on the ship and I tried to win a bunch so I could fool everybody."
"No luck"
"Oh yeah. All kinds of luck. …..But it was the bad kind. So I'm depressed."
"Hey, what's that picture there?"
"They take one of you and your sweetie before the formal dinner night. We were on our way to the dining room."
"Nice picture."
"Thanks."
"Looks like a treasure to me."
"Yeah, it really is." I replied.
"It's all I've got now. I lost my booty in the casino."
I was sitting in the rear of Papa's, when Rich walked over to me.
"Whazzup?" he asked.
"Trying to write my column." I replied.
"Trying?" he asked.
"Very." I responded.
Rich shook his head. "What's it about?". I told him it was about my cruise, "You know, the Invasion of Mexico."
"Well, pardon me for saying it, but you look kind of stressed. Must be the ice water you're drinking."
Rich is a good guy, but he knows nothing about the stress of an invasion.
"It's supposed to be a humorous column, but I'm depressed." I told him. "You look it." he said. "But you looked pretty relaxed when you came back. You had a nice tan too."
"It was the umbrella drinks, and my cell phone didn't work."
"Well what happened between then and now?" he asked me.
"Life."
"Huh?"
"You know. Kids, bills, …no more umbrella drinks, … all that kind of thing."
"Well the umbrella thing I can see, but the other stuff is normal life Steve. Don't let it get you down."
"Yeah right. But then there's the fact the invasion didn't go down very well."
"What do you mean? You looked pretty happy when you got back. I saw you."
"I had a Jeep and drove all around the Island trying to find people to conquer."
"Well, didn't you find any?" He looked at me quizzickly.
"Yeah, bunches of them."
"Well what happened?"
"I tried to get them to surrender."
"And?"
"They didn't."
"Why not?"
"Guess I'm a lousy invader or something. Might have been the damned skinny legs. May have been the fact I shaved before I got off the bloody ship."
"The fact you shaved?!!!"
"Yeah, I think invader types usually have beards or something. It adds to the intimidation factor. And I think they have better legs or something."
"Yeah, you might be onto something there." He smiled, (or stifled a laugh). "You know you could go to the doctor and talk to him. They have happy pills for depressed people."
"Happy people make even lousier conquerors than I was."
"Well what did you do or say to get them to surrender anyway?"
"Well, the only people I met who spoke English were the tourists on the beach. So there wasn't any sense in conquering tourists as near as I could tell."
"And?"
"Well my Spanish is close to non existent. So I yelled at them."
"What did you yell?"
"I forgot my spanish/English dictionary at home so I yelled the only thing I could think of in Spanish."
"What was that?"
"Cerveza!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Then what happened?"
"Well, at least I scared them I think."
"Why's that Steve?"
"Cause they all started to try and suck up to me. They brought me beer! I think they were trying to make friends with me or something. It kind of worked I guess. You lose your ferocity after a few beers, …so we made friends instead, which really sucks when you're trying to be a conqueror. I read that somewhere."
"You know what Cerveza means in Spanish, right Steve?"
"Yeah it means surrender I think."
"Only if you're a chick." he replied.
"And what about your sweetie? What did she think of it?"
"I don't think she was real impressed. Not even one bloody person surrendered."
"What else did you do?"
"Oh, I wanted to see where the Mayan's lived. So we looked around, avoiding lizards and stuff for a while."
"How was that?"
"It sucked too. All I saw was a bunch of messed up rocks. I think I know why they left now. The place was ruined. I could have just gone to that Houston Gardens place and looked at the gravel pile. Would have saved a lot of money too."
"So you didn't bring back any treasure I guess, huh?"
"Nope. They have a casino on the ship and I tried to win a bunch so I could fool everybody."
"No luck"
"Oh yeah. All kinds of luck. …..But it was the bad kind. So I'm depressed."
"Hey, what's that picture there?"
"They take one of you and your sweetie before the formal dinner night. We were on our way to the dining room."
"Nice picture."
"Thanks."
"Looks like a treasure to me."
"Yeah, it really is." I replied.
"It's all I've got now. I lost my booty in the casino."
Clark The Killer
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
A while ago, Andy and I figured out the whole crawfish thing.
Well at least we thought so at the time. I guess it's a mistake to start believing things like that. That must be one of the wonderful mysteries of life or something. But I've never understood the entire scope of crawfish dining until one evening recently.
I stopped at Papa's for a quick one on the way home. I just wanted to have cold beer on a hot night, but I found out I wasn't alone. What can one realistically expect on a Friday night in the big city?
It was a sweaty Friday evening in southeast Texas, so danged hot that I saw three trees get into a fight over a dog, which is not an unusual sight down here, on an evening bordering the advent of July. My buddy, One Draft Phil, sauntered in and sat down. He likes to have a beer, stir things up and then evaporate.
"So what's the next column going to be about?" he inquired.
"Don't have a clue." I responded. "I haven't been inspired lately." The truth of the matter is that life has bee so hectic that I just haven't had the time to look around and ponder. So Bob the publisher from hell looked over and said, "Yeah his deadline keeps changing."
"But he's the one that changes it!"
I shot a casual glance toward him and then turned to One Draft, "He doesn't pay me for it. I don't see why he's whining. He even makes me buy my own beer. There just isn't much respect left in the world"
Suddenly, down at the end of the building, Clark, the proprietor and architect of Clark's Corner, began waving his arms spastically at something. Then he reached down and grabbed something else and began to flail away like a demon possessed.
I turned back to ask One Draft Phil what the heck was going on, but he had evaporated.
"Where'd One Draft go?" I asked publisher Bob.
"I don't know." He replied
"Oh my goodness, people come and go so quickly around here." I countered.
We turned our attention back to Clark's Corner, where he continued his dance of death.
"What the heck is he doing?" I asked no one in particular.
Now if you have never had the pleasure of meeting Clark, he is normally a very quiet man, with a good dry sense of humor. He stands quietly, sips his beer and chuckles quietly at any insanity that appears.
"He's killing flies." Rich said.
"With what? I can't see that far from here."
"It's a flyswatter," said Rich with a smile. "A thong flyswatter!"
"I never thought of him as the thong type, to be perfectly honest. Would that make him a Killer Queen or something?" I blurted out, and then I started to chuckle a little more loudly than Rich had.
Gazing back toward the corner at Clark on a mission, everybody else began to laugh as well. He was thrashing about wildly, agitated at the flies invading his little corner of the world. "I know how he feels." I said, "I used to live behind a sheep farm before I moved down here. There were flies everywhere, but only when I tried to grill. It ticked me off no end."
"Did you kill them, or feed them?" asked Carl. "Both." I replied. "It's the humane thing to do. Even in Hunstville they feed them a last meal."
"What did you kill them with Steve?" Bob questioned.
"I did it with my hands." I shot back. "I've got really good hands for attacking flies. And of course, the killer instinct too."
"Yeah, I read that on the wall while I was cleaning the ladies rest room the other day." offered Sole Man Rich.
Ignoring his jab, I stole a look at Clark. He had a self-satisfied smile, and hung the thong flyswatter back on the hook on his corner table. His face was flushed and he looked a little short of breath. Then he reached down, grabbed a beer and leaned back against the railing.
We all stood and applauded. Clark smiled and waved his hand to signal that although it took a great deal of effort, he appreciated the acclaim.
"So what's the deal with the flies Rich?" I asked.
"The crawfish I guess. Dumpster is full of them, and somebody left the door open. But I've fixed the problem."
"Another Louisiana curse, huh?" I said.
We wandered down to the end of the room to examine the carnage. Fly cadavers littered the floor. The air was free of winged invaders, and once again peace reigned in Clark's Corner.
Alton wandered around and made sure none of them were still moving. "What's up Alton?" Carl asked.
"Just making sure they're all really dead." He replied. "Well, we appreciate it Alton. You're doing a fine job!"
"It's a nasty job but someone's got to do it ya know." said Alton.
An off duty constable walked over and wanted to know what was going on.
"Clark The Killer just cleaned the place out." I said. "Not a living fly left in joint."
The constable turned his attention to Alton.
"What's his deal?" he wondered aloud.
"He's just making sure they're not merely dead, but really most sincerely dead." I told him with a smile.
Then Rich turned to the constable.
"Yeah, he is. It's his purpose in life."
"He's Clark's Coroner."
A while ago, Andy and I figured out the whole crawfish thing.
Well at least we thought so at the time. I guess it's a mistake to start believing things like that. That must be one of the wonderful mysteries of life or something. But I've never understood the entire scope of crawfish dining until one evening recently.
I stopped at Papa's for a quick one on the way home. I just wanted to have cold beer on a hot night, but I found out I wasn't alone. What can one realistically expect on a Friday night in the big city?
It was a sweaty Friday evening in southeast Texas, so danged hot that I saw three trees get into a fight over a dog, which is not an unusual sight down here, on an evening bordering the advent of July. My buddy, One Draft Phil, sauntered in and sat down. He likes to have a beer, stir things up and then evaporate.
"So what's the next column going to be about?" he inquired.
"Don't have a clue." I responded. "I haven't been inspired lately." The truth of the matter is that life has bee so hectic that I just haven't had the time to look around and ponder. So Bob the publisher from hell looked over and said, "Yeah his deadline keeps changing."
"But he's the one that changes it!"
I shot a casual glance toward him and then turned to One Draft, "He doesn't pay me for it. I don't see why he's whining. He even makes me buy my own beer. There just isn't much respect left in the world"
Suddenly, down at the end of the building, Clark, the proprietor and architect of Clark's Corner, began waving his arms spastically at something. Then he reached down and grabbed something else and began to flail away like a demon possessed.
I turned back to ask One Draft Phil what the heck was going on, but he had evaporated.
"Where'd One Draft go?" I asked publisher Bob.
"I don't know." He replied
"Oh my goodness, people come and go so quickly around here." I countered.
We turned our attention back to Clark's Corner, where he continued his dance of death.
"What the heck is he doing?" I asked no one in particular.
Now if you have never had the pleasure of meeting Clark, he is normally a very quiet man, with a good dry sense of humor. He stands quietly, sips his beer and chuckles quietly at any insanity that appears.
"He's killing flies." Rich said.
"With what? I can't see that far from here."
"It's a flyswatter," said Rich with a smile. "A thong flyswatter!"
"I never thought of him as the thong type, to be perfectly honest. Would that make him a Killer Queen or something?" I blurted out, and then I started to chuckle a little more loudly than Rich had.
Gazing back toward the corner at Clark on a mission, everybody else began to laugh as well. He was thrashing about wildly, agitated at the flies invading his little corner of the world. "I know how he feels." I said, "I used to live behind a sheep farm before I moved down here. There were flies everywhere, but only when I tried to grill. It ticked me off no end."
"Did you kill them, or feed them?" asked Carl. "Both." I replied. "It's the humane thing to do. Even in Hunstville they feed them a last meal."
"What did you kill them with Steve?" Bob questioned.
"I did it with my hands." I shot back. "I've got really good hands for attacking flies. And of course, the killer instinct too."
"Yeah, I read that on the wall while I was cleaning the ladies rest room the other day." offered Sole Man Rich.
Ignoring his jab, I stole a look at Clark. He had a self-satisfied smile, and hung the thong flyswatter back on the hook on his corner table. His face was flushed and he looked a little short of breath. Then he reached down, grabbed a beer and leaned back against the railing.
We all stood and applauded. Clark smiled and waved his hand to signal that although it took a great deal of effort, he appreciated the acclaim.
"So what's the deal with the flies Rich?" I asked.
"The crawfish I guess. Dumpster is full of them, and somebody left the door open. But I've fixed the problem."
"Another Louisiana curse, huh?" I said.
We wandered down to the end of the room to examine the carnage. Fly cadavers littered the floor. The air was free of winged invaders, and once again peace reigned in Clark's Corner.
Alton wandered around and made sure none of them were still moving. "What's up Alton?" Carl asked.
"Just making sure they're all really dead." He replied. "Well, we appreciate it Alton. You're doing a fine job!"
"It's a nasty job but someone's got to do it ya know." said Alton.
An off duty constable walked over and wanted to know what was going on.
"Clark The Killer just cleaned the place out." I said. "Not a living fly left in joint."
The constable turned his attention to Alton.
"What's his deal?" he wondered aloud.
"He's just making sure they're not merely dead, but really most sincerely dead." I told him with a smile.
Then Rich turned to the constable.
"Yeah, he is. It's his purpose in life."
"He's Clark's Coroner."
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
BOB’S NOT MY UNCLE
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
"Bob's your Uncle."
I've heard that somewhere before, and I just want to tell you that it's not true. Bob's not my Uncle.
Bob is my publisher, …my good buddy, … my partner in crime, (well he looks kind of like a criminal, in an innocent way), and just generally, a good guy.
Unless you're married to him, apparently, which, (thank God), I'm not.
Every time we get together, it's an adventure. But I do worry about him a lot.
Not as much as his wonderful wife does. Nobody worries about a guy quite like his wife does.
I like wives. They take the pressure off me. Other people's wives are great! And other people's wives think I am great. …. Unless, of course, their husbands are out somewhere with me. That is when I magically become "The Red Haired Step-Child".
Oddly enough, the same transfiguration happened to my friends, once upon a time.
Whenever Bob and I get together, funny stuff just happens to us. Bob is not only my publisher, but he is an excellent writer, with an even wilder imagination than I have, I think having teenaged children is responsible for that, somehow. He told me the other day he thinks he may have ADHI. I tried to tell him that it's ADHD, but he couldn't focus all the way through that.
Bob has "ideas", or so he says.
I told him that he doesn't have "ideas", he's got ADHI or ADHD or something.
I did the math and I figured out that Bob and I are 104 years old. With a modicum of luck, we'll be 106 years old next year.
I also figured out that with Bob's ideas, we now have approximately 1,843 projects on the go at the moment, but that is subject to change without notice at any second. We were holding steady at 1,842 until Saturday.
We were at Starbucks, originally. Somehow we ended up at Papa's Ice House in Spring, discussing several of the 1,842 projects we have on the go.
Let me just point out that Bob is a real "family guy". Unfortunately, his family was out of town Saturday. Bob had promised the missus that he would behave while they were gone, so we were faced with a time limit. Fortunately, being writers, we have had to handle this deadline issue more often than is advisable for the human species.
To make a long story short, we beat the 1,842 projects into submission in record time.
It's far too easy to get cocky when everything is rolling along smoothly.
That should have been a warning sign right there.
"Bob's your Uncle."
I've heard that somewhere before, and I just want to tell you that it's not true. Bob's not my Uncle.
Bob is my publisher, …my good buddy, … my partner in crime, (well he looks kind of like a criminal, in an innocent way), and just generally, a good guy.
Unless you're married to him, apparently, which, (thank God), I'm not.
Every time we get together, it's an adventure. But I do worry about him a lot.
Not as much as his wonderful wife does. Nobody worries about a guy quite like his wife does.
I like wives. They take the pressure off me. Other people's wives are great! And other people's wives think I am great. …. Unless, of course, their husbands are out somewhere with me. That is when I magically become "The Red Haired Step-Child".
Oddly enough, the same transfiguration happened to my friends, once upon a time.
Whenever Bob and I get together, funny stuff just happens to us. Bob is not only my publisher, but he is an excellent writer, with an even wilder imagination than I have, I think having teenaged children is responsible for that, somehow. He told me the other day he thinks he may have ADHI. I tried to tell him that it's ADHD, but he couldn't focus all the way through that.
Bob has "ideas", or so he says.
I told him that he doesn't have "ideas", he's got ADHI or ADHD or something.
I did the math and I figured out that Bob and I are 104 years old. With a modicum of luck, we'll be 106 years old next year.
I also figured out that with Bob's ideas, we now have approximately 1,843 projects on the go at the moment, but that is subject to change without notice at any second. We were holding steady at 1,842 until Saturday.
We were at Starbucks, originally. Somehow we ended up at Papa's Ice House in Spring, discussing several of the 1,842 projects we have on the go.
Let me just point out that Bob is a real "family guy". Unfortunately, his family was out of town Saturday. Bob had promised the missus that he would behave while they were gone, so we were faced with a time limit. Fortunately, being writers, we have had to handle this deadline issue more often than is advisable for the human species.
To make a long story short, we beat the 1,842 projects into submission in record time.
It's far too easy to get cocky when everything is rolling along smoothly.
That should have been a warning sign right there.
Bob was hungry. That really came as no surprise to me. Bob is always hungry. So the conversation turned to food, as it often seems to when we get together to discuss things.
Bob likes to cook. I like to cook as well, but Bob likes to cook "weird" things. I think it's another side effect of his ADHI. I think he has a bit of difficulty focusing on a recipe through to its conclusion.
They have really good pizza at Papa's, which will come as no surprise to anyone who grew up in the area. Papa and Nancy started off in the restaurant business with a restaurant named Papa Luigi's, which was the meeting place for high school students after any important inter scholastic event.. Papa and Nancy are wonderful folks, but they sure don't look Italian to me. And Nelson, the cook, doesn't look Italian to me either, but he makes a great pizza none the less.
So Bob and I started discussing pizza over our slowly dissipating beer. He doesn't recall it, but we had the same discussion a while back. I suppose it's that ADHI thing again.
We were talking about how neither of us had ever seen a chopped brisket pizza, and in Texas, that is truly a travesty to the gastronomically inclined. So we called Chef Nelson over to the table. We told him how we wanted the pizza to be concocted. Nodding his head sagely, he gave us a look that indicated we were out of our gourds.
We told him that it didn't matter, we wanted it "our way". He smiled at us, shook his head in sorrow and made his way back to the kitchen, muttering something to himself about the loco gringos.
Nelson, as tremendous a chef that he is, has never caught on to the fact that all of the great chefs in the world are men. Case in point would be Chef Boyardee and his famous ravioli. That stuff is so good that billions of people eat it every week. I'm not certain, but I'd be willing to bet that Chef Boyardee's not really Italian either. My guess is he's a displaced Nicaraguan Jeep Commando who took a wrong turn in the jungle and ended up in America.
Finally a few minutes later our "Unreal Texas Pizza" arrived at the table. I could see Chef Nelson's wary eyes peering over the counter from the kitchen. We used a Bar-B-Q based sauce liberally, (or would that be Democratically?), topped with chopped brisket, mozzarella cheese and jalapeno peppers.
Well we each took a bite, and it was amazing. Being cautious guys though, we passed around a few slices to some of the other customers for their thoughts on it.
I walked back over to the counter and asked Chef Nelson to make us another one. It was so good that Bob and I were sorry we had shared the first one. Chef Nelson gave a crooked smile, looked at me like I was an alien, (which I am), shook his head and retreated to the kitchen once more.
The second one was at least as good as the first, and we sat and toasted ourselves and Chef Nelson.
To make a long story short, they have decided, (after tasting it for themselves), to give "The Unreal Texas Pizza" a place of honor on the menu.
So to all my faithful readers who haven't bought my book yet, (there are legions of you out there and we all know who you are), I would highly suggest a trip to Papa's Ice House, to test it for yourselves.
Papa's Ice House is located at 314 Pruitt Road, which runs from Highway 45 East to Budde Road.
If you want to feel really important you can call ahead to 281-364-8140 for reservations.
They are open for lunch, the food is great, the staff are the best and there's always a smile from Chef Nelson, (even if he thinks you really have no business sticking your nose in the food service business).
Oh yes, …. just tell them Bob's your uncle.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
CHILD WELFARE
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
For the record, I just want I make it absolutely clear to everyone out there that I am NOT the father of the late Anna Nicolle Smith's daughter. For anyone who has been comatose for the past while, she checked out of "The Global Village" recently and has joined Marshall McLuhan, wherever it is you go to when you leave this ridiculous revolving thing we're on.
This sucker is spinning really fast, and some people get a lot dizzier than others. That was her problem I think.
Carl, (a friend of mine), swears he's not the father either, and I for one, believe him. I think that his sweetie Rhonda believes it too, which is very fortunate for him.
I know for certain that my long lost. good buddy Geschlevski isn't the father either because he's too darn busy for that procreation stuff. He always has been, so as a result he was blessed with serenity.
For as far back as I remember he has been blessed with serenity.
I remember, once upon a time, he returned to Canada, from Germany, and he was so serene he couldn't even stand up. He swore it was jet lag, and I still believe him.
I had jet lag myself one time so badly that I had to sleep it off on the local soccer field, so I know what he meant.
I don't know about another of my friends, John, he's disabled, but being the inquisitive type of guy that I am, I asked him if perchance he might be in the running for the "Widower of the Year" award. He didn't reply directly, he just chuckled, with a bit of the devil in his eye, and told me he doesn't kiss and tell. I believe him because I've seen him get kissed a lot, because all the women think he's so sweet, and he never talks about it.
He gloats, …. but he never talks about it.
I think I'm going to try being sweet one day and see if it works as well for me … if I ever get over this jet lag.
I then asked Alton if he was party to the conception of this young girl, but he swore he was making jerky at the time, he had something else "cooking", so to speak. That was a huge relief to me. Besides, Alton would never leave Texas, …even for a Playmate of the Year.
I would ask "Boz", but I know for a fact that he was riding his "Harley" thing at the time.
This investigative reporting thing was getting to be almost as tiring as that jet lag thing, but I continued my quest for truth and knowledge unrelentlessly.
"The people want to know" was my driving force.
I then approached Rich.
"Hey, did you do it?" I asked.
He, like me, is currently "between engagements". Jeez I thought for sure I was getting closer to the truth, and indeed I was because I remembered my sales training telling me that every "no" is one step closer to a "yes". It's easy to sell a salesman. But he swears adamantly he wasn't the one. I've never seen him naked, but I still somehow believe he's telling me the truth.
I remember a time in my life when being the father of a child was something one strove to avoid being.Most kids however, do not a have a multimillion dollar inheritance stapled to them. That one little item, apparently changes attitudes of responsibility in some folks. Go figure.
I saw the other day, that Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband is now claiming to be the father. Maybe he was just Hungary for love or something.
Zsa Zsa once said "A man in love is incomplete until he's married. Then he's finished."
If this claim is true, it would seem that at least one of them wasn't completely aware of reality.
The doors of "paternity heaven" have apparently opened up, and the "un" Saintly are marching in.
In bloody droves!
Pretty soon half of the male population of America will be standing in line for the fitting of the three piece paternity suit. The mind boggles.
I, for one, wouldn't want that responsibility! I couldn't afford the taxes. Even with the kid's money.So the free for all for the cash continues. The money that came from an octogenarian. An octogenarian who is certainly, not the father of this poor child. (I think that would have been assault with a dead weapon or something.)
Just like me, …and Carl, …and Geschlevski, …and Alton, …and Boz, …and Rich.
I hope I haven't missed anyone.
I'm not sure about Bob, because I haven't asked him yet, but he's a family guy, so I'm just going to assume for now.
But anyway, we will one day know the truth about the paternity issue.
But I figured it out.
The money all came from an octogenarian, …which thanks to my investigative reporter training leads me to believe that there is money in being one of those type of people.
So to heck with being a father.
I'm going to be an octogenarian.
But I know I'm not ready yet.
So I'm going to wait, at least until I'm at least eighty, to be one of them.
For the record, I just want I make it absolutely clear to everyone out there that I am NOT the father of the late Anna Nicolle Smith's daughter. For anyone who has been comatose for the past while, she checked out of "The Global Village" recently and has joined Marshall McLuhan, wherever it is you go to when you leave this ridiculous revolving thing we're on.
This sucker is spinning really fast, and some people get a lot dizzier than others. That was her problem I think.
Carl, (a friend of mine), swears he's not the father either, and I for one, believe him. I think that his sweetie Rhonda believes it too, which is very fortunate for him.
I know for certain that my long lost. good buddy Geschlevski isn't the father either because he's too darn busy for that procreation stuff. He always has been, so as a result he was blessed with serenity.
For as far back as I remember he has been blessed with serenity.
I remember, once upon a time, he returned to Canada, from Germany, and he was so serene he couldn't even stand up. He swore it was jet lag, and I still believe him.
I had jet lag myself one time so badly that I had to sleep it off on the local soccer field, so I know what he meant.
I don't know about another of my friends, John, he's disabled, but being the inquisitive type of guy that I am, I asked him if perchance he might be in the running for the "Widower of the Year" award. He didn't reply directly, he just chuckled, with a bit of the devil in his eye, and told me he doesn't kiss and tell. I believe him because I've seen him get kissed a lot, because all the women think he's so sweet, and he never talks about it.
He gloats, …. but he never talks about it.
I think I'm going to try being sweet one day and see if it works as well for me … if I ever get over this jet lag.
I then asked Alton if he was party to the conception of this young girl, but he swore he was making jerky at the time, he had something else "cooking", so to speak. That was a huge relief to me. Besides, Alton would never leave Texas, …even for a Playmate of the Year.
I would ask "Boz", but I know for a fact that he was riding his "Harley" thing at the time.
This investigative reporting thing was getting to be almost as tiring as that jet lag thing, but I continued my quest for truth and knowledge unrelentlessly.
"The people want to know" was my driving force.
I then approached Rich.
"Hey, did you do it?" I asked.
He, like me, is currently "between engagements". Jeez I thought for sure I was getting closer to the truth, and indeed I was because I remembered my sales training telling me that every "no" is one step closer to a "yes". It's easy to sell a salesman. But he swears adamantly he wasn't the one. I've never seen him naked, but I still somehow believe he's telling me the truth.
I remember a time in my life when being the father of a child was something one strove to avoid being.Most kids however, do not a have a multimillion dollar inheritance stapled to them. That one little item, apparently changes attitudes of responsibility in some folks. Go figure.
I saw the other day, that Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband is now claiming to be the father. Maybe he was just Hungary for love or something.
Zsa Zsa once said "A man in love is incomplete until he's married. Then he's finished."
If this claim is true, it would seem that at least one of them wasn't completely aware of reality.
The doors of "paternity heaven" have apparently opened up, and the "un" Saintly are marching in.
In bloody droves!
Pretty soon half of the male population of America will be standing in line for the fitting of the three piece paternity suit. The mind boggles.
I, for one, wouldn't want that responsibility! I couldn't afford the taxes. Even with the kid's money.So the free for all for the cash continues. The money that came from an octogenarian. An octogenarian who is certainly, not the father of this poor child. (I think that would have been assault with a dead weapon or something.)
Just like me, …and Carl, …and Geschlevski, …and Alton, …and Boz, …and Rich.
I hope I haven't missed anyone.
I'm not sure about Bob, because I haven't asked him yet, but he's a family guy, so I'm just going to assume for now.
But anyway, we will one day know the truth about the paternity issue.
But I figured it out.
The money all came from an octogenarian, …which thanks to my investigative reporter training leads me to believe that there is money in being one of those type of people.
So to heck with being a father.
I'm going to be an octogenarian.
But I know I'm not ready yet.
So I'm going to wait, at least until I'm at least eighty, to be one of them.
Stephen and Davy and Jimmy ... Oh My!!
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
In Texas, the armadillo, nature's own four legged version of the Sherman Tank, rules the countryside. The armadillo is an omnivore, which means that just like a French Canadian, it will eat anything. ... But mostly it eats ants, which, ... if the spelling were slightly different, would still make it just like some French Canadians I have met.
Armadillos native to Texas, are about thirty inches long and six inches in height from the ground to their shoulder, according to information I have read. From what I've actually seen, they are about one and a half inches from the surface of the roadway to their shoulder, with varying tread marks on their backs.
Armadillos move slowly, (everything in Texas moves slowly), except when they are attacked. Then they move faster than an orphan to the dinner table on Christmas.
Armadillos have peg like teeth, big claws and have several burrows they use for mating. When attacked, the armadillo will do either one of two things, run like hell, or roll itself up into a ball, defying the attacker to penetrate its armour.
The more I find out about armadillos, the more certain I am that they are, reincarnated French Canadians who have simply, missed Fort Lauderdale by several hundred miles.
Stephen F. Austin, for whom the Capital City of Texas is named, is considered to be the Father of Texas. Like most other famous Texans, he was an import. Stephen was born in Wythe County Virginia. His father, Moses, had approached the Spanish governor in 1820, to ask permission to settle 300 families in Texas. Aptly named, he died before his plan came to fruition, (presumably after roaming the desert with his followers). The torch was passed to his son Stephen who finished things up for dad. It doesn't say what Moses died of, but he had spent years setting up lead mines in Virginia and Missouri, so lead poisoning likely was a major contributor to his early checkout from the Global Village.
The effects of lead poisoning, which is contracted by ingestion or inhalation of lead or lead dust, can cause massive brain damage and death. At the time that he assumed room temperature, it is obvious that he suffered at least one of the symptoms, if not both. In view of this, as well as the fact that there are a mind boggling number of guns in the state, there is a movement underway, to have lead declared "The Official Metal of Texas".
Davy Crockett, the famous frontiersman, killed a bear when he was three years of age. The reason that he killed a bear rather than an armadillo is that he, like most famous Texans, as we noted earlier, was born somewhere else. Davy was born in Limestone, Tennessee, one of the many suburbs of The United States of Texas found across North America. American history is plum full to bursting with famous Texans who have one common trait, ... none of them were native Texans.
The Alamo, a national monument in Texas, was, and still remains, a pretty famous site in the state. It was there that General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, Mexican President cum dictator, arrived with thousands of troops in February of 1836 to attack the 150 men holed up inside, (doing their impersonation of the armadillo). In an impressive display of Mexican military organization and efficiency, they whipped the Texas Revolutionaries in battle which lasted from February 24th until March 6th., a matter of a mere couple of weeks. At the end of the battle, Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, (no relation to David), and William B. Travis were among the 180 casualties on the Texas side. None of these great Texas heroes, (nor David Bowie for that matter) were born in Texas, but that didn't matter. They too, died of the after effects of lead being introduced into the body.
It all began in 1830 when Mexican troops were sent to police the border in order to stop the influx of Americans, who, by this time, outnumbered the Mexicans three to one. One hundred and sixty some odd years later, the roles are reversed. The Mexicans now outnumber the Americans three to one, and the U.S. Border Patrol now performs the same job the Mexican Soldiers did in 1830.
There is a symmetry in all things natural, history included, which transcends, yet includes, the actions of the human species. The invention of the rubber bullet for instance, was likely a result of the desire to combat lead poisoning, (a major concern in Texas). Whether or not this invention was the result of the study of road kill armadillos and the intricate designs on their backs, is a question only time will answer.
But here in Texas .....
In Texas, the armadillo, nature's own four legged version of the Sherman Tank, rules the countryside. The armadillo is an omnivore, which means that just like a French Canadian, it will eat anything. ... But mostly it eats ants, which, ... if the spelling were slightly different, would still make it just like some French Canadians I have met.
Armadillos native to Texas, are about thirty inches long and six inches in height from the ground to their shoulder, according to information I have read. From what I've actually seen, they are about one and a half inches from the surface of the roadway to their shoulder, with varying tread marks on their backs.
Armadillos move slowly, (everything in Texas moves slowly), except when they are attacked. Then they move faster than an orphan to the dinner table on Christmas.
Armadillos have peg like teeth, big claws and have several burrows they use for mating. When attacked, the armadillo will do either one of two things, run like hell, or roll itself up into a ball, defying the attacker to penetrate its armour.
The more I find out about armadillos, the more certain I am that they are, reincarnated French Canadians who have simply, missed Fort Lauderdale by several hundred miles.
Stephen F. Austin, for whom the Capital City of Texas is named, is considered to be the Father of Texas. Like most other famous Texans, he was an import. Stephen was born in Wythe County Virginia. His father, Moses, had approached the Spanish governor in 1820, to ask permission to settle 300 families in Texas. Aptly named, he died before his plan came to fruition, (presumably after roaming the desert with his followers). The torch was passed to his son Stephen who finished things up for dad. It doesn't say what Moses died of, but he had spent years setting up lead mines in Virginia and Missouri, so lead poisoning likely was a major contributor to his early checkout from the Global Village.
The effects of lead poisoning, which is contracted by ingestion or inhalation of lead or lead dust, can cause massive brain damage and death. At the time that he assumed room temperature, it is obvious that he suffered at least one of the symptoms, if not both. In view of this, as well as the fact that there are a mind boggling number of guns in the state, there is a movement underway, to have lead declared "The Official Metal of Texas".
Davy Crockett, the famous frontiersman, killed a bear when he was three years of age. The reason that he killed a bear rather than an armadillo is that he, like most famous Texans, as we noted earlier, was born somewhere else. Davy was born in Limestone, Tennessee, one of the many suburbs of The United States of Texas found across North America. American history is plum full to bursting with famous Texans who have one common trait, ... none of them were native Texans.
The Alamo, a national monument in Texas, was, and still remains, a pretty famous site in the state. It was there that General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, Mexican President cum dictator, arrived with thousands of troops in February of 1836 to attack the 150 men holed up inside, (doing their impersonation of the armadillo). In an impressive display of Mexican military organization and efficiency, they whipped the Texas Revolutionaries in battle which lasted from February 24th until March 6th., a matter of a mere couple of weeks. At the end of the battle, Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, (no relation to David), and William B. Travis were among the 180 casualties on the Texas side. None of these great Texas heroes, (nor David Bowie for that matter) were born in Texas, but that didn't matter. They too, died of the after effects of lead being introduced into the body.
It all began in 1830 when Mexican troops were sent to police the border in order to stop the influx of Americans, who, by this time, outnumbered the Mexicans three to one. One hundred and sixty some odd years later, the roles are reversed. The Mexicans now outnumber the Americans three to one, and the U.S. Border Patrol now performs the same job the Mexican Soldiers did in 1830.
There is a symmetry in all things natural, history included, which transcends, yet includes, the actions of the human species. The invention of the rubber bullet for instance, was likely a result of the desire to combat lead poisoning, (a major concern in Texas). Whether or not this invention was the result of the study of road kill armadillos and the intricate designs on their backs, is a question only time will answer.
But here in Texas .....
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