The Fountain

When I was in high school we had this fountain in the commons. It was a real fountain, too, complete with water, the little statues, tile bottom, GOD, it was beautiful. Now back then there were four kinds of kids going to school. Since we were right next to Fort Hood there was a continent of Army brats. They’d been all over the world, or at least Germany, which contrasted with the rest of us who had never been to Waco. The rest of us, well, there were three sub-sets; niggas, wetbacks, and white trash. I was in the white trash corner. The very fact that we’d made it as far as high school put us in an upper level of our society, but not much. The kids who dropped out made more money than we did, had cars, and the girls all ran to them, but that’s neither here nor there, let’s get back to the fountain. 

The Army brats would throw coins into the fountain and make a wish. I never could figure that out. What were they wishing for? For one, they HAD a coin to throw, and another, they had everything they wanted! They were the teacher’s pet, and even when we sold candy for the choir trips they waxed the rest of us commoners with relative ease. I’d be walking around Simmonsville trying to get a dollar out of people who didn’t have a quarter, and Vicki Roberts would sell one HUNDRED boxes to her father’s command! It was easier to just EAT the candy and tell the teacher the gangs robbed me. 

Anyway here was this fountain, crystal clear water sprinkling out of the top, with the bottom  COVERED with change! I never really knew how much money was in there, but I was aware that it was more wealth than I could imagine. If I could get my hands on that money I’d eat in the cafeteria for a YEAR! Extra milk too! So I devised a plan. I enlisted an accomplice, J. B. Hernandez to hold my belt while I leaned over the water, reached down to scrape up as much coinage as I possibly could. It was simple actually. And, we could do it during lunch. J. B. was all for it. So, on the appointed day we eased out to the fountain, with all the Army brats sitting around on benches eating their curds and whey, and I stepped up on the ledge. J. B. grabbed my belt from behind and I began to lean over, ever so slowly, reaching down to pick up the money. I think I should have paid more attention in physics class about leverage, or perhaps history class where you learn to never trust a Mexican, but at any rate J. B. let go! 

I felt him “give” and put my hands up like I was being robbed, fell flat-face into the water. When my head came up all the Army brats were laughing and cheering. I didn’t pick up ONE quarter. Crawling out of the fountain, which was not near as clean as it appeared, and smelled like fish (go figure) I climbed out of one side and Mr. Widacki, the football coach was waiting for me. (Where did HE come from?) He grabbed me by my collar and off to the office I went, where Mr. Patterson promptly beat my butt. Things were so simple back then. You knew you had a butt beating coming and just accepted it. Now Mr. Patterson was faced with a problem. He couldn’t send me to class dripping wet, so the coach took me to the locker room, put me in a football jersey and dried my clothes in the big drier the football boys got to use. 

For the longest time there was a perfect silhouette of my form in the bottom of that fountain. It eventually faded, but my fame never did. Army brats began to talk to me, the teachers would look at me and just shake their heads, and I never trusted J. B. again! Recently I went back there and found that the fountain had been replaced by a little grove of trees. I’d like to take credit for that. Some of us make history from the shadows. Guess trees are more politically correct than a fountain anyway. Still, the romance is gone. That, and the kids don’t really sit out there and eat any more. 

Ebola

Back in the day when there was an infectious disease it was handled very quickly. I mean, in Texas of the 60’s we were “PoDunk,” but we weren’t THAT PoDunk! Now Chicken Pox we didn’t take to seriously, but there was also TB, Polio, and Smallpox. Oh yeah, and not that long ago. One of my childhood friends’ father had TB, and he was isolated. The whole town knew about it. It was contained! So what in God’s creation is this nonsense about letting some guy with Ebola fly into Dallas coughing and puking? Coughs his way across the Atlantic, coming from one of those filthy little countries over there, and all those people look alike. (Politically incorrect enough for ya’ll?) I just though I’d chunk that in for the liberals today. Fix their blood pressure up. Anyway, I digress. 

Anyway, they let this clown into Texas and trot him all over hell’s creation, shutting down five schools, and apartment building and one homeless guy who was luckless enough to meet this idiot. This stuff spreads exponentially, people. One equals eight equals sixty-four equals disaster. And, oh yes, I’ve heard all the stuff about it’s not airborne, it’s not this, it’s not that. . . HORSE HOCKEY! That’s like finding out some chick you’ve been with come up with AIDS. You used a condom but I’ll give you a dime to a donut you trot your happy butt down to the clinic. Am I wrong? 

Ebola is a virus. Let me give you Wilbur’s Medical 101: We still can’t cure a virus! Viruses are like little computers, programmed to perpetuate themselves in the host. Bacteria are like little bugs you can use antibiotics on to kill them. Ebola is a VIRUS. And the bad part is there was no NEED for it to be HERE at ALL. Of all the things we have to worry about, keeping some black guy from LIBERIA out of Texas should have been dirt simple! About half way across the Atlantic there should have been a conversation. 

“Uh, this is Flight (Whatever). Seems we have a sick passenger here. Puking, coughing, girlfriend just died from Ebola back in the old country.”

“Yes, Flight (Doomed), Suggest you divert to Cuba, Guatemala, Easter Island, ANYWHERE but HERE!”

“Negative. Cannot get landing permission for any of those destinations. Please give other options.”

“Yes, you need to decend to ten thousand feet, have the flight attendants open that little door in the rear of the plane, and THROW THAT FOOL OUT!”

“Ok, affirmative.”

“And clean up that cabin with Clorox!”

See how simple that was? Friends and neighbors, this is the result of rampant Political Correctness! “Oh, Wilbur, we can judge someone just because he’s coughing up blood and flying in from a sewer.” YES WE CAN! Let me ask you. Do you want to LIVE? Ebola will KILL you. Ebola is HERE! Shut the schools down? BURN those schools down and sprinkle the ashes with salt. Put those poor kids in quarantine for four weeks to make sure they’re ok, and DON’T LET KUNTA KINTE BACK IN TEXAS AGAIN! You’ve just endangered our kids. CPS must be rubbing themselves over this one. Talk about a case load? Hey, now there’s an idea. If we could just get that virus in the CPS offices. . .

Tarzan and Jane Weren't Married

Now, I’m not one of those people who watch for hidden things in a Mickey Mouse cartoon, but had a little incident the other day that really opened my eyes. I was watching the kids and had to put something on the TV for them. Now, if you’re like me, a cartoon is a cartoon. Back in the day it was Bugs Bunny. Well, I picked Nickelodeon. Hey, harmless, right? WRONG. I’m not really listening at first, but by and by I began to pick up on what was flickering across the screen. The script for the show was a bunch of people at a summer camp of sorts. I guess it was one of those, “Fear Factor” take offs, or something like that. Anyway, I heard one of the characters say, “I want to sleep under her!” I closed my laptop! 

From there the plot progressed. And brothers and sisters, Hollyweird was open for business. Before I launch into this part, I’d like to  say that I don’t give two FLIPS about adults sexual choices, ok. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, the only sex that interests me is the sex that I’M involved in,  but when someone designs subliminal content directed at children I take note. And, to be honest, this stuff streaming off the screen was not subliminal. First off we had a fat girl and a skinny girl. The camp had a set up. The people were assigned to different cottages. When the camp master indicated that the pair of girls were to be sent to different bungalows there was a big incident, complete with hugs and tears. Eventually tearing apart they reluctantly went to separate areas. The implication was obvious to me, though the kids missed it. These girls were lovers. The facial expressions, the hugs, the tears, the words, everything was showing the separation of two people who had a bit more in common than a cup of coffee. Phrases like, “I can’t live without you,” have no other meaning. You didn’t have to play a Beatle record backwards to pick that up. 

Then there was this fat boy. When he was told the girls were in one part of the camp, and the boys in another he said that was great because he didn’t like girls, and he especially didn’t like sleeping with girls. I kid you NOT! I changed the channel! My grandchildren are all seven and under. I am a song writer and I know how to stream information to the human mind. I do it all the time. I’m doing it right now! The intent of this “cartoon” was to plant subliminal images in young minds that homosexuality is just fine. Though they didn’t quite understand the underlying meaning the image was  planted and the content would come in time. Plant a seed and a mighty oak will grow! The human mind fills in blanks, looks for solutions, explanations, and forms completed circles. The movie producers know this. They blur the lines between sexual choices and the kids just sit there and laugh at the funny fat people while this idea filters into their little heads. When the circle completes, they accept! 

Like I said at the beginning of this article I am a song writer. I am well versed in feeding what I think to other minds. I don’t buy into psychiatry, or touchy-feely, or any of that other stuff. My producer, John Henry Brandt, Jackie’s dad, worked in England during the “British Invasion” of the 60’s and 70’s, and we KNEW about slipping stuff into records to sell ideas. Don’t PEE down my back and try to tell  me it’s raining! 

Normal is normal and weird is weird. Swat them bees! Swat them bees! Children who are born simply must come from the union of a man and a woman.I hate to be the one to tell you that, but that’s the way it works, even in California.  That’s the way God set it up. When a child grows he or she observes the relationship between the parents. A child’s mind is a blank slate and life writes on that slate. Mommy cooks and daddy works, or at least that’s the way it used to be. Still, daddy is the strong point and mommy is the gentle point. Daddy buys the food, and mommy cooks it. Seven year olds don’t know anything about sex! I was eleven years old before I noticed that Donald Duck never wore pants. I was vaugely attracted to Tinker Belle, but I really didn’t know why. She had Tuesday Weld’s face and I’ve always been a “face” guy. A face will captivate me. My friend, Brandee Brown has one of those faces. This is called “natural attraction.” I was never attracted to any little boys in my class. 

The very difference between boys and girls causes this attraction. Left all by itself this attraction will grow and eventually you learn WHY you like girls, or why girls like boys, and that’s where babies come from. It’s so simple. If you are a heterosexual guy I’ll bet you can remember the first girl you ever kissed. I do. Her name was Pam Burns, we were twelve or so, and I kissed her behind the slide in the park. Nothing sectacular.    Just a peck, but she had this bugger in her nose and that peck was as far as it went. Later I kissed Storm Stewart when I was around sixteen or so, and Storm, well, her name WAS Storm, ok? There’s a term, “Texas Firecracker,” and if the Yankees here don’t know what that is let me just say, “Anna Nicole Smith!” Good girls go to heaven, but bad girls get to go everywhere else. Anyway, I digress. There was a group of boys who had been to Germany when their dads were deployed in the Army and they all came back wearing eye make up. In choir they all bunched up in a side room and the rest of us knew something wasn’t quite right with them. 

Like I said, left to their own devices boys will find girls and girls will find boys. You don’t have to TEACH them anything! It will just happen. Storm taught me all about it with just one lesson! Like the song said, “If I could get this figured out, everything else was gonna be all right!” 99.9% of boys and girls travel down that same road. They certainly don’t have to be indoctrinated with fat cartoon homosexuals making them laugh, and ACCEPTING that lifestyle that they would have never even considered had they not been shown on TV that grandpa turned on in the false belief that adults in the cartoon industry would show enough responsibility NOT to try to force their twisted life style on unsuspected little minds trying to burn off a Saturday afternoon after lunch! Children don’t understand things like that. Tarzan and Jane were never married, either! 

When you talk about gay marriage there are two factors. The one is economic. Believe it or not, I understand this part. I have a friend who is gay. (Alert the media!) He lived with the same man for forty-five years. The old guy died at eighty-five years old and left my friend twisting in the Texas wind. It was through the help of his hetero friends that he survived and began to make a new life. If someone wants the protection of law, inheritance, property rights, and tax benefits I’m all for that. A person’s money, livelihood and life is one thing, but when you try to push your lifestyle off on unsuspecting little minds, well, that’s another. Now, I don’t know anything about this “gay gene” thing, and I really don’t believe in it, but DNA or not, people need to be what they ARE, not what someone WANTS them to be. My friend doesn’t believe in a gay gene either. He admits his Vegas lifestyle indoctrinated him into homosexuality. To be perfectly honest he is the biggest gentleman I know and will defend a lady at the drop of his cowboy hat! When his own nephew came out of the closet he was the loudest voice of warning to the young man about the road he had set his feet on. 

And while we’re on the subject of perverting young minds let’s go ahead and take on Disney. Back in the day Disney represented the very best of family entertainment. There wasn’t even a movie rating for them because there wasn’t a rating “G” enough for Disney productions. The last glimmer of that was the merging of Pixar Pictures, under the direction of Steve Jobs, with talking trucks. I watched Puck as she was looking at the music videos streaming out of the Disney Channel one day, and folks, until that moment, I did not know I was a pedophile! EVERYTHING on that video was fine tuned to sexual content. The lead singer was hotter than two pigs making bacon in an outhouse. Kid couldn’t have been more than sixteen at best and her mode of dress, her movements, her eyes, EVERYTHING was sexual content, and little Puck sitting there, wide eyed, idolizing her. And people wonder where Brittany Spears went wrong, and that Cyrus chick, oh, don’t get me started. 

I got an idea. Why don’t we just leave the kids alone and let them grow up? That’ll work. Just let nature take its course. Let them see the world through new eyes and become who they are. What’s wrong with teens running on the beach in a movie and playing guitars around a fire at night? The kids will figure it out. They don’t need to be indoctrinated. The gay alliance is so afraid that if they don’t push their agenda the kids just might, well, grow up the way God intended, and if they foul up, oh well, they won’t be the first. They don’t need to be told to “accept” anything they have to be trained, and retrained in. Little girls should play with dolls. They want to be mommies one day. Little boys don’t have to be told they are just fine wearing dresses, they KNOW better. They want to be daddies one day. I there is a “gay gene” then it’s there, but no amount of political correctness, or court rulings will create that gene. If there is NOT a gay gene then it’s about time the people expounding a deviant life style need to see that Good Ship “Reality” pull into port. 

There will always be people who are a bit different. There will always be different lifestyles and adults should not be ostrasized for living their lives, but the rest of us should be able to live our lives, too.Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. Don’t “pursue” my grandkids! Have you ever noticed that when you have gay people at a party the subject of sexual choice seems to always come up? Think about it. Take a porch party. If there are no gay people there it seems no one ever talks about what they like to do in the bedroom, and certainly not at a family dinner. A friend of mine told me once about interviewing people applying for a job and he told me that the gay applicants would invariably bring up their sexual preference. He told me that would be like him, after completing the process adding, “Oh, by the way, I feel it’s only fair for you to know. . . I like women!” Or a bunch of white people with one black person at a party and everybody starts talking about how much they like watermelon. See my point  Christian, heterosexual couples should be able to raise their kids without pre-screening every cartoon their kids watch, and the producers of those films should show the common DECENCY of not trying to bend young minds toward their bedroom philosophy. I’m just a Simple Ol’ Boy From Austin, and folks, that’s about as simple as it gets!    

Heros and "Heros"

As you may or may not know, my family is going through cancer. My ex-wife’s husband, Joe, has lung cancer. I’m not unfamiliar with this malady, however. My parents had cancer. My dad had throat cancer, and my mother had lung cancer. They sat on two couches in their living room. Until now I never appreciated them, but I have learned. I’ve done some articles about Joe, his war record, his “efforts” to work with the family, and so forth. Until now I have not compared him with my parent’s example. I’m going to do that now. And it’s going to surprise you.

When I grew up, we were not upper middle class. Heck, in the 1960’s I don’t think there even WAS a middle class! In Texas there were people who had new cars, and there was the rest of us. Generally we worked construction. My dad was a roofer. Now, being a roofer in Texas in the ‘60s was about as close to being a slave as you could get and not be sold on the “block.” Texas has three seasons: hot, hotter, and hottest. I remember my dad literally would come home and pour sweat from his tennis shoes after work. He would sit there at night and drink beer, watching “The Guns of Will Sonnet.” Mom was a waitress. We don’t have waitress’ any more. We have some kid at McDonald’s who forgets to cut the tomato from your sandwich. My mother could carry four servings on her arms to the tables, and never forgot what the customer ordered. Shifts in the Blue Bonnet cafe were ten to twelve hours. . . if you were lucky. a lot of the times the next shift would not show up so she would have to work a “double.” 

There was no money! One thing I’ve noticed is that dimes have gotten smaller in the last few years. When I was eleven they were about the size of a quarter, but then, they were silver back then. As I grew, and saw more of them they began to assume a more regular size. I remember earning my first fifty dollars for a week’s work. I went to the bank and got it all in one dollar bills to stuff in my wallet. We were always, “In the hole.” There was never enough money to go around. 

We did have food. My parents were from Louisiana, and getting food on the table was job one. The adults always ate last, kids ate first. The food wasn’t what Emril would like, but it was good. Liver and onions, fried chicken, and chicken and rice. Oh God, did we have rice. Fancy spices? Forget about it! SALT and PEPPER! Can’t taste it, more SALT! Dinner, or rather “supper” was a happy time. I must say there was always enough. Well, there was enough for us kids. I can’t remember ever seeing my parents sit down for a meal. It was always something rolled up on bread. My dad would usually open a can of “potted meat,” and eat it with crackers. On occasion we’d have round steak. Heck, I thought that was a STEAK!

The dogs ate left overs. My father thought it was the silliest thing in the world to buy “store bought” food for a dog! Dad had two dogs, Ben Cartwright and Butch. Ben was a Chow, and Butch was an Irish Setter, and a coward. We had to keep Ben chained because he’d whip Butch at any opportunity. Dad fed them from coffee cans.Whatever we ate for supper, he’d make a little greasy gravy and put the left overs in the cans, pouring the gravy over it.  Ben, being on a chain would put his can just nearly at the end of the chain to entice Butch to come over and then whip his butt when he approached. He’d give up food to whip Butch’s butt. Dad also had a hawk that sat on his arm. The hawk was an alcoholic. Dad would get in fights with the bird all the time. I had a pet armadillo. Called him “Dillon,” after the main character on “Gunsmoke.” Armadillos are like cats. They use a sandbox. They’re also very smart. The yankees say they carry leprosy, but we never caught it. We had to watch the neighbors, because they were all Mexicans and kept stealing and eating my pets. There were several “Dillons.” 

At forty two my dad contracted throat cancer. He “smoked” a pipe, I say, “smoked” because he rarely lit it, he mainly chewed on the stem. He worked all his life with asbestos shingles and asbestos siding. I still remember when I was five seeing my dad, with my mom helping him, cutting the siding with a table saw, the blue asbestos dust all around them. Connect the dots! That may have been where the cancer came from, but it didn’t matter. Big settlements were reserved for rich yankees. Poor southern white trash didn’t get any of that money. They got the “VA.” Dad went to the VA and they burned his head off with radiation for him. After seeing the expert care he got he decided keeping his neck tied up with an Ace bandage and drinking whiskey was the best course of action. I suppose he was right because he live for sixteen more years. 

Mom got lung cancer. She didn’t last as long as dad. Took about six months. They gave her chemo and the second dose killed. her. Dad had a brief stay in the VA and mom ended up in a nursing home. When dad got out he walked into the nursing home, scooped up my mother and took her home. Right after that he had a “bleed out,” and was put back in the VA. Mom, again ended up in the nursing home where they let her die with due dispatch. When we walked into the room where she lay, there was a partially finished check on the table beside her body. She had convinced herself in her final hours that the reason she was in the home was that she hadn’t paid her rent on her apartment this month, and if she could just do that, then everything was going to be ok! Dad lived another eighteen months alone in a mobile home near the rest of us. He went back to the hospital where he was eventually transferred to the same nursing home my mother where my mother had died. He choked to death the next day. When he was younger his father in law was dying and Doctor Hawkins told him that when the end came to keep the girls away because in the last moments the old man may grab out trying to live. When my dad felt the end coming on my wife tried to lean over and help. He violently pushed her away. For a long time she thought he hit at her, but I told her no, his last act in this life was to protect a woman because Doctor Hawkins had told him so. 

And we have Joe! I must tell you I’ve never been as proud of my parents as I am today. Joe joined the Army at nineteen. Every month he had a check, a bed, a ride, and food. He had weekends off. He had federal holidays. He has home loans to buy any house he wanted, and I’m not saying he didn’t deserve this, I’m “jus saying’’ Joe was told he had lung cancer and his entire “put togethers” fell apart. I honestly cannot remember ever hearing my parents complaining about their lot in life. I got them a “color TV,” and in their final days that was the joy of their lives. BASEBALL. The Atlanta Braves. Dad never missed a game, and he loved the color TV because it made it easy to see the white ball on the green grass. 

My parents watched my two boys, Wilbur and Tim, while I worked. Not ONE word or complaint. Tim would help keep dad’s Ace bandage neat, and Wilbur was forever playing with his little fire truck. When dad died it was literally the end of their world. Joe, on the other hand can’t STAND my grandkids! I won’t say any more than that. And these kids are WITTS. They will fight. My grand uncle Silas fought for the Republic of Texas, my grandfather chased Pancho Villa all over the Valley, and my grandkids have their DNA! Joe and his family HAVE no DNA. I don’t know what courses through their veins, but it’s not blood! 

All this “hero” thing is all very fine, but you need to define “hero.” Is a hero someone who made a decision that required five minutes and you get a medal is it  someone who made a decision that lasted for years and got a room to die in at a cheap nursing home? Not one word of complaint. No one challenge to God about their plight. Not one moment where they questioned their position in life. Just work, and struggle, and family and the grave! Family is the most important. Family. Joe seems to think that grandchildren are “disposable.” He disposed of his own, why should I expect his attitude to be any different with mine. Well, they’re NOT disposable! My mom and dad, and Uncle Silas are watching me, and they don’t split any hairs. 

I am not saying I do not appreciate the integrity and service of our men and women who fight for our freedom every day. My son, COMMAND Master Chief Wilbur William Witt III is in the Gulf YET again, fighting ISIS this time. He comes from a long line of Witt sailors who went before him. What I am saying is that strength comes in many forms, and I never loved my mom and dad more than I do at this moment!

Life Sucks

Have you ever noticed that life never seems to go right? Now I’m not going to do one of those “I’m quitting Facebook” things, but I want to enlighten you as to life in general. Life sucks! That’s not good, it’s not bad, it just is. But, life swings back and forth. The lows are the “pits” but the highs generally make up for it. Let’s face it; we’re all bound for the graveyard. Can’t get away from that. Today you are a little bit more unhealthy than you were yesterday, and tomorrow will be one step closer to your last breath. In the end you lose. I love life insurance. You make a bet you won’t die and if you do, you win! How about them odds, huh? 

I’m not a depressed person, really, I’m not. And I don’t look for great spiritual reasons as to why bad things happen to good people, and I don’t blame God when I get what I so richly deserve. I’ve found that good mornings generally get me through the day. Screw up my morning and the day is gone from that hour onto bedtime. Generally, being a writer, when I’m really down the good stories flow. When I’m happy I’m usually too happy to write. Go figure. 

Having goals helps. Not having a goal is kinda like stopping at a stop sign and waiting for it to turn green. To state a purpose and proceed toward it makes the day go faster, and you feel like at least you’re here for a reason. Family used to be my reason, but family doesn’t really exist. I think family is an illusion we put forward so we pretend we aren’t alone. Well, we are alone. In the end no one goes to whatever the other side is, but you. And you do it alone. 

Robin Williams found this fact of life, hanging by a belt, alone in a bedroom. I don’t think it was any one event that drove him to that morning, I think it was a realization. I’ve never been suicidal. I always see a silver lining eventually. No night is so dark that I don’t know the sun will rise. But, when the sun rises and you see Ebola being shipped into the country you just have to wonder, “Why?” If you go looking for justice you’ll go crazy. Don’t look for it because it’s simply not there. 

No, I’m not depressed. No, I’m not looking for a belt and a closet, and NO, I’m NOT getting married again. Just reflecting. I watched Puck go through another one of her ordeals with stealing food overnight, with all the yelling and screaming and the morning went to crap, and I sat back and just considered. No, I don’t blame God, and yes, I will be here every day pounding out what little understanding I think I have. I think I’m bi-polar because when I have a morning like this morning I bounce back with new energy. Guess that’s the best . Life does suck, but if it sucked and was boring at the same time that would be unacceptable. I need a beer!

La Raza

Let’s switch to a serious note today. La Raza.  Hope I spelled that right, but it doesn’t matter because most of the people south of the border are illiterate anyway. Yeah, it’s going to be one of those articles! To recap, back in the day people were swimming the river, jumping the fence, and sneaking into Texas pretty much like they are right now. The difference is numbers, and intent. Now, the Mexican on the street remains the same. The lure of the USA, the jobs, the money, even the low pay they will get, and the safety are powerful forces for a person who has basically lived in hell all his life. When I was growing up we all saw them working on construction sites, in fields, or doing lawns, and thought nothing of it. We knew they were most likely illegal. First off let’s kill off that politicaly correct bunch of hogwash. They were wetbacks! Wetback: One who wades across the Rio Grande under the cover of darkness. Ok, we have that fixed. Anyway, we would see wetbacks everywhere, and nobody thought anything about it. The economy was good, and quite frankly, they worked hard and didn’t really intimidate anyone with their political “power,” indeed didn’t even think about such nonsense. I grew up with that mindset. 

Now we have a whole different critter. The Mexican on the street remains the same but upstairs, in the halls of Congress, and sewers of La Raza there ARE people who have agendas. They use the desperation of the common people of Latin America to fulfill those agendas. They flood the border with children as a distraction while they flood drugs up into the country. And we’re not talking about thirty-five wetbacks, we’re looking at three hundred and fifty THOUSAND on the way RIGHT NOW. That takes planning people! I just wish I could sell three hundred and fifty THOUSAND copies of this book. I’d never run out of beer again! On the American side of the border liberal Democrats do everything in their power to open the floodgates, and simultaneously destroy the electoral system to perpetuate their political plans. When you put these two forces together you have disaster. 

A nation is only a nation when its borders are secure. The very fact that a nation thinks of itself as a nation is imperative to that concept. Right off the bat I would like to say the US may be having an identity crisis but Texas is damn sure still TEXAS! While we would accept a few guys picking oranges we will NOT accept the wonton invasion of our state and the destruction of our way of life! When you have thousands of people FLOODING across any border that is an invasion. There is no other way to put it. Individuals slipping across is one thing. Organized surges are an entirely different matter. The liberal democrats are too stupid to see that their plans to dominate Congress will lead to the destruction of the American way of life, and yes, that way of life included a few wetbacks mowing the lawns. . . up until now!

The presidents of two Latin nations have openly put forth their plans to assimilate the western United States. These people haven’t been able to self govern for hundreds of years and they’d like to bring that dream to US! We have an idiot in the White House who has the political understanding of the Three Stooges, and a bunch of other idiots rallying around him, ignoring the constitution, shoring up his every move. Look at the insanity. Like I said, back in the day we KNEW the wetbacks were wetbacks. When they got caught we sent them back to Mexico, and, usually, they’d slip back in and go to laying bricks again. Well, they’re not laying bricks any more, boys and girls. They’re jumping on jets and flying their diseased butts all over the country, courtesy of Barak Insane Obama. 

Solutions? Very, very simple. We have a border. MAKE it a border. Now I’m not crazy. When you have a herd of kids coming over you can’t machine gun them, but you don’t have to set up nurseries and change their diapers either. Throw them BACK in the Rio, and send them HOME! For the adults, well, it’s a little different story. Yes, Pablo, that IS a border, that IS a soldier in the National Guard, and that IS a gun, and he WILL kill you! And if a contingent of Mexican Army accidentally ends up on THIS side of the border, friends and neighbors, that’s an act of WAR. Attack, kill, invade, secure the area. Just jump across Putin’s border and see how that works out for you. There’s your solution. And some woman in California standing up there talking about humanitarianism, and demonizing conservatives for wanting to have a secure nation will not change that! Governor Perry is a limp wrist fool! In one phone call he could end this so call “border crisis” in five minutes. And the DPS, soooooo worried about black powder pistols in Texas should pull their heads out of their collective butts and PATROL that border, TOO! Take all those free attack vehicles the Feds have so graciously given them, along with MOST police departments in Texas, and send them to the border. THERE’S your drug problem, dudes. NOT some guy smoking a joint in Ding Dong, Texas! You lob a few shells across that river and La Raza, La This, La That, all the “Las” will run for the church and PRAY! “Oh, Wilbur, it’s not that simple.” YES IT IS!!! It’s going to be an uphill climb trying to explain this to the liberal Democrats, but when you have a wetback in the White House what did you expect. 

Arabs in Cowboy Boots

Doing a little light reading in my Qu’ran last night. That’s right, I read the Qu’ran on occasion. I read the Bible when I’m happy, and I pick up the Qu’ran when I’m mad at somebody. I’ve made a study of Arab behavior over the years, and being a Texan I’ve noticed several things that are perculiar to that race. First off they’re all still in tribes. Kinda like the Indians, but the Indians don’t cling to it near as bad as the Arabs do. Oh, Indians are Indians, but they’re too busy running casinos now to worry much about what feather to wear. Well, Arabs never got past that. Where any self respecting Indian wouldn’t dream of seriously wearing a feather in their hair, Arabs will put that silly head dress on no matter how rich they are, or WHERE they are in the world. They truss up their women, too. When I take Frenchi out anywhere I want her to wear those jeans, and a blouse that lets everybody know who she is. It’s an ego thing. I’m sixty-three and she, well, she’s NOT! She’s of age, don’t go there!

Something has always intrigued me about Arabs. Now, they’ve been tooling around the desert for eons, on camels, all bundled up in their Sunday sheets, and they never came upon cowboy boots. I think they wear sandals or something like that. On what planet does that make sense. Trudging across the sand with sandals. But, I guess if you’re going to ride a camel that fits right in. They supposedly don’t drink either. Oxymoron. All that sand and heat, you’re living in a tent, eating goat, and can’t have a beer! Kinda like the Mormons in that respect. Run off to a salty lake, WAY up in the Rockies, cold as a well digger’s butt in Wyoming, and tell people they can’t drink coffee. But they DO have Long Johns, so I guess it balances out there. 

I like the four wives thing, though. Can you imagine how much money I would have saved over the years if I’d been allowed to just add a wife without having to dispose of her predecessor? Wear one out, just add another. I had an idea once about marriage licenses. Seems to me that every license I’ve ever had either expired, or had to be renewed, after a refresher course. Marriage licenses are the exception. I wish driver’s licenses were like that. You pass the test and bada bing, bada boom, you drive forEVER! Nope! Don’t work like that. The way I see it consistency is everything. You pick up this girl at a bar and trot down to the all night wedding chapel and get hooked up. Helps if you’re in Vegas when you pull this kind of stuff. Anyway, you wake up the next day and there she is. Now, depending on how drunk you were the night before she will be at various stages of beauty, but just for the sake of argument let’s just say she’s a knock out, ok? You fly back to Texas and for about the first year everything’s cool. She cooks, cleans, gets naked at the appropriate times, but then some little issues arise. You notice she has a problem with her drug of choice, and take your pick, there are many. She also loves mankind, ALL of mankind. Now being in your sunset years you try to work with this, but when your computer, rings, phone, and various other items find their way to the pawn shop things begin to wear a bit thin. After the obligatory  trip to the “clinic” you seriously start rehashing that little trip to Vegas. 

Well, long about this time two years have passed and it comes time for renewal! Yep, you heard that right, RENEWAL. Both partners have to take a mandatory continuing marriage class and pay the fee to renew the marriage license. Soooooo, you tell Honey Boo Boo that you just can’t see renewing her at this time, and you’ll be happy to put her on the first plane BACK to Vegas. That’s Southwest boys, and girls, NOT American Air Lines, ok? No muss, no fuss, just garbage in, garbage out. Of course you give her five or ten dollars to get her through the break up. I mean be civilized. “Outrageous,” you say. Heck, gay people have been doing that for years. For the life of me I can’t understand WHY they want marriage anyway. They can do anything they want with no child support, no alimony, and no property rights if they just play is smart. 

I think the perfect Arab would be in cowboy boots, with a Mercedes, and four wives, all on renewable marriage licenses who are dressed in bikinis, and rub his feet EVERY night, but then, I’m just a simple ol’ boy from Austin, what do I know.