OLDSOONER
10/12/2009, 08:56 PM
I was thinking about what I like about Texas.
There is the omnipresent big wind, of course, so I guess lots of breathing room comes to mind. Probably around Houston, they actually have breathing rooms. Maybe those trendy oxygen bars are still available, now only exclusively for the Petro-oilie CEOs ordering up a double cannula with an olive. The various delicious recipes of Tex-Mex food are wonderful. The Big State is proud of their deserved praise when it comes to grilling dead cows & BBQ.
Happily, as it turns out, medical manipulations, i.e., the Aseptic Giveth & Removal Programs that enhance, for most males, the sternum high viewing attraction of dual Ziploc baggies, have now found a way to reduce the thickness component that has been plaguing Texas Co-ed’s ankles for decades. Research has indicated that the cloddish ankle edema in ‘most cases’ was not a Texas genetic anchorage foundation syndrome as was originally thought, but only a condition brought about by the excellent DeKalb Ruffage Buster sack feed that was being administered. Texas A&M researchers found that by increasing the silage mixture a bit, things just seem to smooth on out eliminating the problem.
Our adversaries are resplendent in their orange ‘CHOKELAHOMA, A Place Where Their Beer Is Almost As Weak As Their BCS Record’ T-shirts. Witnessing their fans, a casual observer might be led to believe they are actually a statewide dropout reunion from the meat cutters technical college, as they brandish their missing fingers anomaly. The Red River War is on again.
You know, speaking of war, I remember how much I loved Army/Navy surplus stores. The smell of the 782 gear, canteens, helmets, mess kits, it was great. A few of you know by now, most of the kids I grew up with. A bunch of rural prepubescent kids in the mould of Hal Roach’s ‘Our Gang’. So right after WWII, the big thing to do was play war. John Wayne would get us fired up watching an Iwo Jima Flick at the Okla. After the movie, we, being totally propagandized, put on all that rattlely-*** equipment, enlisted our dogs and attacked WPA culverts.
In order to recruit Nippon warriors, we used the short straw method, by which everyone knew which straw was short except for a couple of Texas border kids, Moose and Hershel. Usually, Hershel, being a whiner about everything that didn’t go well, and a hand wringer when someone got hurt, got to be the enemy. Once we tried using Scotch Tape to make his facial features appear more Asian, but we ended up pulling notches out of his eyebrows instead. We always made sure the loudmouth braggart Moose was stationed at a distant observation post because he wore the same skivvies everyday.
There were also a few military surplus vehicles around our small town that had been surveyed out of active military service, their markings sprayed over with OD paint, that were favored by returning vet farmers and ranchers. Jeeps were the most popular. There was also a Deuce and A Half that would roar through town with all the stink, beller and smoke worthy of a war veteran that still had a few more furloughs left in him. The GI markings were thinly painted over, but the truck did have a special identification of its’ own though. It sported a wide set of Longhorns bolted to the hood with the tips of the horns painted orange. The red nosed, pitted faced driver, sitting way up under the canvas roof tarp, would look down on us with a mean glare each time he saw us and swerved our direction just enough to moisten us with Redman and cover us with clouds of chat dust.
We must have looked like a ready to burn surplus pile of sad sack dogfaces, what with 5 or 6 dirty kids wearing all that clanking paraphernalia, our dogs barking and chasing the truck, and Hershel standing there with wet britches because Jimmy had hit him in the back of the head with a mud ball grenade that contained a series D Buss battery.
Man, you could always tell when the war games on Saturday didn’t go well. We would ride recon on our bicycles and make note of the clotheslines. White sheets hanging on the line Sunday mornings always revealed those who were the whiners, complainers and bedwetters. Somewhat like the flags of surrender we thought. Damn, Hershel, you don’t stick your head up in the middle of a grenade chunkin’ skirmish, you just fight harder and throw with both hands.
My old man was the principal of the school and coached boys and girls basketball and boys baseball. If some kid got caught smoking? Tough. If you broke a team rule, you’re gone. When a student had academic difficulties, he gets called to the office. If you were a real screw-up, your fantail got swats. As a Coach, if you lost a game, or a kid flunked out, then here came the onslaught of fans and parents accosting the school board. The populace got vile. Absolute drooly mouth rabid denizens loaded with how-to advice, armed with righteous pointy fingers loath to indict the possibility of self-inclusion in the rectification of matters.
Things got ugly.
I remember one morning, early, my old man, woke me up and told me to get dressed and come outside. As I was dressing, I heard some horrifying distress moans and pitiful whines of an animal in great pain coming from underneath our house. I was told to crawl under the house and get my dog and bring him out. ‘Shorty’ died before I could crawl to him. He had that hideous facial spasm that causes the open sardonic grin followed by immediate rigor mortis that left him with his unseeing eyes wide open. Strychnine is some bad stuff, Man.
Small towns have a way of giving up the truth, eventually.
The rotten Texas son of a bitch driving that Army truck poisoned my dog. I wonder what game my old man had lost? Not many, judging by the memorabilia he left in his den.
Maybe this dog killer had a bad war experience and was trampled by a charging herd of 6 or 7 year old kids tangled up in web belts, empty bayonet scabbards and shoes that didn’t match. Possibly a starving dog licked his trigger finger.
So, when I think of the Longhorns, I like ‘em. They’re great fun to whup and are providing the simmering Sooners an opportunity to really come to a prideful boil. You can’t grill a steak with a bagful of wet Kingsford, so now that the Boss is back, the fire is lit and when he flings you a prime filet, you don’t drop the damn thing in the dirt especially if you want to poison their season like I do.
Oklahoma will be on Texas’ *** all day and beat ‘em by 2 points. Every dog has his day.
Win one for ‘Shorty’!
Australian Shepard. RIP 1950
GO SOONERS!
There is the omnipresent big wind, of course, so I guess lots of breathing room comes to mind. Probably around Houston, they actually have breathing rooms. Maybe those trendy oxygen bars are still available, now only exclusively for the Petro-oilie CEOs ordering up a double cannula with an olive. The various delicious recipes of Tex-Mex food are wonderful. The Big State is proud of their deserved praise when it comes to grilling dead cows & BBQ.
Happily, as it turns out, medical manipulations, i.e., the Aseptic Giveth & Removal Programs that enhance, for most males, the sternum high viewing attraction of dual Ziploc baggies, have now found a way to reduce the thickness component that has been plaguing Texas Co-ed’s ankles for decades. Research has indicated that the cloddish ankle edema in ‘most cases’ was not a Texas genetic anchorage foundation syndrome as was originally thought, but only a condition brought about by the excellent DeKalb Ruffage Buster sack feed that was being administered. Texas A&M researchers found that by increasing the silage mixture a bit, things just seem to smooth on out eliminating the problem.
Our adversaries are resplendent in their orange ‘CHOKELAHOMA, A Place Where Their Beer Is Almost As Weak As Their BCS Record’ T-shirts. Witnessing their fans, a casual observer might be led to believe they are actually a statewide dropout reunion from the meat cutters technical college, as they brandish their missing fingers anomaly. The Red River War is on again.
You know, speaking of war, I remember how much I loved Army/Navy surplus stores. The smell of the 782 gear, canteens, helmets, mess kits, it was great. A few of you know by now, most of the kids I grew up with. A bunch of rural prepubescent kids in the mould of Hal Roach’s ‘Our Gang’. So right after WWII, the big thing to do was play war. John Wayne would get us fired up watching an Iwo Jima Flick at the Okla. After the movie, we, being totally propagandized, put on all that rattlely-*** equipment, enlisted our dogs and attacked WPA culverts.
In order to recruit Nippon warriors, we used the short straw method, by which everyone knew which straw was short except for a couple of Texas border kids, Moose and Hershel. Usually, Hershel, being a whiner about everything that didn’t go well, and a hand wringer when someone got hurt, got to be the enemy. Once we tried using Scotch Tape to make his facial features appear more Asian, but we ended up pulling notches out of his eyebrows instead. We always made sure the loudmouth braggart Moose was stationed at a distant observation post because he wore the same skivvies everyday.
There were also a few military surplus vehicles around our small town that had been surveyed out of active military service, their markings sprayed over with OD paint, that were favored by returning vet farmers and ranchers. Jeeps were the most popular. There was also a Deuce and A Half that would roar through town with all the stink, beller and smoke worthy of a war veteran that still had a few more furloughs left in him. The GI markings were thinly painted over, but the truck did have a special identification of its’ own though. It sported a wide set of Longhorns bolted to the hood with the tips of the horns painted orange. The red nosed, pitted faced driver, sitting way up under the canvas roof tarp, would look down on us with a mean glare each time he saw us and swerved our direction just enough to moisten us with Redman and cover us with clouds of chat dust.
We must have looked like a ready to burn surplus pile of sad sack dogfaces, what with 5 or 6 dirty kids wearing all that clanking paraphernalia, our dogs barking and chasing the truck, and Hershel standing there with wet britches because Jimmy had hit him in the back of the head with a mud ball grenade that contained a series D Buss battery.
Man, you could always tell when the war games on Saturday didn’t go well. We would ride recon on our bicycles and make note of the clotheslines. White sheets hanging on the line Sunday mornings always revealed those who were the whiners, complainers and bedwetters. Somewhat like the flags of surrender we thought. Damn, Hershel, you don’t stick your head up in the middle of a grenade chunkin’ skirmish, you just fight harder and throw with both hands.
My old man was the principal of the school and coached boys and girls basketball and boys baseball. If some kid got caught smoking? Tough. If you broke a team rule, you’re gone. When a student had academic difficulties, he gets called to the office. If you were a real screw-up, your fantail got swats. As a Coach, if you lost a game, or a kid flunked out, then here came the onslaught of fans and parents accosting the school board. The populace got vile. Absolute drooly mouth rabid denizens loaded with how-to advice, armed with righteous pointy fingers loath to indict the possibility of self-inclusion in the rectification of matters.
Things got ugly.
I remember one morning, early, my old man, woke me up and told me to get dressed and come outside. As I was dressing, I heard some horrifying distress moans and pitiful whines of an animal in great pain coming from underneath our house. I was told to crawl under the house and get my dog and bring him out. ‘Shorty’ died before I could crawl to him. He had that hideous facial spasm that causes the open sardonic grin followed by immediate rigor mortis that left him with his unseeing eyes wide open. Strychnine is some bad stuff, Man.
Small towns have a way of giving up the truth, eventually.
The rotten Texas son of a bitch driving that Army truck poisoned my dog. I wonder what game my old man had lost? Not many, judging by the memorabilia he left in his den.
Maybe this dog killer had a bad war experience and was trampled by a charging herd of 6 or 7 year old kids tangled up in web belts, empty bayonet scabbards and shoes that didn’t match. Possibly a starving dog licked his trigger finger.
So, when I think of the Longhorns, I like ‘em. They’re great fun to whup and are providing the simmering Sooners an opportunity to really come to a prideful boil. You can’t grill a steak with a bagful of wet Kingsford, so now that the Boss is back, the fire is lit and when he flings you a prime filet, you don’t drop the damn thing in the dirt especially if you want to poison their season like I do.
Oklahoma will be on Texas’ *** all day and beat ‘em by 2 points. Every dog has his day.
Win one for ‘Shorty’!
Australian Shepard. RIP 1950
GO SOONERS!