Blaming My Father

Blaming My Father

Pronouns

Like our newest Supreme Court Justice, I am not a biologist.  It might be that none of the Supreme Court Justices are biologists.  Most have law degrees.  Some might have been English majors.  I, personally, was not an English major.  However, I did have Mr. Stewart as my 7th grade homeroom teacher and he stressed knowledge about English, including about pronouns, which are, you know, words that are, substitutes for, like names and stuff like that, in the noun category of grammar.  Know what I mean?  If you did not have Mr. Stewart as a teacher, perhaps some other teacher taught you about pronouns.  

Let us brush up on linguistics and even language arts etc.  He, she, and it are pronouns for an individual.  They and them are plural pronouns.  Mr. Stewart explained that plural pronouns are for more than one.  Remember?  Are you with me?  Good, let us move on.

He and him are pronouns for males.  She and her are pronouns for females.  It is non-specific as to gender.  

Here are two examples.  He is a bull.  I saw him in the pasture.  She is a cow.  I saw her in the pasture too.  Now for the plural pronouns:  I saw them in the pasture.  They were both in the pasture.  

I and me are singular pronouns to use when referring to myself.  When I am referring to you without using your name, I say you.  Oddly, you may be either  singular or plural, like if I say all of you.  

Therefore, when asked my pronouns, armed with the knowledge I have, I say I and me.  Those are my pronouns but if you want to refer to me, then use he and him.  

If an individual woke person says his or her pronouns are they and them, that person is mis-using plural pronouns in my opinion and showing that English was not the college major of such a person.  

If y’all have any questions, contact Mr. Stewart at McMillan Junior High School in Omaha, Nebraska.  They might be retired.  Just kidding.  He might be retired.  

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Oops, Gus Did It Again

Recently, I wrote about Gus, our Yellow Labrador Retriever, as a bird dog who can retrieve chickens. See “Chicken Dog” post. His skills have still not been honed to carry chickens in such a manner that the chicken survives the experience. Consequently, I have found work as an undertaker.

After the first accidental death of a hen in the vicinity of the hen house, Gus was fired from his previous job of accompanying me when I feed the chickens and gather eggs. He still helps feed the horses with me but, of course, Gus does not carry horses around.

Regarding chickens, Gus makes a distinction concerning their location. He apparently believes that if he is not welcome in the chickens’ territory, then, in fairness, chickens are not welcome in his territory. His territory includes an area which we human residents refer to as “the courtyard.” This courtyard is nothing like a courthouse. No cases are tried there. It is just a patio with walls around three sides. My wife does not approve of chickens pooping, you know, chicken sh*t, on the patio made of stones. She would not like poop on concrete either, it is just that stones are harder to clean, in my opinion. Gus has likely heard Miss Sugar complain about our free range chickens coming into the courtyard.

Accordingly, when a couple days ago a black hen was spotted on the patio by Gus, he very, very quickly removed it. He caught it in a corner. It squawked as it was captured but not a feather was lost. Gus held the hen in his soft mouth. He did not shake it. He arched his neck and carefully removed the chicken from the courtyard. Then he kept going up the lane as I repeatedly requested that he “drop it.”

Finally, about twenty yards up the lane, Gus stopped and I removed the hen from his soft mouth as he cooperated in sort of dropping it. As I took Gus away from where the hen was resting, I believed it was still alive. Gus and I went up to the trash bin, another thirty yards past the resting place and when I looked back I saw a black hen walking on that side of our house. I was relieved.

However, when Gus and I came back, the chicken he carried was still laying down. A second black hen was mourning her now-deceased friend. Another one bit the dust.

Without help from Gus or Miss Sugar, I picked up the hen who will never again go into our courtyard. As I said at the beginning, I have found work as the undertaker.

Hangin’ Out With Ted Turner

I don’t like to be a name-dropper, but maybe Ted Turner is one and you already read this story from his perspective. Actually, he might not have caught my name so as to be able to drop it. However, when we met, it was apparent that I made a really big impression.

Here is what happened.

Ted Turner has a chain of restaurants called Ted’s Montana Grill. He also raises bison. The restaurants serve bison meat, among other menu items. Several years ago, Miss Sugar and I attended the National Western Stock Show in Denver and hankered for some bison meat on our way home. We stopped at the Ted’s Montana Grill in Westminster, Colorado, which was very new at the time.

It so happened that on that very day and time, Mr. Turner was at his restaurant having a meeting with several of the ranchers who were raising bison and providing it to Ted’s restaurants. We had not been invited to the meeting but were seated at a nearby table. A good time was had by all.

At one point in the evening, I felt nature’s call to the restroom of the restaurant. (I chose the men’s room because this restaurant did not have a woke unisex restroom. I was glad.)

I won’t go into great detail. You will have to use your imagination to visualize what I am writing about in this particular paragraph. Anyhoo, I was standing at a porcelain thing attached to the wall by plumbing stuff, including a flusher, into which I was, you know, “going.” There was another such thing attached to the wall right beside the one I was using. Then and there, before I could finish, the famous Ted Turner came into the restroom and stood beside me and actually copied the activity in which I was engaged. We were doing the same thing at the same time in the same place. Like a brotherhood.

However, there was one difference. By necessity, I use two hands. Ted, on the other hand, used just one hand for the business at hand and placed his other hand on the wall above the, well, let’s just say it, the urinal.

As I have mentioned, we were not at a Burger King, but as the saying goes, “It takes two hands to handle a whopper.”

(my) History of Violence

My mother sometimes asked me, “Where did I go wrong?”

I know where she went wrong. Willie Nelson clearly warned: “Mammas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys.“

For as long as I remember, documented by photos of me wearing a cowboy hat as a toddler, “My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys.“

In his movie, An Unfinished Life, Robert Redford was told, “You have watched too many Westerns.” I too have watched too many Westerns. Consequently, I make decisions based on what Roy Rogers or John Wayne would do.

For example, I have intervened to save more than one damsel in distress.

Harken back to the thrilling days of yesteryear, when I was ring-bearer at the wedding of an older cousin, Rox. (My parents were each the youngest in their respective families resulting in me having lots of older cousins).

When Roxie and Mardell got married, I was in first grade, age six. As part of the wedding party, I was invited to a pre-wedding picnic. There was probably a rehearsal dinner too, but this was a picnic in a park. As I recall, Rox was teasing his bride and chasing her around and she was screaming like girls do and he grabbed her. So, I did what I had to do. I socked him. Naturally, he went down, just like when Roy Rogers socked somebody.

Being much shorter that Rox, or Roy, my punch landed lower than punches in the movies land. Rox doubled over in terrible pain.

I was told, too late, that Mardell was not really a damsel in distress. She was just funning about. I think I taught her a good lesson about crying “wolf.”

I wonder how their honeymoon went.

P.S. For those of you who are concerned about permanent injury, Rox was able to father two sons, Rick and Brad. No thanks to me.

P.P.S. For an update on how I matured since age six, I refer you to: https://cowboylawyer.wordpress.com/2013/03/06/a-cry-for-help/

as well as

The Stabbin’ Cabin(s)

Who Shot J.R.?

Who Shot J.R.?

Miss Texas Gets Unwanted Attention

My hot trophy wife, Miss Sugar, is also known as Miss Texas. I call her that for good reasons.

One reason is that she grew up in The Republic of Texas. Another reason is that she actually was a finalist in the Miss USA pageant.

Therefore, I thought it was fitting and proper for me to order a Colorado license plate that says: MSTEXAS. See photo below.

Miss Sugar told me at the time that she did not want a license plate saying Miss Texas, but I got it for her anyway. She was right. I shouldn’t have done what I done.

A few days ago, Miss Sugar, aka Miss Texas, was driving her vehicle in, of all places, Loveland, Colorado. Turns out that Loveland is not that friendly of a town. Or, maybe it is tooo friendly.

Sugar was driving. I was a passenger. A police officer turned on the lights and beeped the siren on the police vehicle, indicating that Sugar should pull over. That was surprising because another car had just passed us at a high rate of speed, causing us to remark to each other when the police car turned on its lights that it was to go after the speed racer. Alas, we were wrong. The officer of the law wanted Sugar to pull over. We did not understand why the speeder was ignored, nor could we think of a reason to pull Sugar over.

I now believe the reason was curiosity. People speed every day, but the officer wondered what MSTEXAS looks like.

The reason given was that, supposedly, the stickers on the license plate are not fully visible. (I contend that enough is visible for a law enforcement officer to see the expiration is 4 of 24). What do you think? Are partially covered stickers a huge problem in Loveland? Is it such a huge problem that officers have been instructed to prioritize this as a more serious criminal violation than the actual safety hazard of speeding vehicles when a choice has to be made for the good of the community.

As it turned out, the police person did not issue an actual citation for the serious license plate sticker issue. Despite the lights and siren, in retrospect, the traffic stop was unnecessary. Lawyers call that a lack of probable cause.

Enough about Miss Texas. Now let’s talk about me. My modeling agency suggested that I get vanity plates for my 2000 Ford F250 pickup as a way to advance my career by drawing attention of the general public. The suggested plate would say HANDSOM (I can spell handsome but only seven letters are allowed).

No way! I don’t want every female cop pulling me over just to get a better look.

Not My First Rodeo

I can’t tell you how many times I have been asked how I got to be such a good rider. Well, folks don’t often come right out and ask in, you know, words, but I can see the admiration in their eyes. If someone ever does actually ask in actual words, maybe asking for advice about how they could become as good as me, I will tell them, “If you have to ask, it is probably too late. You must start young, preferably before you can talk. Just master one skill at a time. Make horsey rides your number one priority.“

Chicken Dog

I am not a scientist, but I do know what a woman is, unlike a certain Supreme Court Justice, and more than that, I know that a chicken is a bird.

Although I do not consider myself a scientist, I should admit that my education includes courses in biology, zoology, human anatomy and physiology. My dog, Gus, a Yellow Labrador Retriever, lacks a formal education, yet innately recognizes a bird when he sees one.

Retrievers such as Yellow Labs like to chase balls and bring them back to a person throwing balls. Similarly, many will jump into water to fetch a stick. Despite such proclivities, they were designed by the Creator to fetch birds. They are in a category of canines known as sporting dogs, hunting dogs, water dogs, and just plain bird dogs.

Hunters of pheasants train their retrievers to find pheasants who have been shot and land in, say, a corn field. It saves steps for the human and allows the dog to have some fun. They are known to have soft mouths so as to carry the bird without crunching it or eating it or even shaking it. They bring the pheasant back intact, or should.

Hunters of ducks often see the ducks they shot fall from the sky into a lake. The hunters do not want to swim out to get such ducks so they like to have retrievers (not just labs) swim out to fetch the fallen duck. It is a convenient partnership.

Now let’s talk about Gus. He has all the genes and chromosomes and stuff from ancestors who were field trial champions. Consequently, he likes to fetch balls and sticks. He also likes to swim. He will fetch sticks floating down our little river. Alas, we do not have ducks or even pheasants living on our ranch. We do have chickens. Please recall that I stated in the introductory paragraph that chickens are considered birds.

Forget what I said about bird dogs having soft mouths. When it comes to Gus, his mouth has, unfortunately, crushed a chicken that he wanted to carry around like a dead duck. It became a dead chicken.

Gus accompanies me when I feed the horses twice a day. It is a job we enjoy.

The chickens are located in a different location away from the horses. Gus has been fired from helping me feed the chickens and retrieve eggs. His retrieving only goes so far.

Crafting THE LOOK

Many of you will recall that awhile back I announced my return to modeling. It will surprise you to learn that my agent has ghosted me about updating my portfolio. I am shocked.

I have taken matters into my own hands. I am handling it myself, arranging photo shoots on my own.

The Kardashians have shown me the importance of experimenting with various “looks.”

This week, rather than swimsuit pics, I am branching out to what I call “The Outlaw Look.”

I was influenced by a man I know who did some time in prison. He worked at a store where I met him. We talked sports. This guy is 6’5″ and told me that he played basketball in college (at a D-1 school that you have heard of) but, alas, he got involved in some criminal activity that resulted in a prison stint. While there, he learned some life lessons.

One day he told me about a rough character who had been in the store. My friend described the customer as “looking like he could kill somebody.” I thought, “You ought to know.”

Then he said to me, “Of course, you look like you already killed somebody.”

I took it as a compliment, as he intended.

He went on to offer some fashion advice. He suggested that I get a teardrop tattoo by my left eye. He said that would mean to those familiar with prison tattoos that I killed somebody in prison. That would give me respect.

However, he cautioned me that it is very important to specify the left eye. I was told that a tear by the right eye signifies that the tattooed person “was somebody’s bitch.” Heaven forbid!

I started with a face-painter. Next step is a real tattoo artist, as soon as I get a spousal permission slip.