I Was Shanghaied Into Attending A CBD Oil Group Grope

I must've lived in a cave or under a rock these past few years, because until Thanksgiving of 2018 I had never, ever heard of CBD Oil or anything having to do with the hemp plant.  I thought it was a plant to make outdoor rugs and patio furniture.  However, I can now say in all sincerity and without any fear of contradiction, that anyone and everyone who can say C..B..D Oil is either taking one of the multiple products, selling it or thinking of using it.  This product reminds me of the days whenever Tupperware and Timeshares were the rage for the common folk to make extra money.  To illustrate how popular hemp oil has become, my wife and I attended a double funeral up in the panhandle last winter and on the way into Amarillo there was the gigantic billboard that read "Got Aches and Pains?  Let CBD Oil Take Them Away".  So what makes this billboard so unique?  It was on highway I-27 right in the middle of southern baptist country!!  Religious super stars Billy Graham and Orel Roberts would stroke out if they saw that billboard today.  Lawd help me!       

Here it is the end of April 2019 and my young bride has finally managed to convince me that I needed to go to the Hempworx Roadshow in Houston with her. From where I sit, driving in Houston traffic is about as enjoyable as having a root canal or spending the night welded to the toilet after eating a fish sandwich from a gas station.  Since my wife was happier than Oprah Winfrey making another million dollars on her latest diet plan, I thought the least I could do is not spend the entire time at this roadshow finding fault and being the poster child for the dumb ass husband award.  At least the company that was putting this show together had the foreknowledge and thought to at least book it in a nice big hotel with a restaurant and bar.  No beer -- no Jim.  No brag, just fact.

This group grope is a one day event that started at 9am and concluded around 5pm.  The first thing we're greeted with are hundreds of people standing in line to check-in at the registration desk and the number of selfies people were taking was enough to shoot Face Book shares through the roof.  I got the distinct feeling there were a number of these people that don't get out of town very often, so attending this event in the big city of Houston was a 'vay-kay-tion' to them.  To me and my young bride it was time well spent observing other attendee's in line and praying the female population didn't go ballistic with the perfume and foo-foo powder. I did consider taking a canary with us while we stood in line...if the bird dies we need to leave. Of the approximate 1,000 people in attendance, I personally observed only six women wearing dresses and the remainder wore jeans, Capri pants or cut off blue jeans -- being comfortable was the obvious point being made.  (There was a Jehovah Witness conference taking place in the room next to ours and those six women decided our room was more fun...just sayin'.)  The women's footwear consisted mostly of sandals, with a few demonstrating their retailer of choice by the appearance of their rubber flip flops decorated with plastic rubies and diamonds.  I didn't see any of them wearing those pop-off beads that were so popular from the 70's.  What few men were there wore mainly blue jeans; however, there were two that proudly displayed their bib-overalls and t-shirts.  These gentlemen were gracious enough to ensure there was no bovine, hog or horse excrement on the bottom of their boots prior to entering the banquet room.  And to the best of my knowledge, neither of them chewed tobacco or dipped snuff.  Did I happen to mention the rural community was well represented at this gathering??                      

After elbowing our way through the masses at the t-shirt, baseball caps and coffee mug sales table, which I might add resembled nothing short of a Black Friday sale at Wal-Mart, I could hear the distinct sound of rock-n-roll music; good rock-n-roll coming out of the banquet room.  Just as we walked into this massive room, I saw different colored light beams bouncing off the floor and walls; Girl on Fire sung by Alicia Keys was booming from the large sound system and pockets of women attendee's were dancing in their own little area's of the room and shakin' their booty.

We got two chairs at the back and my young bride tells me she was going back to the check-in table and register to get her "free shit".  She no sooner stepped away when I noticed a woman about my age that was REALLY getting into the song Sharp Dressed Man by ZZ Top.  I have no clue what this woman did for a living before, but I would be willing to bet money it involved dancing on stage and taking her clothes off.  You don't learn those kind of body moves from singing in a church choir or taking gymnastic classes at the local YWCA.  By the middle of the song Disco Granny was really in her groove and had both arms stretched out, grinding her hips and shaking her shoulders so hard that I'm surprised her big boobs didn't blacken both eyes.  Disco Granny looked to be doing her version of one of those dances from Saturday Night Fever with John Travolta.  Thank heavens there weren't any fireman poles scattered throughout the room or it could've gotten ugly real quick.  As a good friend of mine likes to say "I've been to three county fairs, two hog killin's and a taffy pull, but I ain't never seen anything like that."

All of a sudden every light in the room comes on, strobe lights and music were switched off and on to the stage bounces the Master of Ceremonies (MC).  The entire room explodes into applause, whistles and women of all ages and shapes jumping up and down faster than a fat kid in a Dunkin' Donuts.  There was a group of about 60 women in the middle section of the room that kept yelling Yee-Haw, Yee-Haw! Really?  Is this the best they could do...Yee-Haw?  There is over one million words in the English language and Yee-Haw was all this bunch could come up with?  Just poke me in the eye with a stick and get it over with.  Maybe it's a Texas word that's passed down from generation to generation to describe a happy, joyous moment such as a rodeo or a shot gun wedding.  Or maybe it's a secret password for this group to demonstrate how to butcher the English language with one simple word.  Who knows, but one thing is for certain, they ALL wore the same t-shirts that had Goddess of Hemp printed on the front.  The Hempworx organization calls these women a "team"; however, I'm more inclined to think of them as a "tribe".  I base this assessment on they all could say Yee-Haw on command, they wore identical t-shirts and this group of women had more chins than a Chinese phone book; thus, I now address them as the Chin Tribe.

To enhance the credibility of the Hempworx product and to motivate everyone in the audience, three motivational speakers were brought in to address the crowd of a thousand and each of these speakers had personally gained wealth from selling the various Hempworx products.  Of the three speakers it was the middle aged woman by the name of Chris from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania that really got the crowd whipped into a frenzy....ricky-tick, toot-sweet.  No sooner had Chris gotten on stage and she took total control of her audience by pacing back and forth, shouting "Can you say we can do this?" and the crowd roared "We can do this!", "say it again people" and they responded "We can do this!".  Watching this woman work her audience reminded me of all those Orel Roberts tent revivals my grandparents watched on TV.  The Chin Tribe got so worked up over Chris's presentation that I kept looking for men carrying bed sheets to catch those who had "gotten the spirit" before hitting the floor.  Chris was so good at this, that she was brought back for another hour of speaking after lunch.  Catch em' while they're hot baby! You're on a roll!
                                       

By the time Mickey's little hand was on the 4 and his big hand was on the 12, my saturation point for rah-rah motivation was fast approaching and when that happens, boredom kicks in and then it's all over but listening to the fat lady sing.  I had to get up and go stand in the back of the auditorium because my ass hurt, both legs were going numb starting at the knees and downward, and I was really growing tired of hearing the Chin Tribe say Yee-Haw after every other sentence.  Let's just say they were startin' to grate my nerves something fierce.  May all their children be born naked and riding a snow mobile...just sayin'.

Of all the products that were presented by both the motivation speakers and what was listed in the handouts, the mouth spray Peak was the only one that I found interesting.  During Chris's afternoon performance, she was going one by one through all six mouth sprays and what they did for people.  There's a spray to boost the energy level, one to help a person sleep, one for weight management, another to help maintain a healthy life style, another spray for advanced brain nutrition and then Peak.  When Chris made the comment "You men out there ought to try this Peak spray.  Not only is it good for you, BUT it will also increase your libido."  After hearing those lovely pearls of wisdom, I thought "Hot Damn!  I've hit the trifecta!  The wife gives me a testosterone shot every week, I take enough vitamins to keep me healthy for another century and a spray of Peak every morning ought to do the trick.  I'll have the sexual appetite of a Tyrantisaurus Rex!"
                                           

So, what did I take away from spending the better part of a day at this event?  It's unlike anything I've attended before and can best be described as having gone to a circus, rodeo and revival in the same room at the same time.  The only things missing were a rodeo clown, cotton candy and a bearded lady. Would I squander my valuable time and money to attend another one of these rah-rah's over the next millennium?  Only, and I emphasize the word 'only', if I had absolutely nothing else to do with my life and my young bride wanted to go.  Then and only then would I ponder the concept of going to another circus-rodeo-revival at the same time.  However, the deciding two factors playing into this process is: (a) cold beer would be available and plentiful and (b), there would be an ample supply of freaks to hold my attention and determine if Charles Darwin might have missed a few species.

Dolly Wood - Hillbilly Mecca

If humanity had a petri dish, it would certainly be amusement parks and the bigger they are the better the scenery, or as I like to call it "eye candy heaven".  I can watch people for hours from all walks of life mingling around doing whatever they want, as if no one was around to see them.  It's not clear what it is about amusement parks that invites people to not give a damn what their appearance looks like in public, but it's sure fascinating to me.  As a deer friend of mine in Montana likes to say "they're a right good source of humor".

I first became interested in watching people from the time I was in the 5th grade and it was a hobby I picked up from my Indian mother and her father, who over the years had been thoroughly entertained by the masses.  By the time I had reached my sophomore year in high school, I started giving some of the 'eye candy' funny names and doing voice impersonations on how I thought they would sound when speaking (i.e., Gomer Pyle USMC - Shazam, Sargent Carter!, Festus from the show Gunsmoke - Pert near there Doc.)  Fast forward 50 years and I've now discovered that my son has also taken up the family tradition of not only enjoying watching people, but with the invention of the cell phone is also very adept at taking their picture as evidence for all who care to see.  So, without further ado, let me introduce you to some of the poor souls that my son and I saw during last years family trip to Dolly Wood in Gatlinburg, Tennessee.  And before I go any further, if by some remote possibility you might happen to be related to any of these folks, do yourself a favor and don't let it get around.  You've got a reputation to uphold.
                                

Say hello to "The Blonde Bomb", who was the first of many, shall I say, "unique"persons of interest we would encounter over the next 5-6 hours of mingling with the other tourists.  Upon closer examination, I discovered that not only did her coat resembled that of a dwarf flamingo having walked in a Gay Pride march in Saudi Arabia, but she was also wearing black leather pants, Elton John sun glasses that were the same color as the coat AND carrying an imitation leopard purse! Oh, you go girl!!! Charles Darwin lost a great opportunity by dying too soon - should've hung around for Dolly Wood to be built. Bah-Dah-Bing, Bah-Dah-Boom!!!  I wonder if her family ever considered her marrying someone from another county or out-of-state?  It would certainly help keep the blood lines pure for future generations by not having everyone in town with the same facial features.
                                                 

Whenever I hear the word hillbilly, I immediately have a mental image of someone looking like this man.  Who knows, this guy could have a doctorate degree from Harvard or Yale in astronomical studies about the earth or maybe working on a cure for hoof and mouth disease in livestock.  But when you're out in public dressed in brogue boots, bib overalls, a flannel shirt, wearing a camouflage hunting hat and sporting a beard, then he's got to have the name of either Cletus or Clyde.  There's every bit the chance that when he's down at the local choke and puke having coffee with the boys, he would be the first to use the phrase "I'll tell you what boy, I'll tell you what", which is a professional courtesy for preparing the listener's for the eventual lie(s) that will follow.  In addition, "Why, I'd knowed him all his life" is often heard in courthouse during bond hearings for a close relative or someone they owe money to.
                                                     

While sitting on a bench, my son and I glanced up and spotted this woman in what can only be described as -- eye opening.  A person from France might say this lady gives the impression she is "mode de vie de vie d'elite", which translates to elite life style in English.  But since she's at Dolly Wood and not France, she's more likely to hear "Excuse me Claude Mae, but where on this side of heaven did you get such purty glad rags?  Why it wouldn't surprise me one little bit if you didn't meet up with Snookie and ya'll went a shoppin' at Walmart, Goodwill or Salvation Army.  Why, I bet your mamma's sewing room doesn't have that kind of uppity material for makin' her quilts.  My granny used to have a table cloth like that for years and years out at the Repossession Acres Trailer Park.                             

Yo, Shrek! Whuzz up dude?  This fine figure of a man sat down on the same bench as my son and I, and at no time did he ever raise his head to see what was taking place around him -- he remained totally focused on what was taking place on his cell phone.  I'm going out on a limb here and come to an analytical assessment that this stunning individual doesn't place a whole lot of importance on personal hygiene or good eating habits.  However, in his defense, I have personally observed on more than one occasion men of this caliber and physique operating and maintaining rides of the carnivals that magically appear during the summer months at county fairs.  At least Shrek isn't sporting prison tattoo's and dabbling a little panhandling to make ends meet to pay for that cell phone.

There you have it my friends.  My very own dog and pony show of just a few selected individuals from that vast entertainment complex of Dolly Wood.  So, the question begs to be asked - do you or do you not have friends and/or relatives that resemble one of the individuals above?  And my answer to the question is a resounding YES!

What In The Hell Did I Just See?

A few days ago I took my young bride to her podiatrist appointment where the doctor was going to give the both of us the nickel tour of what he was going to do during her surgery the following week.

As with any doctor's appointment, I've learned to be prepared for a lengthy wait in the patients lobby and there is every bit a chance the cheeks of your butt will be numb before getting called back to the exam room.  Since my young bride and I got into the medical business going on 17-years now, I've yet to find any comfortable furniture in doctor waiting rooms.  The couches are usually so broken down and smelly, the cushions would keep a pack of blood hounds busy for a month and the seats in the chairs feel as though they're either made of pig iron or smoothed over concrete blocks.  By the time you get called back to see the doctor, the noise you make walking towards the door resembles that of a truck running over sheets of bubble wrap....pop...pop pop...pop pop pop pop.

So, we enter the doctor's office and my wife walks up to the front desk to tell the lady she is there for her 1:40pm appointment and yours truly wanders into an "empty" waiting room, scoping things out to either find something to entertain me or provide me with just a hint of mischief.  Did I happen to mention that I'm not the least bit fond of doctor waiting rooms or having to wait in lines?  Anyway, there are no coloring books and crayons or magazines in sight, much less a newspaper; however, there is a TV mounted on the wall up high enough to keep patients from stealing it without the use of a chair or ladder.  And before I go any further, I want to point out that YES, it is not uncommon for patients in San Antonio to steal from doctor offices.  I know of practices on the south side of town where chairs and coffee tables in the lobby are "bolted to the floor" and there have been instances where patients have been caught red handed stealing the pictures off the exam room wall while waiting for the doctor.  Ah, yes, these pillars of the community...fine, upstanding citizens.

The time is now 2pm, we're still waiting to see the doctor and I've told my young bride in a voice so low and soft that it can only be heard by dogs, that I'd bet this doctor's mother had romantic relationships with water buffalo's and wildebeests during her vacation to Africa. Growing ever so weary of my whining, my wife said "Jim, just give it up and watch TV for awhile.  It shouldn't be that much longer until the doctor will be able to see us.  You're worse than taking a 5-year old."  OK, now that I've been given adult instructions, I whirl around in my chair and glanced up at the TV to see two young, white, adult men embarrassed and kissing each other on the lips!!  What the Hell Cletus, is this a porno flick??
                                   

I snapped my neck back towards my wife and said, "Did you see that?  Those guy’s are sucking face! The blonde guy put his tongue so far down the other's one throat, the poor bastard won't need a colonoscopy for the next 10 years!"  My wife replied "Yes, I see them kissing.  It's two men just showing affection. What’s the big deal?  It's just television - nothing real."  I replied "What's the big deal?  Whaddaya' mean what's the big deal? This crap is on national TV!  Why, I'm surprised the entire southern Baptist Conference isn't outside the television station right now with thousands carrying pickets and bibles in their hands.  Can you fathom how much chaos would ensue if all the people in this town who claim to have seen images of the Virgin Mary in broken tree limbs, washed out river rocks and burned out cars were watching this?  The Governor would have to call out the National Guard.  Sweet Jesus! Texas would be in complete chaos and turmoil!  My God, we almost separated from the rest of the nation over the introduction of the Bathroom Bill last year!

I quickly turned back to the television and saw this same blonde guy trying to talk some big burly guy that had more hair on his chest than a silver back gorilla, to meet him upstairs in his room where he would find out what "High Ho Silver" really meant.  Again, I turned back to my wife and said, "Did you hear what that little blonde headed twerp just said?" and she replied "Yep, I heard every word.  What's your point in all of this?  It's just an afternoon soap opera for cryin' out loud."  "Soap opera?" I said, "Since when did The Edge of Night, As The World Turns and General Hospital change their programming to resemble that of date night in a Panamanian hump-ah-hump-ah bar?  Who sponsors this crap anyway? Johnson and Johnson Vaseline or Trojan condoms?"                                        

                                              

My wife responded "Jim, you're making way too much out of all this.  Just relax and it won't be long until we'll be talking with the doctor and then we can go home."  No sooner had may wife finished that sentence, the medicine aid (aka Nurse Ratched) called her name and took the two of us to the exam room. The doctor finally made his grand appearance about 15-minutes later and told us everything we needed to know about the surgery, where it would be and how long it should take....providing there aren't any complications.  I thought "you're just straightening out two toes, not conducting open heart surgery."  Needless to say, I was more than ready to leave that place.
                                                 

I Got "Witnessed" Ya'll!

When I was growing up in the panhandle of Texas in the 50's and 60's everyone I knew were of the Protestant faith and a large portion of them were of some denomination of Baptist.  By the time I had reached the 6th grade, I faintly remember hearing my grandmothers and aunts talking about how they had "witnessed" to total strangers and how this made them feel.  According to Merriam-Webster, a "Christian witness is a public act of both faith and hope intended to awaken in the world belief in hope and salvation."  Little did I know at the time, but it would be 60 years before I would get an upfront and personal experience of having been "witnessed" to.

Yesterday morning started off like any other Saturday morning I've had in the past 17 months, working at a car dealership and driving a 14-passenger employee shuttle bus.  The first few hours are spent getting the employee's to work and by 10am, it's starting to get plenty hot and I'm sweating faster than a country preacher at a tent revival washing and cleaning the bus.  Starting around noon and lasting until 5pm, I'm virtually by myself in my clean, air conditioned bus listening to Alan Jackson, Willie Nelson, Alabama, Brooks and Dunn, Leann Rimes, The Mavericks and Patsy Cline. Occasionally a person will get on the bus and need a ride to the employee parking lot, but yes, I do actually get paid good $$$ to do this.

Long about the crack of high noon, I was really enjoying a cup of coffee that my wife had made for me that morning and I could still taste that great Fudrucker's hamburger and chips I had for lunch, when one of the mechanics from Honda - Larry - gets on the bus.  Larry is 50 years old and moved here a few months ago and we exchange pleasantries about the Texas heat, all the rain we've had this week and how it sucks having to work on a weekend.  He said something that I didn't quite catch due to all the noise from the bus engine.  All I heard was "God" and I replied by saying, "Yeah."  The next thing I know Larry goes into this long dissertation about how he was paralyzed from the neck down from a motorcycle accident in California on October 9th, 2009.  According to Larry, on that day while laying in his hospital bed, him and his wife experienced a miracle that only a Christian would understand.  He saw in a mirror that Jesus was sitting on his left shoulder and God was standing behind his right shoulder.  I was at a total loss for words.                                   

By the time I had driven half a mile, Larry was quoting scriptures from the bible, how it had affected his life and how he now perceives the world from a different point of view; however, he didn't stop talking long enough to take a breath of air.  I did my ever loving best to not be rude, but I kept thinking to myself "Larry - give it up dude.  For all that's holy and righteous, just give it up.  I'm 68 years old; my balls hang lower now than they used to, I live a simple life, I have simple pleasures, I've been married to the same beautiful woman for 45 years and yes, I do believe in God.  So how about shuttin' your pie hole and let me enjoy my cup of coffee, music and air conditioning for the remainder of my shift.  Huh, whaddya' say Larry?"  It wasn't until the third traffic light that Larry actually took time out from his "witnessing" to take a breath of air and I noticed he started getting a little color back in face.

Part of my bus route takes me through an area that consists of five large Section Eight apartment buildings and from beginning to end it's four blocks long.  Each time I drive along this street I often think that if Charles Darwin were still alive he would be ecstatic about exploring this complex.  I'm fairly certain there are species of animals to which no one in the civilized world knows anything about, and these creatures are living happily and breeding in total bliss.  Two of the more interesting creatures I see regularly are Thumbelina (the cross dressing male with broad shoulders, an over sized Adams apple and a tacky wardrobe) and Bluto (a homeless, bearded black man who wears cargo shorts year round and his legs resemble rusty cheese graters - just gag me with a spoon).   Surely, I thought to myself, Larry would take an interest as to what was going on outside of the bus, but not good old Larry, he's still rattling off scriptures faster than a tobacco auctioneer.                             

By the time I crested the top of the hill and could see the employee parking lot, I began getting a great feeling of relief because Larry had picked up steam on his "witnessing"since the last traffic light and showed no signs of slowing down.  During this entire 15-minute drive of insanity, the only word I had spoken was "Yeah" and not one time did Larry every show any signs of diverting from his mission of spreading the word of God.  As the bus was rolling to a stop at the parking lot, I wondered how many times Larry had rehearsed his sermon and what kind of dinner table conversation he has with his wife after the blessing of the meal?  For as long as my employer decides to continue shuttle bus service for its' employees, I will treat Larry with the same respect and customer support I give to all the passengers, BUT he and I will never break bread together.  Nope, not happening!!!

Man! What A Morning!

Did you ever wake up in the morning and have that feeling as though you've got a lot of things to do for the day, but your energy level just isn't quite there?  Last week I had to get some blood drawn for an impending minor surgery I'm having to remove a small skin cancer spot near my left eye.  I wasn't real keen on the idea, but what the Hell, I had to go or else suffer the verbal thrashing I would get if I didn't go.

Anyway, my wife took my nasty ass down to our doctor's office and we quickly discovered the left hand in this practice doesn't always talk to the right hand very well.  After sitting in the lobby for what seemed to be years, knocking back a cup of their "instant" coffee and watching their boring as Hell nutrition ad, I was finally escorted back to the drawing station to have my blood drawn.  The young man leading the way to our destination could easily have been a graduate of the Oral Roberts University and all the way to the drawing station he kept saying how this was "a glorious day for God."  Once I sat down and he prepared to draw my blood, he said "Glory be to God" twice while  wiping my arm with an alcohol pad.  He repeated this same thing twice just prior to sticking me with the needle and twice again when he took the needle out!  I was beginning to get a little nervous, if you get my drift.  I didn't know if I was going to need to do a Jackie Chan routine on this little guy or not.

OK, two tubes of blood have been drawn and now I've got to provide him with a urine sample in this little bitty plastic cup.  Remember, by this time I've already choked down three cups of coffee and my bladder is pounding like a bass drum.  I discovered very quickly that the restroom I've been told to use to get my sample was in use and thus, I was doing the Michael Jackson Moon Walk in the hall anxiously waiting for this person to finish their business.  After what seemed to be an eternity, this young woman that worked there finally opened the door and made her grand exit.  I had no sooner entered the restroom when I was greeted with a stench that would certainly gag a buzzard off a gut wagon.  This ungracious young woman didn't have the decency to forewarn me of the room being filled with a toxic smell that can only be described as that of someone having gutted a goat with a road flare.  I was in fear of losing the enamel off my teeth, so I breathed only through my nostrils while struggling to fill up this damn little plastic cup!  Were it not for the fact that I had nothing to eat since 4pm the previous day, I would have done my best to track down this gangster of stench and asked if during this young woman's potty training years if she had ever been taught to turn the damn fan on while giving birth to a landfill?

After leaving the doctor's office, and assuring all of those within ear shot that I was not responsible for the methane madness at the drawing station, my wife and I went to our neighborhood Mexican restaurant for breakfast where I proceeded to eat enough to feed a family of eight.  It's absolutely amazing what a little food and caffeine can do for a person's outlook on life.

I Was Destined To Be A Texas Cowboy

In October 1955, my parents took my 11 month old baby brother Chet and I to our Uncle Skinny and Aunt Gladys's house that was about 10 miles west of a little town in the panhandle of Texas by the name of Claude (where the movie Hud staring Paul Newman was filmed.)  My uncle lived on a little ranch where he raised a few cows and did some farming.  When the car pulled up to the house it resembled a scene from the television series The Walton's.  My dad's two younger sisters and their families were also there and my best guess is there were no less than 14 little booger pickin' kids running all over God's creation in various stages of dirt, sweat and chewing Bazooka bubble gum.  Once all the hand shaking, hugging and kissing was over, I walked with the big boy's to the barn where everybody grabbed an empty feed bucket and turned it over and sat down....cowboy style.

Since I was only 5-years old, I wasn't allowed to smoke snipes, which was nothing more than crushed cigarette butts from the ash trays of our parents cars.  The two older cousins, Jimmy and Jerry, asked me between puffs if I wanted to become a real cowboy.  Do I? Of course I want to be a cowboy!  I had all the qualifications necessary for this position.  Every Saturday morning I was glued to the television set watching the Lone Ranger, Roy Rogers, Hop Along Cassidy, Gene Autry, Sky King and the Cisco Kid. Why, I even had an official Range Riders cowboy hat and badge.  Of course I'm ready!!
                                      

After everyone crushed out their cigarette, we resembled a small mob walking towards the horse tank where all the livestock get a drink of water and the corral was ankle deep in mud and large quantities of bovine body waste.  Or as country folks call it 'cow shit and pee' and it's also been known to be called feed lot pudding by those in the live stock industry. The older boy's instructed me to sit on the edge of the horse tank and hold on tight to a very long cotton rope that was attached to a large young cow and not let go.  If I was able to hang on to that rope for 8 seconds, I would then have passed my initiation and would be recognized as a real Texas cowboy.  While I wrapped that rope around my arm like it was a coiled snake, all the boys' jumped up on the corral fence in great anticipation of what was about to take place.  Jerry swung the gate open and Jimmy hit the cow in the butt with a hot shot and I was jerked off that horse tank in a flash!  I couldn't see anything and was having to breath through my nose because I had my mouth clamped shut. When I finally got up off the ground for what seemed like forever, all I could hear were the cheers from my cousins. "Way to go Buck!  You did it, you did it! You're a real cowboy now Buck."  I was so proud of myself.  I got the approval of the 'big boys' and now I was one of them.

When I entered the house to tell all the adults of my accomplishment, I remember my Indian mother's mouth being wide open in disbelief and saying, "Oh my God son!  What happened to you?"  Every pocket on my shirt and jeans had mud, cow shit and pee in them.  My face was brown from the spray of the water and urine in the corral, my ears were packed and my hair had no telling what in it.  Needless to say the adults weren't that impressed with my becoming a cowboy and were more interested in knowing which of my cousins were responsible for this act of juvenile mischief.  Being a 5-year old I naturally told everything!  I was now one of the 'big boy's' and proud of it.

 Once I identified everyone involved in my initiation, Uncle Skinny reached inside the pantry in the kitchen and took down his razor strap and walked out the back door.  During this period of time, it was normal for children to be disciplined with a belt or strap.  It was easy to tell when Uncle Skinny was really made, because all the veins in his neck would pulsate with every beat of his heart and this time they were throbbing like a mocking bird's ass on a high line wire.  Uncle Skinny walked very rigid over to the picnic table and yelled "You damn boy's get over here.  Now!"  The uncle yelled loud enough that it's a pretty safe bet the people living in Arizona could hear him. The two younger boy's began crying immediately, while Jerry and Jimmy's face resembled a glazed doughnut.  There was no doubt in anyone's mind in Armstrong County there was going to be an ass whoopin' that day.

By 1967, I had improved my skills of working with farm and ranch animals.  I even rode in a couple of rodeos in the bull riding event, but came to the conclusion this was not a sport I could excel in.  To be honest, I wasn't all that good to begin with.  My two brothers and I came to Wellington for the summer and worked in our grandparents drive-in, called the Dixie Maid, to make money for school clothes. Jokingly I've said for years that I was probably related one way or another to 65% of the people in Wellington and the remaining 35% were just traveling through.  The farming and ranching industry in that town is one of the primary sources of income, so it's not all that uncommon to see horses and cattle everywhere.  One afternoon after working the lunch run at the drive-in, I was told that the following day everyone was getting up at 6am to work about 40 head of cattle and it was going to be a full day of hard work.  I was smiling like a jackass eating briars when I heard this, but 6am is way earlier than I had been getting up.  Oh well, time to saddle up and make it happen.

My two brothers Chet and Tom worked as hard as the rest of us.  The first place we started at was my grandfathers best friend Claude Smith's place and he had cows that needed to be branded, de-horned and castrated.  Since my grandfather had worked on numerous ranches in his life, he was magnificent in telling us what we needed to do and how to do it correctly.  My grandfather and Claude did the castrating while my two brothers and I were responsible for herding the cows into what's called a 'cradle' where they could be locked down and kept from moving around.  This was going to be a one-stop situation for the cows.  They would be herded into the cradle, clamped down, branded if needed, then de-horned and castration was last with the testicles pitched into a bucket to be cooked later.  Ever heard of Mountain Oysters?  Things were going along like a well oiled machine that morning and we had this down to a science by 9am.  Our grandmother was cooking everyone breakfast outside just like she did when they lived and worked for the Mill Iron ranch...hot biscuits, bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs and a large pot of camp fire cooked coffee.  Man that was good.

Long about one that afternoon the temperature was closing in on triple digits, flies were so abundant the cows were getting rest less and the stench of burnt hair from the branding was getting a bit gamey.  Chet and Tom's faces were red as a turkey's butt and the sweat was just pouring off their faces.  They were sending a cow down the chute toward the cradle and this particular cow had it in his mind that he was NOT going peacefully.  I twisted his tail to get him moving and once his head went through the opening at the other end of the cradle, Claude's hired hand Clint clamped his head down and now all is good.  Anytime a cow or horse is being castrated, it's imperative the back legs are spread wide open and tied down to keep the animal from hurting itself or the person doing the cutting.

Once the animal was secured, Clint and I spread the cow's legs open and anchored them with rope to the corral fence.  Just as my grandfather put the hot branding iron on the cow, it shot a string of cow shit about 10 feet straight back up the chute and hit Chet square in the middle of his chest.  Not only did Chet get nailed, but that string of cow shit streamed down from his chest all the way to his belt.  He was not the least bit happy and of course the rest of us thought it was hilarious.  Chet stomped all the way to the back of the pen repeating, "Damn I hate cows!  I don't want to do this crap anymore.  It's hot and the damn flies are drivin' me nuts.  Damn I hate cows!  Dammit Buck, it ain't funny!  Stop laughing."  I'm not sure if Chet saw Tom doubled over with laughter by the horse tank, but the poor kid was almost in tears.  This bit of excitement and humor certainly brought things to a temporary stand still.  But after everyone regained their composure and Chet washed off his t-shirt in the horse tank, it was back to business as usual.  My grandmother said that was a moment she will always remember.
    

Getting A Colonoscopy? Leave Modesty and Privacy At Home

For my 50th birthday in 1999, my darling wife of 26 years informed me in her "nurse" voice that I needed to get a colonoscopy because I have family members on both my mother and fathers side of the family who've died from cancer.  To reinforce the urgency of her statement, she began rattling off the names of my relatives that have suffered from this nasty disease like a tobacco auctioneer.  My wife's 100% right.  I needed to get this took care of, the sooner the better, but I've got these lingering thoughts of what I've been told by my friends and some of the horror stories I've heard on television or read in magazines and newspapers. This whole process should really be a no brainer for cryin' out loud.  But all those images of having something shoved up my ass far enough to go pass my lungs and rest on my chin, well, that just didn't make it any easier to get my mind right about all of this.

This whole process of anus drilling started a few months earlier when an internal body part of mine started giving me fits and I went to our family doctor, Scott, for a check up.  Now, my wife and I have known Scott for years and he was more of a buddy than my doctor, but when he told me that because of my age and family history, he needed to do a sigmoidoscopy on me.  Every muscle in my body went limp.  I'm fairly certain that my facial expression resembled that of a glazed doughnut. The dog's are barkin', the front porch lights are on but ain't nobody home.  If you've never had the profound pleasure of having this procedure performed on you, then by all means let me explain it to you in a language I understand and speak very well.  First, you hop on this cold stainless steel table with nothing on but your socks, lay your naked chubby wrinkled butt down and then you're instructed to "roll over on your left side".  Second, the doctor and his nurse assistant, affectionately known as Attila the Hun, lay the back of your paper gown on your side exposing your naked butt for all to see and then proceed to insert a sophisticated bicycle pump hose way up your butt and shoot enough air inside your abdomen to inflate every tire on a fleet of school buses.  Oh baby, my abdomen felt like Mount St. Helen's preparing to explode!!  And finally, adding insult to injury, the Hubble Telescope is then inserted and the doctor begins the process of looking at everything in the lower colon, which by the way seems to take him hours to do.  A few weeks later Scott sends me a letter stating that everything was fine, but since I was turning 50 very shortly, I needed to get a colonoscopy just to be sure all is well.  Oh joy, oh rapture.  I...just...can't...wait.  In fact, I'm sitting on the very edge of my chair in great anticipation of this marvelous upcoming medical event.

 Since Scott is my primary physician, he then sends me to a friend of his that's a couple of miles away and this guy is going to be my proctologist for the next stage in my life's ongoing saga of When Will It All End.  I don't recall his name right off hand, but I do remember him having a strong jaw line like the actors James Dean and Charles Heston, with hands the size of a damn catchers mitt and a sense of humor that was no where to be found.  I thought to myself "Oh this is going to be just peachy!  Gee, I'm going to have Dudley Do Right perform my colonoscopy, nurse Rachette assisting, Phyllis Diller as my anesthesiologist, with the gang of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid manning the operating room.  What could possibly go wrong?"

As per the instructions from Dr. Dudley Do Right, the day before my colonoscopy I began my preparation by not eating any solid food whatsoever; all I had was beef broth, which tastes like warm, brown, salty water that leaves a horrible taste in the mouth.  Luckily for me, before I engaged in my next step I had talked with my middle brother Chet a few days before, who had already had a colonoscopy earlier, and he gave me some fantastic advice.  He said, and I quote, "Whatever you do, under no circumstances should you start drinking that powered water they've given you during the evening hours.  When I had my colonoscopy I didn't start drinking that nasty stuff until about 9pm and from that point on, I never got off the toilet, much less get any sleep."end quote.  So, Doctor Frankenstein and his side kick Igor neglected telling me about this part of the preparation.  Big joke! Ha, Ha! Watch him fill his bed with tra-lah-lah!!!  White man speak with forked tongue.  Hope many buffalo run through his teepee and take a powerful dump!!

I took off from work at noon the day before my colonoscopy and went home to begin a process that would bring discomfort and annoyance in my foreseeable future.  I took the two packets of powdered Go Lightly Laxative and mixed it in an empty plastic milk jug with lukewarm water.  Once the magical concoction was mixed, I then had to drink 12 ounces of it every 15 minutes until it was gone.  I discovered when purchasing my Go Lightly Laxative that it came in two, and only two, flavors:  cherry and lemon.  I chose the lemon flavor, but I can assure you in all honesty and without any fear of contradiction there was nothing about it that remotely resembled lemons at all.  It was more like a potion of furniture polish and melted crayons, with just a splash of lemon.  And before I go any further, I just wanted to say that whoever in the pharmaceutical industry thought giving a product of this caliber a name like Go Lightly or MoviPrep Laxative was humorous, they are sorely mistaken in all categories.  Sick bastards!!!

While mixing the toxic ingredients of my Go Lightly at the kitchen counter, it reminded me of the Disney movie Sleeping Beauty where the wicked witch Maleficent was preparing her poisoned apple for the princess.  Before I started drinking my concoction, I double checked the bathroom to ensure there was an ample supply of toilet paper - check; placed two new cans of orange fruit aerosol spray next to the sink - check, move the end table and lamp so that I've got a clear view of the television while 'sitting on the throne' - check.  I'm not going into graphic detail about everything that took place in my tiny room of anguish and swirling ceiling, but I will say that my legs went numb on more than one occasion from sitting too long and the hair in my nostrils and face fell off as if I were at ground zero of a nuclear blast.  I eliminated everything from my bowels that I had ingested since childhood and I had so much watery substance shooting out my backside, that by the 7th cup of Go Lightly I had to switch from the family favorite of Charmin toilet tissue to using cotton balls.  I was so sore and raw by the time my wife and son got home, I was walking as though I had a loaded tractor-trailer parked sideways in my butt.

I've never been able to understand why every time a person has surgery of any kind at a hospital, you must arrive at a ridicules hour before the sun comes up in order to start the preparation process.  After filling out more forms and papers than it takes to enact a law from Congress that basically stated I understood and agreed with what the forms said, I was taken to an area that had approximately 20 empty beds with little curtains around each of them.  At this point my recovery nurse, Helga the Crusher - her professional wrestling name, told me to get completely undressed and put on one of those back-less cloth gowns that in no way hides any part of the body from the neck to the back of the knees.  Every dangling part of my body sucked up inside my stomach for warmth, because the temperature in the recovery room was cold enough to hang sides of beef.  My lovely wife tired of hearing my teeth chatter and watching my breath crystallize, grabbed a couple of blankets off the bed nearest me and covered me up.  Shortly there after my nurse Helga came and put a needle in a vein on my left hand and started a drip of this wonderful drug called Versed, which not only knocks a person out completely, but should you wake up during the procedure, you won't remember a damn thing.  Oh yeah, Versed is a friend of mind whenever I've got to be operated on.

When all the equipment and staff in the procedure room were ready, and I had multiple drops of Versed in my veins, I was wheeled into this room that had a lot of monitors and large lights.  There to greet me in their surgical scrubs and masks were Dr. Dudley Do Right, nurse Rachette and Phyllis Diller my anesthesiologist.  The gang of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid arrived a few moments after me and I could hear them talking among themselves while shuffling medical tools, when Phyllis Diller said "Goodnight Jim."

The next thing I know my wife is leaned over and kissing me on the cheek.  Nurse Helga pulled the curtains back and asked how I was feeling.  Other than my mouth being very dry and tasting as though the entire 3rd Marine Division had marched across my tongue, I felt great.  Helga told me that I would have to stay in bed for another 30 minutes for the Versed to wear completely off; however, I could have anything I wanted to drink - juice, water or coffee.  I said "Coffee would be great!  And I take my coffee just like I do my women -- hot and racy!!!"  Were it not for the fact I was still under the influence of Versed, I'm positive my darling wife would've punched me so hard that by the time my big ass hit the ground my clothes would've been out of style.  Yep, I certainly dodged the bullet on that one.  While sipping on my lovely nectar of the Gods (aka coffee), Dr. Dudley Do Right walked over to my bed and said he found only two polyps and that he would send them off to the laboratory for testing to determine if they were cancerous.  It didn't take that long for him to have the results and I was cancer free!!! Whew!!  Was I ever glad this was over.

Now, on a personal level.  Getting a colonoscopy is only as scary as your imagination makes it.  There are mountains upon mountains of evidence that prove by getting regular check-ups with your doctor and having a colonoscopy starting at your 50th birthday is a step in the right direction in beating cancer....do NOT hesitate.  See your doctor...have it done...and be around to love your family.  You and you alone are in charge with this part of your destiny.