Texas Bar Exam

My niece recently graduated from law school.  Since she got her undergraduate degree in Texas and since I'm an Ambassador of Texas, I was able to invite her to take the Texas Bar exam.  As a public service I now publish the exam for everyone.

Texas Bar Exam

Select the best answer:

1. Grandma Moses is driving her car at 75 mph on interstate 35. The car GPS gets in a fight with the GPS from her smart phone. The car GPS is telling her to turn right while the phone GPS is telling her to turn left. Grandma Moses splits the difference and goes straight into a utility pole ejecting her through the windshield. She survives but spends a year in the hospital incurring millions of dollars of medical bills. You should:

A. Sue both GPS makers

B. Look for other car owners similarly afflicted and file a class action lawsuit

C. Sue the GPS makers, the car maker and the utility pole maker

D. Help Grandma Moses file for bankruptcy because although large corporations may place a specific cost on death and injuries, the trial lawyers association is the spawn of Satan which only exists to help the devil file frivolous lawsuits.

2. Oil fracking is

A. A relatively new technology and long-term environmental effects are unknown at this time. We should keep a close eye on it.

B. Best regulated by large oil companies like BP

C. A fountain of cash, there's got to be some legal billing in there somewhere

D. A gift from Jesus

3. You go to lunch at the local Chipotle restaurant where you encounter a group of gun enthusiasts expressing their God given Texas rights to bear and display their guns. You should:

A. Explain to them that it is statistically unlikely they'll be mugged for a burrito

B. Explain the definition of "statistics"

C. Encourage them to run for state office as all Texas candidates must have a gun in their campaign photos

D. Congratulate them on their knowledge and defense of the Constitution and states' rights, then show them the AK-47 you keep in your briefcase

4. Texas has the legal right to secede from the United States.

A. True

B. False

C. Maybe, if you are speaking to a large crowd of freedom loving tea partiers

D. What's legal got to do with it? We've got enough guns to secede whenever we damn well please!

5. As laws against gay marriage get overturned all over the country, you are tasked with defending the Texas law before the Supreme Court. Your best argument is:

A. Legalizing gay marriage would result in people marrying livestock and inanimate objects

B. Would result in gay people becoming miserable husbands and wives

C. Would result in fewer shotgun weddings

D. There are no gay people in Texas

6. Recently, the Supreme Court ruled that prayers before town council meetings are legal. Let's say someone named, oh I don't know..., Abdullah gave a prayer before the Wichita Falls town council meeting. You should:

A. Listen carefully and ensure there are no direct religious quotes or mention of God other than something like "Master of the Universe"

B. Congratulate him by saying, "Nice godless speech, Haji."

C. Cover your ears and shout, "I love Jesus! I love Jesus!" so no one can hear him

D. Stone him

E. Trick question, although stoning him is a good answer, you might be accused of practicing sharia law. Shooting him would be easier and more practical.

7. Is it legal to put Chinese 5-spice in BBQ sauce?

A. Yes

B. No

C. Aw, hell no!

D. Yes, if you are a communist living in Austin

8. A shoplifter grabs a case of beer in a convenience store and sprints for the door. Under Texas law, the clerk should:

A. Let the crook go, lock the door and call the police

B. Chase the crook as far as the clerk can run

C. Shoot the crook and if the crook falls outside the door, drag the body back inside

D. Aim for the head, then stand over the body and say something like "No more Miller time's for you." or "There's no cold ones in hell."

9. Which of the following would make the best expert witness at a trial:

A. An arson expert named Bubba who declares "the fire had to be arson cos those flames moved faster than a centipede at a toe countin' contest"

B. A jailhouse snitch promised dropped charges for his/her testimony

C. An ex-deputy who uses his specially trained hounds in police lineups to identify the crook by smell

D. All of the above

10. The job of the Texas state attorney general is to:

A. Ultimately enforce the laws of the state

B. Defend the state against frivolous lawsuits

C. Wait in line to be governor

D. Sue O'bama 24 hours a day

11. Which of the following would result in the longest jail sentence?

A. Make a false statement on a Small Business Administration loan application

B. Borrowing $2 million from an out of state bank with a specific stock as collateral. Then taking that money to purchase the stock which you used as collateral.

C. Taking a mortgage from an out of state bank then adding a superior lien which is magically owned by your children. Declare the original loan in default and allow your children to foreclose on your property thereby nullifying the bank's lien.

D. Urinating on the wall of the Alamo

12. You are representing a client at a high profile murder trial. Everyday you must meet the media who are trying to get you to spill confidential information. You should:

A. Just say, "No comment."

B. Answer what you can and explain there are some things that are confidential

C. Just repeat the question back to the asker

D. Just say, "Adios mofo."

13.  If you graduated from Texas Tech law school:

A.  You probably did well on the bar exam

B.  You probably learned a lot about energy law including oil and wind

C.  You probably learned a lot about water and mineral rights

D.  You are probably a rude, cheap-ass tipper

14. The longest serving governor in the history of the great republic of Texas is:

A. Stephen F. Austin

B. Sam Houston

C. George W. Bush

D. Rick Perry, and by gawd don't ever forget it!

Texan at Last

A few weeks ago as St. Pauli Girl was driving us somewhere, something finally dawned on me:

“I just realized that I've now lived in Texas longer than any other state,” I marveled.

St. Pauli Girl slammed on the brakes (luckily we were at a traffic light).  “Oh my God!  You're a Texan!”

In most states and maybe even some countries, fifteen years residence would earn at least honorary citizenship.  Not so in Texas.  Later that night, St. Pauli Girl came out for happy hour armed with a clipboard and a copy of the Texas Constitution encased in glass.

“I've been authorized by the county Constable and a guy who claims he knew someone related to Sam Houston to give you the official Texan Citizenship Exam,” she said.  “Now put your left hand on the Constitution and raise your right hand:  Do you hereby swear on this here holy piece of paper and to the Republic for which all else are jealous and on every concealed handgun in the room that you will do your  God's honest best to answer some hard falutin' questions about the motherland so help you God and Willie Nelson and Rick Perry?”

“I do,” I said then held out my hand.  “Do you need to draw blood?”

“Not yet.  Let's begin, shall we?  First, tell me something about barbecue.”

“The only real barbeque is beef ribs and brisket.  Pulled-pork is okay as a minor offering, but serving a vinegar-based sauce is a felony.”  I sat back with a smile knowing this would be a breeze.

“Good,” she said with a smile.  “In at least 10,000 words, tell me how great Texas is.”

“10,000 words?”

“Hold on a second.  No, that's just for native-born Texans.  There is no word-count minimum for foreigners.”

“Okay, let's see,  Texas is really big.  And great.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Can you expand on that?”

I thought for a minute then remembered the song by the Austin Lounge Lizards

“Our guitars are the twangiest, our guns are the ka-blangiest

Our cattle the long-horniest, our yodels the forlorniest

Our cookoffs are the chiliest, our Waylon is the Williest

Our sausage is the smokiest, our neighbors are the Okiest.”

St. Pauli Girl grimaced.  “That question may come back to haunt you.  Okay, now use 'y’all' in a sentence.”

I frowned.  Having grown up primarily in Tennessee, I had managed to banish that awful contraction from my vocabulary.  “Okay, let's see... I was feeling very sleepy and then I y’allned.”

“Not acceptable.  Repeat after me:  dinner is ready, y’all.”

I started to sweat.  “Dinner is ready...... folks.”  I tried but I couldn't do it.  “No wait: vittles is ready, folks.”

St. Pauli Girl shook her head and made notes on the clipboard.  “Who was the leading rusher on the 1973 University of Texas Longhorns football team?”

I wanted to say Earl Campbell but I thought it might be a trick question and didn't want to press my luck so I just gave her the hook'em horns sign.

“The correct answer is Roosevelt Leaks, but we will accept the hook'em sign.”

I wiped my brow.  This is really getting hard, I thought.

“Next: if we're in the grocery store and I ask you what kind of coke you want, what is your response?”

“That's easy, classic Coke.  They don't even make new Coke anymore.”

St. Pauli Girl dropped her head into her hands.  “The best response would be Dr Pepper.”

I shut my mouth.  I knew the situation was too tense to argue Coke versus pop or even soda.

“Look. You're really borderline here,” she said with a sigh.  “Lucky for you that your fifteen years of residence goes a long way with Willie and Rick, so it all comes down to this last question.”

“I'm ready,” I said as I leaned forward.

“Do you accept Ted Cruz as your personal and Texan senator?”

I guess I will never truly be a Texan.

And as a final insult, apparently I can't even write like a Texan:

Editor’s note: The correct punctuation of the contraction is  y’all, not ya’ll, and Dr Pepper, a Texas-born elixir, has no period.

 

 

Carbonated Beverage Shortcuts

In first or second grade in Tennessee, I had a phonics lesson where we were given a picture with blanks underneath for how many letters were in the word and we had to fill in the letters. One picture showed a classic Coke bottle with three blanks underneath it. Another kid originally from North Dakota and myself (a recent transplant from Ohio) got the correct answer: “pop.” We earned the only two 100's for that lesson. Or so we thought.

A riot ensued as the rest of the class and even the teacher complained that the lesson was incorrect, that the publisher really meant to put four blanks under the picture. The teacher threw out that question and adjusted all the grades. I learned two things that day: 1) life is not fair and 2) I was smarter than everyone.

As the years went by, I grew accustomed to the fact that southerners refer to all carbonated drinks as Cokes. Although I personally refused to succumb to that illogical application of language, I did finally remove the word “pop” from my daily speech because I was always having to explain to my fellow Tennesseeans what I was talking about. Instead, I settled on the more universally acknowledged “soda.”

It absolutely drove me crazy when people would ask if you would like a coke, then hand you a root beer. Or conversely when visting a friend:

“Would you like something to drink?” the friend would ask.

“I would like a Coke,” I might say.

“Sure, what kind? We have Sprite and Dr. Pepper.”

“No, I want a Coke.”

“Right. Sprite or Dr. Pepper?”

Eventually I ended up in Texas with the (usually) awesome St. Pauli Girl who, like most Texans, follows this same misguided practice, much to the delight of the Coca-Cola corporation. Her grocery list would include “Cokes,” or she might ask me if we needed more Cokes even though we only drink generic diet drinks, usually diet root beer. One time I answered, “Yes, we need Cokes. We do not have any Cokes.” She dutifully brought home two new cartons of diet sodas (not Cokes) only to find an unopened case of sodas sitting in the pantry.

“I thought you said we were out of Cokes?” she asked.

“We are. We only have diet root beer and diet Dr. Pepper.”

She smacked me with an empty carton of diet root beer.

Now, I write “sodas” on the grocery list to alleviate this constant misunderstanding. But she has taken up the practice of crossing through "sodas" and writing "sodahs," pronouncing it in an obnoxious fake Boston accent, inferring that I am a damn yankee and lucky to have ever set foot in the great Republic of Texas without getting shot. So I decided to go back to my roots, and I now refer to all carbonated beverages by the true, original term: pop.

This morning I told her we were out of pop. She has already started mispronouncing it "pipe" (which in Texan sounds just like the rest of the country's "pop"). I can't wait to see what she brings home from the grocery store . . . Although, I hope she doesn't hit me with it.

Tough Neighborhood HOA

Texas likes to brag about how friendly its people are and for the most part, it's true. I remember the first time I ever came to Texas and anytime I walked into a store, I received a warm friendly greeting. That was very weird to me, and of course I ruined it by always responding, “What's it to you?” and flipping the clerk off for good measure. (I lived in Boston at the time.)

But then on occasion you run into someone who is only friendly in the sense that well, at least he didn't shoot me:

We spent last week at our vacation house in the Hill Country, which is actually just a nice way of saying we currently have two mortgages. As luck would have it, potential buyers came to look at our house. We left for about an hour, but when we came back, they were still there, so we parked on a side road to wait.

After about twenty minutes, a white pickup passed us. The driver slowly made several u-turns up and down the road before finally coming up beside us. I rolled down my window and smiled at our friendly neighbor.

Or not. The man, whom I’ll call Vince, rolled down his window as his truck came to a stop. “May I ask what you’re doing here?” he asked, eyes narrow with suspicion.

“Oh, we're just staking out our own house over there,” I said, pointing to our house. “It’s for sale, and we’re waiting for some prospective buyers to leave.”

Vince shook his head. “Jesus, what’s so wrong with that house that it goes on the market every two years?”

“What? Oh. Well, it was on the market for a while before us, but we've lived there for four years.”

“No, you haven't,” Vince said. “One and half, maybe two years max.”

I glanced at St. Pauli Girl who was biting her lip and turning her face away. I think her shoulders started to shake up and down, just a little.

“Um, no, we bought it in March of 2009. So it's pretty much exactly four years we’ve lived here.”

“No, you haven’t. You haven't been there that long.”

St. Pauli Girl leaned over to interrupt. “We moved in March 2009. Four years ago.”

He dropped that argument and moved on to his next one. “Do you mind telling me how much you're asking?” he said.

“No, not at all. It's all over the internet. Two-hundred ten thousand.”

Vince closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and shook his head slowly as if he were getting a headache. “It’s people like you who are ruining this neighborhood.”

I misunderstood his meaning, I guess, and frowned. “We've studied the market quite a bit, and it’s comparably priced for this area.”

“No! You’re destroying our property values. You should be asking four fifty!”

“Excuse me?”

“How many square feet you got?”

“Thirty-six hundred.”

“Well, I got nineteen hundred and I'd be asking three fifty for my house if it were for sale. Don't ruin it for everyone,” Vince said slapping his left hand on the steering wheel for emphasis.

I was starting to get irritated. I said, “You know that house down the road on the corner on five acres that just sold? It sat empty for two years listed at two-sixty. They had to remodel and drop the price to sell it.”

“That house was a piece of crap. I wouldn't board my ex-wife there.”

“Your house must be very nice.”

“Flawless. But I gotta keep constant guard with those long-hairs living out back behind me. Last week the sheriff hauled one off. Sent him back to the clink because he broke his probation.”

“Yeah, there are people at the end of our street who had the sheriff pay them a visit too,” I said, talking about what we call the “meth house.”

“There's too many no-gooders around here. That's why I carry a gun.”

“Good idea,” I said. That's when I realized we hadn't seen his right hand; it was more than likely resting on a gun in the seat beside him. I flashed him a bright smile and put the car in drive. “Thanks for keeping the neighborhood safe.”

“Well, good luck with your sale,” Vince said, snorting as he drove off.

Too bad it took us four two years to meet Vince. But despite destroying the neighborhood property values, I'm glad we're no longer living between the meth house and neighborhood militia.

Texas-sized Guns

I must confess that I’ve been browsing the weekly sportsmen’s stores’ catalogs for guns. In the past two years, I’ve come to find that there are a lot of scary varmints in the countryside as evidenced by the recent skunk experience. Plus all my neighbors have guns, and I’d like to fit in.

I don’t know much about guns. My firearm experience consists of shooting BB guns at empty bottles, occasional live rodents, and certain “friends” (but that’s another story). Typically, I’m drawn to the cheapest gun with the biggest barrel. So, yes, you could probably sell me a blunderbuss. But in last weekend’s catalog, I found the perfect solution: the mini-cannon!

That’s right: you can purchase a fully operational mini-cannon styled like the classic Napoleon version from the Civil War, or the Old Ironsides model like the ones found on old ships. I scoured the ad looking for a disclaimer and thought, “This can’t be real. It can’t possibly be legal to sell a working cannon to your average Joe.” Then I remembered where I live, and realized rural Texans probably made their own cannons before these came on the market.

The ad states “fully operational” and also mentions accessories, including granular powder, round balls, and fuses. Plus they cost a whopping $250. They must be the real deal!

Since I don’t have a ship or parrot, I’m leaning toward the Napoleon version.

And since I don’t know anything about guns, this is the perfect solution. How hard is it to operate a cannon? You 1) light the fuse and 2) cover your ears. Any dummy who’s ever watched cartoons knows that. Aiming might be hard because it could take a couple of people to move it. But then again it’s not like hitting a bull’s eye with a shotgun.

I’ll be able to take on entire armies of skunks, rattlesnakes, opossums and of course deer. Plus there’s the home-protection aspect. If the click of a loaded shotgun frightens a home invader, just think what the sound of a lit fuse would do! And St. Pauli Girl could finally get the horse she’s always wanted . . . as long as she lets me use it to pull the cannon when we go on field maneuvers.

Best of all, I’ll be the envy of all my neighbors: “Well, Mike, of course that’s a mighty fine shotgun you got there. But let’s see which one of us can blow up that barn faster.” BOOM!

I could start my own demolition business. I can offer to blow up condemned buildings and bridges for a small fee (plus cannonball expenses). I’ll even dress up like General Sherman, or no, wait! Maybe Nathan Bedford Forrest, depending on where I’m at and who’s paying me.

While pulling out my credit card, I studied the ad closer. Then I looked it up online, and that’s where I saw the catch: the cannons are 12 inches long by 6 inches high. I guess that’s why it’s called a mini-cannon. But $250 for something you could fire off your desk?

That’s dumber than selling real cannons.

Oh, but wouldn’t it be great if the next time I’m forced to sit through a crappy, boring Power Point presentation at work, I could load a cannonball into my desk cannon, aim it at the screen, light the fuse, and cover my ears?

Guns Make Great Neighbors

We live between two very different neighbors:

Neighbor A: Just finished building a large work shed that includes a concrete foundation. He has several trashed Cadillacs, a lopsided pop-up camper, and assorted industrial equipment decorating his backyard. Sometimes at dusk he comes out wearing nothing but shorts and practices archery.

Neighbor B: Mild mannered, middle-aged insurance salesman. He has a swimming pool, a hot tub, and a lighted tennis court in his backyard. He mows his lawn fully dressed and hosts tennis matches two nights a week.

Recently, a situation called for the neighborly assistance of someone with a gun. Guess which neighbor came running shirtless with a shotgun in his hands?

(Hint: We live in Texas.)

Give up? The correct answer is Neighbor B, the insurance salesman. (The hint should have just made you realized that we all have guns. Well, almost all.)

But I am jumping ahead. We have noticed an excessive amount of skunk activity in the neighborhood this spring. By notice, I mean we can smell their trails after they’ve been running around the yard all night. So St. Pauli Girl went and bought a skunk trap, which is a steel box that could accommodate maybe two hamsters comfortably. Of course the trap had to be small enough so the skunk couldn’t lift its tail after it had been caught, but I had a hard time believing a skunk would even try to enter. Regardless, we were told a piece of bacon would make the trap very attractive. (It worked, at least for me.)

We set the trap and came out the next morning anxious to see what we caught. The empty trap lay on its side, bacon-less. We had been the victims of a “dine and dash.”

After that, we went several weeks without a skunk scent so we stopped worrying about it. Then one afternoon St. Pauli Girl and I were relaxing with a cold beer on the front lawn after a long day of yard work. I heard the Neighbor B’s Labradors barking up a storm. I didn’t say anything because I thought they might be eating one of our chickens, and I didn’t want to upset St. Pauli Girl.

The labs suddenly approached their fence and chased a little ball of black and white fur onto our property. I looked down to make sure it wasn’t Yogi, our black and white dog who happens to look very much like Pepe Le Pew. No, Yogi was snoozing soundly at our feet.

“Skunk!” I yelled. This woke up Yogi, so I chased him into the house so that A) he wouldn’t chase the skunk, B) the skunk wouldn’t chase him/try to mate with him, and C) he wouldn’t get shot.

We then ran toward the skunk as it skittered about before slipping out under the front gate. Another neighbor whom we’ll call Neighbor C approached and said, “There’s a skunk in your yard.”

“Yes, we know,” St. Pauli Girl said. “Should I get the skunk trap?”

“Why? Bill there’s got a gun.”

Seconds later, our shirtless insurance agent, Neighbor B, came a-runnin’ with his shotgun in hand. “He’s in your yard!” he shouted.

“What are you saying? Are you going to sue us?” I asked. (With three attorneys in the family, that’s always my first question.) “So he’s our responsibility now?”

“No, he went out the gate,” St. Pauli Girl said.

Bill and Neighbor C peered into the culvert that ran beneath our driveway next to the street.

“There he is,” Neighbor C said. “He’s hunkered down at the other end.”

Bill raced to the opposite side and pointed his gun into the culvert.

“Fire in the hole!” I yelled as the gun flashed and went boom.

“What was that for?” Bill asked, shotgun smokin’.

“I don’t know. They say that in all the war movies.”

We watched and waited but nothing happened. It was unlikely the skunk had been hit by the blind shot, and he certainly hadn’t run out. I debated whether or not to go fetch Neighbor A with his bow and arrow.

“There he goes,” Neighbor C shouted, pointing at the other end of the culvert.

Bill spun around and fired. The skunk dropped to the ground but not before lifting his tail and spraying the ground around him in one final act of vengeance. Sort of an “I’ll see you in hell!” kind of farewell, if you will.

We boxed up the carcass and gave it to the Neighbor C, the largest landowner, so he could leave it somewhere far away for the vultures. Then we stood around and chatted for a while, congratulating each other on our great collaborative hunt and kill. I felt a real bond with our neighbors that evening. But I also realized I should never wander into their backyards uninvited.

Sometimes it just takes a gun to bring people together. Or a skunk.

Comrades in Arms

An Open Letter from Texas to the State of Tennessee

Dear Tennesseeans:

First, as always, thanks for sending Davy Crockett our way where he died a hero defending the Great Republic and the steady sales of his trademark coonskin caps keeps our economy humming along better than just about any other state right now. At least that’s what our governor tells us.

In an earlier blog, I wrote that it was illegal to carry firearms into Texas establishments that serve food and alcohol. An alert reader set me straight: it is only illegal to carry unlicensed firearms into said establishments. That is much to my relief: for a minute there I thought Tennessee was more progressive on guns than Texas.

Given its landmark legislation permitting guns in restaurants and bars, I’d like to formally welcome Tennessee to the future as we enjoy it in the Great Republic. Here in the 19th century you can relive the golden saloon years when men were men and women would ask “Is that a 44 magnum in your pocket?” and mean it.

I salute the forward-thinking Volunteer State for solving a plague that still grips the rest of the nation: the fear of being shot every time you go out to eat. Tennessee, you will soon feel an economic boon in your state because:

1. Many gun owners refused to eat out without their guns
2. Many people refused to eat out for fear of being badly shot in restaurants by unlicensed gun owners

Now the citizens of Tennessee can relax in their favorite restaurant knowing that if the kid at the next table spills his Dr Pepper, plenty of patrons packing heat are there to quell the disturbance. Screaming babies will never be a problem again.

This is also good news for those looking for comps. When you tell the manager that the soup you licked clean from the bowl was actually cold, he’d better be forthcoming with a freebie or he’ll have to talk to your pardners, Smith and Wesson. No more waiting in long lines at the bar either--a shot at the chandelier will grab the bartender’s attention.

It’s also great to see the return of the statesman to politics:

"I ask that you ... give the law-biting citizens of this state a right to protect themselves," said Republican House sponsor Curry Todd of Collierville.

First, “Curry Todd” is a great name that sounds straight out of Abilene. Second, “Law-biting citizens” works on so many levels. It’s possible Todd was just trying on a Texas drawl by shortening “law abiding” to “law ‘biding” and he just got misquoted. But the idea of citizens carrying handguns certainly has a “law-biting” feel to it, doesn’t it? We may never know what he truly said, but I nominate “law-biting citizens” for a marble inscription at the state capitol.

Yes, thank God Tenneseeans and Texans have seen the light. It’s high time we stop discriminating against the good folks who wish to bear arms. Carrying a gun should not be illegal. Shooting at people for no good reason should be illegal. Shooting at people who are shooting at you should not be illegal. And doing it in a restaurant or bar should make no difference. And let’s face it, a basket of chips and a round of margaritas just makes it more fun.



Your Comrades in Arms,

The Great Republic

P.S. Can we interest you in some textbooks?

Concealed Lobbyist

The Great Republic faced a great conundrum since some lunatic fired gunshots in the Capitol a few months ago. Officials had to grapple with how best to make the Capitol more secure and yet not impede on the rights of gun owners. So they added x-ray scanners to the entrances plus an express lane for owners of Concealed Handgun Permits to avoid the lines and scanners and tote their weapons into the Capitol.

Many people would argue that’s ludicrous, but they fail to note that owners of concealed handgun permits are thoroughly investigated and complete safety training. A lunatic could never get a concealed handgun permit. So the Capitol is safer because people with concealed handguns are our first line of defense.

More importantly, opportunity knocks. A few blogs ago, I noted that I wanted to add 40,000 people to the address on my census form so I could get my own congressional district. Forget that! I want to be a lobbyist! (With a concealed handgun, that is.)

So as soon as I get my permit, I'm putting out my shingle as a lobbyist. It's a much more honest living than having my own congressional district. Anyone needing to do a little business in the Great Republic is urged to contact me so I can persuade lawmakers to see things your way. I'll be cheaper than other lobbyists because there's no need to ahem, bribe.

Highlighted scenarios from my brochures:

"Congressman, you may choose to have the contents of either my left pocket or right pocket. One contains a check with five zeroes; the other contains hollow tipped bullets. What's it gonna be?"

And:

Sitting up in the public gallery, I can watch my congressmen and women cast their votes on important matters. As they get ready to vote, you may notice several of them sweating and looking up at me. That's when I stretch out and let my shoulder holster become visible.

And:

I can get access to the governor. As he walks by, we will both nod at each other as we caress the firearms in our pants.
"Governor, good job on shooting that coyote. You sure showed him who was boss or governor."
"Yeppers."
"I got me one too last week."
"You don't say," replies the governor.
"Yeah or a dog. I don't know. Just saw some rustling in the bushes. You know I like to brag to my out-of-state clients that my governor can shoot your governor."
A beaming governor nods, ready to become my friend for life.
"What's in your pocket?" I ask with a smile.
"Well as they say, if I showed you, then I'd have to kill you."
"Bwaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha," we both burst into laughter and throw our arms around each other like old friends.

And:

Walking into the congressman's office, I grab the family picture from his/her desk.
"Nice family. I hear they'd really like you to vote for HR438976," I say.
"You don't scare me."
I toss the picture into the air and blow it to pieces with my concealed handgun.

And:

I corner a frightened senator in his/her office. "I know what you're thinking," I say. "Did he use five or six shots? In all the commotion of the gunbattle on the senate floor during the textbook negotiations, I must admit that I lost count myself. So you have to ask yourself, 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do you....senator?

Carpetbagging Reporting

The Washington Post recently reported that corporal punishment (“paddlin',” “butt whoopin,'” or “lickin,'” as we like to say down here) is making a comeback in at least one Texas school district. The reporter very pointedly states, "Residents of the city's comfortable homes, most of which sport neighborly, worn chairs out front, praise the change."

Further along, the reporter feels the need to describe a local resident as someone who “sports a goatee and cowboy boots."

What in tarnation? I hope the goatee-sporting resident allowed the reporter to use the outhouse then kicked it over with his boots while the reporter was inside.

So let me get this straight, assuming someone from the backwoods Republic like me can follow the high falutin’ logic of a fancy latte-sippin’ Washington cesspool reporter: men wearing goatees and/or cowboy boots have a tendency toward child-beating?

Okay, let’s follow the facts:

 Corporal punishment means “beating children”
 Guys with goatees resemble the devil
 The devil supports the beating of children
 The interviewee had a goatee
 The interviewee supports beating children

Which leads us to extrapolate that:

 The devil invented the goatee
 Beat poets and Maynard G. Krebs brought the goatee back into fashion
 Beat poets tended to congregate in New York City
 Child beating was invented by beat poets in New York City

You might want to say that’s nonsense because I’m forgetting the fact that the interviewee was also wearing cowboy boots. Okay, let’s follow that thread:

 Cowboy boots are great for kicking kids in the behind
 If you wear cowboy boots, you like to kick and/or beat children
 If you wear cowboy boots, you are a dumb backwoods hick who doesn’t realize that it’s the local high school principal who’s actually beating the kids. The chances of your failing to realize this doubles if you have a goatee.
 Our former President of the United States wears cowboy boots. As well as Governor Perry.

You smart-ass, cream-cheese-and-bagel-loving carpetbaggers are probably nodding your heads. Let’s go back and analyze that first quote: "Residents of the city's comfortable homes, most of which sport neighborly, worn chairs out front” establishes that:

 This city has some nice comfortable homes
 Therefore, there is no need for furniture on the front porch because furniture belongs inside
 If you have furniture on your front porch, you like to beat children

Living in your high-rent, miniscule, big city efficiency apartments, you probably don’t understand the concept of patio furniture. “Patio furniture” is loosely defined as items you sit on, dine at, or just use to generally enjoy the outdoors, while “outdoors” is usually a patio, deck, or front porch. Or to put it simply, outdoor furniture. The central Great Republic has great weather which means we spend a lot of time outside. It stands to reason that we should have outdoor furniture. (Have you folks ever heard of “barbecuing’?)

I could spend $1000 for a set of wrought iron furniture that isn’t very comfortable and sticks to my thighs or I can haul an old worn chair to the porch in the spring where I can relax comfortably. And I’m the stupid redneck?

So the next time you big city loafer-wearin’, facial hair-hatin’, anti-gun reporters comes around these here parts, remember the following tips:

 We mostly have indoor plumbing
 You can rent a car as opposed to a horse
 Gunfights are rare
 We have more Chili’s restaurants than saloons
 Boots can be worn at black tie events
 We have very comfortable outdoor furniture

And then stick to the facts. Corporal punishment, especially since it appears to be successful, is an excellent topic for debate. But when you blow your liberal, elitist cover by disparaging us folks, well then you deserve a butt-whoopin’.

The Dumpster War

One of the most underrated things about living in the Great Republic is the trash collection system (at least in most habitable parts that I’ve lived in). Housing developments are built with alleys behind the houses where dumpsters are placed every 3 to 4 houses. Once or twice a week, the trucks come by and empty the dumpsters. You never have to remember to haul your trash to the curb once or twice a week. Conversely, your wife never thinks it’s too cold for you to haul your trash to the dumpster. Even if it’s dark. And snowing.

During my childhood, all six of us kids (but mostly me I’m pretty sure) were forced to carry three to four garbage cans up a long winding hill to the curb twice a week. During the summer, we often forgot, and when my mother heard the truck coming up the street, she would scream at us to get it out there before the truck made its u-turn. We would watch the truck go by, then cleverly carry the garbage out while they weren’t looking. As the truck came speeding back to head to another street, the driver would slam on the brakes, thinking the boys hanging on the back had missed a house. They eventually got smart, and instead of stopping, gave us the finger as they sped off.

So I probably treasure the alley dumpster system more than most born and bred Texans-- that is until I met the enemy.

Our last house stood in a neighborhood of large lots, and an alley separated our street from another row of houses behind us. Hence, both streets shared the dumpsters in the alley. The neighbor behind us actually owned two lots and had a very nice house. Let’s call him Mr. Firestone. He also had a full-sized tractor which he enjoyed mowing his expansive lawn with. It was also a very loud tractor. Every February, he would start it and let it run for about two hours just to get the engine going. This of course ruined our outdoor happy hours because between his tractor and our other neighbor’s air conditioner and wood chipper—which I’ll save for another blog--it was like having a cocktail on a runway at DFW airport.

But the bigger problem was that he would capture all two acres of freshly mowed grass and deposit it in the dumpster, completely filling it. Overflowing it. I would have to walk way down the alley to throw out our trash. Even worse would be when I had to carry a trash can full of our grass all the way to the alley only to find that dumpster already filled.

I did not have the convenience of an air conditioned combine that could drive right up to the dumpster and empty the grass. Time to get even.

I knew the garbage collection schedule and thereafter, I resolved to mow my lawn the very next day after the dumpster had been emptied.. This worked for about a week, as an obviously annoyed Mr. Firestone then started mowing his lawn in the morning when I could not do it. I began mowing the lawn the afternoon of garbage collection. Before long, Mr. Firestone had timed his mowing with the arrival of the garbage truck. War had been declared.

By this time, Mr. Firestone and I were not speaking. Well, we only spoke twice the whole seven years we lived there. Once while I emptied the trash, he was working on a fence post and said, “Sure is a nice day.”

“Yep,” I replied.

The other time he mentioned that he and his wife sure would like to invite us over for a glass of wine. He never did. And since he owned two lots, a fancy tractor, and a huge RV, I was pretty sure he had some good wine. I seethed nightly as we sipped our boxed wine knowing he was riding in that tractor while quaffing a fine Bordeaux which he refused to share.

But the dumpster war had an unspoken code: never let the enemy actually see you throw your grass in the dumpster. With no witnesses, you could always blame it on someone else. Many times I would wait on my side of the fence until the coast was clear before emptying my grass in the dumpster. Not that it mattered, because the dumpster was usually full by this point.

The part of the war that I failed at was the fact that I couldn’t completely fill the dumpster with my cut grass. My piddly amount didn’t even inconvenience Mr. Firestone. His race to beat me to the dumpster was pure spite. I finally decided I needed my own “shock and awe” plan. For two days, I trimmed hedges, bushes, and trees and raked old leaves piled behind the shed. I bagged them and stacked them next to the fence.

Then I got serious: I took a vacation day from work so I could mow in the morning before the garbage truck arrived.

I eagerly jumped from bed at dawn and sucked down a cup of joe and a mouthful of hard tack. As the sun rose above the trees, I started the mower and powered my way through the front yard. I kept up a furious pace, practically running, pausing only to empty the grass bag into a garbage can. By the time I got to the backyard, the sun had disappeared behind clouds. A fierce gale raced through the trees. With a strong westerly headwind in my face, I changed tactics and mowed a completely different path than usual. Great commanders adapt to the circumstances.

When the rain started, I grimaced but kept on. My pace slowed as slanting sheets of West Texas’ single annual rain pelted my face, restricting my vision. But I knew the yard; I could mow it blindfolded. The lightning made me nervous but my righteous mission pushed me forward. As I made the last turn, I heard the rumbling garbage truck approach. I sprinted down the last lane of grass as the truck emptied the dumpster. It was empty, and I was ready and armed. As the truck passed my gate, I ran out with the first garbage can of wet grass. I ran back and forth, dumping grass as the hail started to fall. I covered my head with a trash can lid while carrying the rest of the grass and trimmings to the dumpster. Within ten minutes, I had filled it; the lids propped open by my massive stack of trash. As I admired my work, the rain halted and a rainbow appeared above the dumpster. God was indeed on my side.

Later that afternoon, after the skies had cleared, I heard the roar of Mr. Firestone’s tractor as it criss-crossed his backyard. I laughed knowing he was too late. Early that evening, I walked to the alley wondering what dumpster he might have filled. My smile disappeared when I saw that he had just dumped his dead grass on the ground in front of the dumpster.

In the end, I guess it really wasn’t a war; he was just a jerk.

Calling All Varmints

Last weekend, St. Pauli Girl and I were out of town. As we drove back and passed through a small Texas town, I noticed the sign on the local taxidermy shop: “Varmint Calling Contest This Weekend.” I was so stunned that I didn’t even mention it to St. Pauli Girl.

What in the world could that be? The easy solution would have been to go to the contest and check it out. But then I thought, what if the town gets overrun by varmints while I’m there? Better to play it safe.

But it kept gnawing at me like a dog or better yet a coyote biting off a bikini bottom in one of those Coppertone ads. Perhaps I should enter the contest. If I can train my dog to answer the phone, then if I use my cell phone to call my dog from the contest, and he answers with a bark, how does that not win? But then I have to worry about cell phone reception, and I would hate to have to go through all that training when I can’t get any bars on my phone. Plus St. Pauli Girl would be mad at me for referring to our dog as a varmint.

Twenty years ago, I would have forgotten about the contest by now. But thanks to the internet, I instead wasted an entire day researching varmint calling. It turns out that varmint calling is the method of making animal noises to lure mostly coyotes or sometimes foxes to an area where you can them kill them. Or befriend them, which would make varmint calling akin to horse whispering. From my detailed research, the varmint call is usually the sound of a wounded jackrabbit intended to lure the varmint toward what he thinks is a delectable meal.

Others use the sounds of fellow coyotes, to attract a potential mate I suppose. Some of the advice I’ve seen for this includes:

1. Wear something off the shoulder.
2. Use a splash of perfume--preferably coyote urine.
3. Bring a nice bottle of wine, maybe a zinfandel.
4. Think sexy thoughts when making “the call.”

Varmint calling has a long and storied history going back to the first world championship which was won by Jim Dougherty in 1957. There have been national and state associations although California claims to be the only one still active. As Jim Dougherty himself said, varmint hunters “are adventurers, in a sense, who enjoy hunting some of our smartest animals in a one-on-one atmosphere where anything can happen and usually does."

So I guess I shouldn’t enter the contest with our dog because our dog is not one of the smartest animals, is technically not a varmint, and I would probably be expected to shoot him after calling him.

The Magic Gun

About ten days ago, some nut with a handgun went around the Texas State Capitol and fired off five shots into the air. Alert state troopers grabbed him and hauled him off. Two days later, he was executed. (No, that’s a joke. Even in Texas executions don’t really happen that fast. It will be scheduled sometime in March.) Naturally, everyone started questioning safety around the Capitol and many (left-wing, Obama-loving) citizens proposed that metal detectors be put in place at all entrances. It worked so well at San Francisco City Hall.

But our beloved governor is opposed to that idea because state offices should be open to all; it’s state records that need to be hidden. Besides, with our concealed handgun laws, we have enough armed citizens to police any place, like oh, let’s say, Fort Hood. Plus how will our state senators and representatives get into their offices with their concealed guns? (The idea of a shootout between legislators on the chamber floor makes me all giddy!) One current GOP governor candidate carries a concealed handgun at all times except when in the grocery store. Perhaps she’s nervous that she has a trigger finger and maybe someone with 14 items in the express line might just set her off.

And in a nutshell, that’s the gun culture of Texas. Guns don’t kill people. Only people with concealed weapons kill people, and the victims were probably asking for it.

Flash back several months to the shopping center location of our restaurant. We will call this restaurant Better Eats because it is still open and making money. Late on a Saturday night, some crooks managed to get into the shopping center courtyard where they proceeded to smash the windows of a few stores and make off with the cash registers. Obviously Better Eats got the first blame probably because we were the only owners not on site at the time of the investigation. The shop owner detectives theorized that the criminals shimmied up our outdoor walk-in cooler to get access to the shopping center. Never mind that it would have been easier to scale the fence or use a ladder to climb over the roof.

The next order of business was how to prevent this from happening again. The first idea was that we should all arm ourselves. That does solve most problems in Texas, but there is the expense of the handgun and you should really spend a little bit of money learning how to shoot and practicing. But most of us have watched enough John Wayne and Rambo movies to understand how easy it is.

The Marxist, Obama-loving, pinko owner of a new age shop suggested there were easier and cheaper means of prevention. We could just put up a sign that the place is under surveillance. That was laughed off because crooks can’t read or they don’t care about surveillance. Why not a real surveillance system then? Because guns are cheaper.

Comrade Lenin, the new age shop owner, was not making much headway. He then pointed out that all of the cash registers that were stolen were in plain view of the bashed-in windows. Stores where the cash register could not be seen were not broken into. Perhaps everyone should move their cash registers out of site of the windows, he suggested. The response? Cash registers are heavy! It’s so much trouble!

But you have to buy a new one anyway, he argued, so why don’t you put it in another location?

“I’m not letting crooks tell me what to do! We cannot let them win!” the shop owners argued

Comrade Lenin threw his hands in the air and gave up. The consensus: all shop owners should be armed. One shop owner even mentioned that she was also adding alarms so that if someone broke in, the security company would call her before the police, thereby giving her a chance to come down and put a bullet through someone’s head.

Hence, the magic gun which works so well for the good guys in the movies--and not as much for the bad guys--has solved another problem. I guess we won’t see the other shop owners much in our restaurant since it’s illegal to pack heat where alcohol is served. But when shop[lift]ing in Texas, when you see the sign that says, “shoplifters will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law,” you’d better think long and hard before you slip something into your pocket.