I’m just a-sittin’ here, tryin’ to get drunker ‘n’ Cooter Brown.
And BTW, Who The Fu*k is ‘Cooter Brown’?
Found Him!
Bears a Striking Resemblance to Your
Humble Raconteur
(Ain’t He Precious & Cute & Cuddly?)
HaHaHa!
****
I LOVE NYC (or at least my fantasy nostalgic version of it from The Forties) For Lance, The New Year Only Begins when New York City drops that Big Ball in Times’ Square. This year they ‘Dropped the Proverbial Ball.”
(Or did drop the Actual Beautiful Big Shiny Ball–I honestly don’t know–Because–CNN)
And chose to broadcast fucking car commercials instead. Fu*k you NYC! I am finally so OVER You! (I am gonna remain in Texas.) IF they did actually literally drop the Big Ball, fuck you CNN because you did NOT SHOW it. Fucked up my New Years’ EVE Experience Fu*k you CNN! (If anyone can find a video of the Ball Drop from tonight, 2020, if there actually is one, please send it to me—I wanna see it) I am so pissed that I don’t even wanna watch Lame-Ass Don Lemon get drunk.
(What a Fuckkking IDIOT Moron HE is, but THAT IS A DIFFERENT POST)
From a recent Facefuk Post of Mine:
“I CANNOT wait to watch DON LEMON make a complete and absolute ass/fool of himself tonight.
He never fails to ‘deliver.’ And make me LMFAO!
(Watching CNN ‘do’ NEW YEARS EVE has become a Lance Marcom ‘Family Tradition.’)”
Fu*k it!
The Magic is GONE! Not a propitious beginning for 21! I fear we are gonna be more properly FU*KED than we already are…. We got No Karma to cash in.
I LOVE Liza—Jusr Caint Hep it!
The below is a powerfully, passionate, Magical rendition of one of my all-time favorite songs. Way to Go Liza!
“Liza with A ‘Z’”
(Only ‘true’ Liza Fans will Catch the reference) Bravo! I have always loved you ‘Lisa’…
Opps! Sorry! Oh of course, only real Liza fans will get the joke. (But of course, you already know that)
OK. Just gonna throw this in for reference (This post is all over the place. Unlikely I will ever ‘come back’ and clean it up)
Anyway… more on Liza:
“Liza with a ‘Z’. Not ‘Lisa’ with an ‘S’” –Liza (Old album of hers that I wore out listening to over and over and over and over again.)https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWURas7fYwk
I love you Liza!
This Rare Time, The ‘Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences’
Got it Right:
Life is a Fucking Cabaret. Try Living it!
*******
Oh! And lest I forget to drop this in:
I also laugh my ass off watching these Bobbsey Twin Idiots: Andy Cohen and Anderson Cooper CNN, You are a FU*KING JOKE! I don’t want to be unkind, but these two assholes wear me out with their fake, forced banter.
FUCK YOU CNN!
I drop in something more “Happy” and “Upbeat” Below
FUCK TWENTY-TWENTY VISION!
(I have reading glasses–I can see the truth)
FUCK 2020!
(And YOUR lack of Compassion for Humanity)
“Hey Twenty-Twenty One!
Don’t make me angry.
You won’t like me when I’m angry.”
(Just trust me on this and keep your mouth shut and your ears open)
And of course, I am the quintessential ‘Dancing Clown’
(This should go without saying)
There has never been, nor never will be, a woman in ‘my life’–virtual or otherwise–that I will love more than Joni.
And if you have ‘groan-tired’ of me bangin’ on about (Joan) Joni you are visiting the wrong blog. Go Away!
“Cherchez la femme Whenever love comes around Someone’s a dancin’ clown Cherchez la femme Whenever hearts start to pound Someone’s a dancin’ clown”
I looked around at my twenty-odd fellow PE classmates sitting Indian-style in a semi-circle in front of Coach. It was late spring in Winnsboro Texas. I was twelve.
“Yeah, this is me: mocking.”
Poking my buddy (a lanky, slow-drawling ugly tow head of a boy named Gary) in the ribs with my elbow, whispered, “Golf? What’s he talkin’ ‘bout?”
Coach continued, “Gentlemen, today I am going to introduce you to the greatest sport of all: Golf.”
“Coach done lost his mind,” I remember thinking. “Ever’one knows there ain’t but one sport: Football.”
“Golf,” Coach said, “Is a sport you will enjoy for the rest of your lives. It requires skill, intelligence, decorum, and class. You all will search me out later in life and thank me for this day.”
(Coach was about twenty-nine and was going to night school in Tyler studying to become a physician. He was not your typical Deep East Texas Football Coach. He had a brain.)
We just sat there, dumb-founded, but we, to a boy, respected Coach so we said nothing. Although we did exchange some incredulous, ‘What the hell?’ looks.
Coach took us out to the practice football field and introduced us to “The Greatest Game on Earth.”
I cannot speak for the rest, but I was hooked.
Rode the bus home to Granddaddy that afternoon and announced, “I am gonna be a pro golfer.”
Gran-dad was sober that day (see shot not fired in anger) and said, “Is that a fack? What you know ‘bout golf young’un?”
“I know it is a Gentleman’s game, and I know I am a gentleman.”
“Pshaw Boy! You doan know anything about anything. I know about golf.”
Turns out, my Grandfather did, in fact, know a lot about golf. He had actually almost convinced his neighbor to combine his one hundred twenty adjoining acres with his and build a golf course for Winnsboro.
Granddad was somewhat of an entrepreneur, having been in the Grocery Business, the Appliance Store business, the Catfish Restaurant Business (on the Tennessee river), the Worm Ranch business (selling red-worms to the bait shops at the area lakes), and pretty much had failed at all of them.
The following Friday I got off the school bus and noticed two little flags poking up from two little golf greens in our huge front yard. The ‘yard’ was about sixty ‘yards’ deep. There was a green next to the Farm-to-Market road just behind the bar ditch, nestled between the two Crepe Myrtles, and another green just in front of the house. Granddad found me as I was rummaging the fridge for left-over cornbread and sweet milk.
“Boy! I dun built you a golf course.”
“Yes, Granddaddy, I saw.”
He disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a golf club and some golf balls.
“Come on, I gonna see how much golfin’ that coach dun taught you.”
Eagerly I followed him out to the front yard. He dropped the balls in front of the porch and handed me the nine iron.
“See if’n you can hit that green yonder.”
I tee’d her up. Took a few practice strokes, remembering to keep my head down, and then I addressed the ball. My back swing was perfect. The downswing weren’t. I hit the ball and watched it sail over the barb-wire fence into the deep pasture.
“Sheeit Boy! You damn sure ain’t no natural.”
He coached me all that afternoon and after I finally managed to at least find the ‘fairway’ he went into the house and got drunk.
For the next several weeks, I played golf on my private course. But I had a major problem: I had no putter. Try putting with a nine iron. Even Phil Mickelson won’t do this. Granddad crafted a putter for me out of some scrap lumber. It was too light, so he drilled it out and poured lead into it. Then it was perfect. My putting skills improved instantly.
Summer now and I was growing unhappy with my greens. I wanted greens resembling those at Augusta. Mine were one notch above cow pasture cut short. I spent a week or two pulling weeds and planting fresh Bermuda grass.
My tender mercies eventually produced two greens Jack Nicklaus would have been honored to putt upon. They were smooth, silky smooth, and wonderfully… green. Lush green. In contrast to the rest of the yard (fairway) which was somewhat brown, with some grass burrs serving as hazards. Hazards to my feet. Young’uns in Texas never wear shoes in summertime, but of course you’d know that.
I watered my greens every day. I mowed them every other day. Being a sometime gardener, I loved green things. My golf greens were my pride. I loved the way the Bermuda grass had thrived and how smoothly the golf ball would travel on its way to the pin.
In golf you will make maybe one or two shots in your lifetime that you never forget. I made my first unforgettable shot that summer. I had clipped my ‘Tee Shot’ from the tee next to the road. It had traveled about fifteen feet. I needed a great second shot (my course was of course a par three), to have any hope of making par.
(I had fantasy tournaments with imaginary friends in my head—going head to head with Arnold and Jack). My second shot was from about fifty yards. I had a good lie. No grass burrs to distract me. I addressed the ball. Took several looks up to the flag. Did my waggle to set my stance. Back swing. Fore swing. Clean crisp hit. Watched my ball bounce twice on the green and roll straight at the flag. It disappeared.
“Hole in One!” My grandfather shouted from the porch. (Until then, I had not realized I had an audience, or a color commentator, a slightly nose painted color commentator.)
“Yeah!” I shouted. I saw no need to inform him it was my second shot.
One morning about mid-summer I went out to water my greens. There were small holes in the one closest to the house. Holes! Holes the size of tea cups! “Fuckin’ ‘dillo!” was my first thought. My dog Spot would never disfigure my green. Nope. Was an armadillo. No doubt about it. This armadillo had made a fatal mistake.
I was resolved to terminate him.
Don’t Shoot! I am only the Piano-Player
With extreme prejudice.
I dragged my sleeping bag onto my belov’d green that night and with my .22 rifle under my arm I lay in wait.
Fell asleep on watch around midnight. Woke up with the sun to discover more holes in my green. Further enraged now.
This MEANS WAR!
Made repairs to the ‘dillo divets and played a few rounds that day. Close to sunset, I downed some strong black coffee and filled a thermos with more. C
amped out again on my green. Feigning sleep, I waited with my rifle and a flashlight. Sometime in the night, I heard him. Grubbing for grubs on MY Green. The moon was half. I did not need the flashlight. I spied him on the edge of my green, mockingly desecrating my pride and joy. Ever so slowly I turned toward him while resting on my side cradling my rifle. Took aim and shot him square in his armadillo ass. Bam! ‘Run tell that, fuckin’ ‘dillo!”
He did (run) and I am quite certain he did tell all his ‘dillo friends not to fuck with my golf course. Ever again. I suppose he died, or not. Actually, I probably only clipped him, but that was sufficient; he never came back, and I continued my golfing career. It would be five years before I actually set foot on a real golf course, but I did impress the hell outta my peers with my ‘short game’, as that was all I had known. Took me two years to learn how to drive golf balls (and cars and trains and such other things.)
But Coach was right: I wish I could find him now to tell him just how right he was, per his prophesy.
My Cynthia asked over those “I already know the answer” eyes:
“You Okay?”
“Yep. I’m okay,” I lied.
“I’m watching you,” she said.
“I know you are Honey, and thank you for that,”
I replied.
As she walked away, I said to her moving away from me back,
“I love you.”
She said over her shoulder,
“I love you more. Catch ya later Alligator!”
(Her favorite catch-all, end-all phrase. I never ask why. Why she likes it. She just likes it. And that is reason enough for me. Because I am in love with her. Love is just that way Y’all. It works in those mysterious ways. Kinda like the Invisible Spaghetti-Man-in-the-sky. Man. Oh man!)
I looked around at my twenty-odd fellow PE classmates sitting Indian-style in a semi-circle in front of Coach. It was late spring in Winnsboro Texas. I was twelve.
“Yeah, this is me: mocking.”
Poking my buddy (a lanky, slow-drawling ugly tow head of a boy named Gary) in the ribs with my elbow, whispered, “Golf? What’s he talkin’ ‘bout?”
Coach continued, “Gentlemen, today I am going to introduce you to the greatest sport of all: Golf.”
“Coach done lost his mind,” I remember thinking. “Ever’one knows there ain’t but one sport: Football.”
“Golf,” Coach said, “Is a sport you will enjoy for the rest of your lives. It requires skill, intelligence, decorum, and class. You all will search me out later in life and thank me for this day.”
(Coach was about twenty-nine and was going to night school in Tyler studying to become a physician. He was not your typical Deep East Texas Football Coach. He had a brain.)
We just sat there, dumb-founded, but we, to a boy, respected Coach so we said nothing. Although we did exchange some incredulous, ‘What the hell?’ looks.
Coach took us out to the practice football field and introduced us to “The Greatest Game on Earth.”
I cannot speak for the rest, but I was hooked.
Rode the bus home to Granddaddy that afternoon and announced, “I am gonna be a pro golfer.”
Gran-dad was sober that day (see shot not fired in anger) and said, “Is that a fack? What you know ‘bout golf young’un?”
“I know it is a Gentleman’s game, and I know I am a gentleman.”
“Pshaw Boy! You doan know anything about anything. I know about golf.”
Turns out, my Grandfather did, in fact, know a lot about golf. He had actually almost convinced his neighbor to combine his one hundred twenty adjoining acres with his and build a golf course for Winnsboro.
Granddad was somewhat of an entrepreneur, having been in the Grocery Business, the Appliance Store business, the Catfish Restaurant Business (on the Tennessee river), the Worm Ranch business (selling red-worms to the bait shops at the area lakes), and pretty much had failed at all of them.
The following Friday I got off the school bus and noticed two little flags poking up from two little golf greens in our huge front yard. The ‘yard’ was about sixty ‘yards’ deep. There was a green next to the Farm-to-Market road just behind the bar ditch, nestled between the two Crepe Myrtles, and another green just in front of the house. Granddad found me as I was rummaging the fridge for left-over cornbread and sweet milk.
“Boy! I dun built you a golf course.”
“Yes, Granddaddy, I saw.”
He disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a golf club and some golf balls.
“Come on, I gonna see how much golfin’ that coach dun taught you.”
Eagerly I followed him out to the front yard. He dropped the balls in front of the porch and handed me the nine iron.
“See if’n you can hit that green yonder.”
I tee’d her up. Took a few practice strokes, remembering to keep my head down, and then I addressed the ball. My back swing was perfect. The downswing weren’t. I hit the ball and watched it sail over the barb-wire fence into the deep pasture.
“Sheeit Boy! You damn sure ain’t no natural.”
He coached me all that afternoon and after I finally managed to at least find the ‘fairway’ he went into the house and got drunk.
For the next several weeks, I played golf on my private course. But I had a major problem: I had no putter. Try putting with a nine iron. Even Phil Mickelson won’t attempt this
Granddad crafted a putter for me out of some scrap lumber. It was too light, so he drilled it out and poured lead into it. Then it was perfect. My putting skills improved instantly.
Summer now and I was growing unhappy with my greens. I wanted greens resembling those at Augusta. Mine were one notch above cow pasture cut short.
I spent a week or two pulling weeds and planting fresh Bermuda grass. My tender mercies eventually produced two greens Jack Nicklaus would have been honored to putt upon. They were smooth, silky smooth, and wonderfully… green. Lush green. In contrast to the rest of the yard (fairway) which was somewhat brown, with some grass burrs serving as hazards. Hazards to my feet. Young’uns in Texas never wear shoes in summertime, but of course you’d know that.
I watered my greens every day. I mowed them every other day. Being a sometime gardener, I loved green things. My golf greens were my pride. I loved the way the Bermuda grass had thrived and how smoothly the golf ball would travel on its way to the pin.
In golf you will make maybe one or two shots in your lifetime that you never forget. I made my first unforgettable shot that summer. I had clipped my ‘Tee Shot’ from the tee next to the road. It had traveled about fifteen feet.
I needed a great second shot (my course was of course a par three), to have any hope of making par. (I had fantasy tournaments with imaginary friends in my head—going head to head with Arnold and Jack). My second shot was from about fifty yards. I had a good lie. No grass burrs to distract me. I addressed the ball. Took several looks up to the flag. Did my waggle to set my stance. Backswing. Fore swing. Clean crisp hit. Watched my ball bounce twice on the green and roll straight at the flag. It disappeared.
“Hole in One!” My grandfather shouted from the porch. (Until then, I had not realized I had an audience, or a color commentator, a slightly nose painted color commentator.)
“Yeah!” I shouted. I saw no need to inform him it was my second shot.
One morning about mid-summer I went out to water my greens. There were small holes in the one closest to the house. Holes! Holes the size of tea cups! “Fuckin’ ‘dillo!” was my first thought. My dog Spot would never disfigure my green. Nope. Was an armadillo. No doubt about it. This armadillo had made a fatal mistake.
I was resolved to terminate him.
Don’t Shoot! I am only the Piano-Player
With extreme prejudice.
I dragged my sleeping bag onto my belov’d green that night and with my .22 rifle under my arm I lay in wait.
Fell asleep on watch around midnight. Woke up with the sun to discover more holes in my green. Further enraged now.
This MEANS WAR!
Made repairs to the ‘dillo divets and played a few rounds that day. Close to sunset, I downed some strong black coffee and filled a thermos with more. Camped out again on my green. Feigning sleep, I waited with my rifle and a flashlight.
Sometime in the night, I heard him. Grubbing for grubs on MY Green. The moon was half. I did not need the flashlight. I spied him on the edge of my green, mockingly desecrating my pride and joy. Ever so slowly I turned toward him while resting on my side cradling my rifle. Took aim and shot him square in his armadillo ass. Bam! ‘Run tell that, fuckin’ ‘dillo!”
He did (run) and I am quite certain he did tell all his ‘dillo friends not to fuck with my golf course.
Ever again. I suppose he died, or not. Actually, I probably only clipped him, but that was sufficient; he never came back, and I continued my golfing career. It would be five years before I actually set foot on a real golf course, but I did impress the hell outta my peers with my ‘short game’, as that was all I had known. Took me two years to learn how to drive golf balls (and cars and trains and such other things.)
But Coach was right: I wish I could find him now to tell him just how right he was, per his prophesy.