I am Going To Jail–Who Cares? Who Amongst You Cares? Or Even Gives-A-Shit? I Know, For A Paralyzed Fact, I Would NOT… Care

Unless Your Name Was ‘Peanut’–

Then I would Care–

Bailed Him Out too Many Times..

I Spent Three Days In A Meskin Jail & Four Years In Iraq…Two Years In Afghanistan. Three Years In Sinai–Y’all Think Jail Frightens Me? Or Anything Frightens Me? Think Again My Friends.


There is ONE Thing That Frightens Me:



This is a Work of FICTION! Because I Do Not Know if There is a Statute of Limitations on Arson. Not Any Word of this Story is True. It is ALL FICTION.


That Said, This is Another Madelyn & Lance Tale (Fictional!)

Finally Found My Old Blue Jeans:

Cred for Vid Share: Želimir Lah

Back in the mid – Seventies, Madelyn worked at a joint in Bonham, Texas: ‘Richard’s Jeans’.

She sold jeans and other shit. She loved her part-time job. It was a nice place. I had gone there a few times to see her…

On the 3’rd of July, circa 1974 Madelyn came home almost crying.
I was working on my billiard skills (We had a pool table on the third floor of our ‘apartment’)

Madelyn ran past me, ran into her room and slammed the door.
I took a sip from my Coors beer, then cautiously knocked lightly on her door.

“Go away!” she said.
“Don’t think so,” I said to myself.

I opened the door.

She was sitting on her bed, sobbing.

I sat down next to her.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I have lost my job” she said.

“That asshole Richard fire you? I’ll kill him”
“No! He is closing the store!”

“Oh. Okay. I won’t kill him. At least not today.”
(He paid her shit wages)

To Be Continued….


Has occured to me some may not know of my relationship with Madelyn.


Quadruple Jeopardy. No. No No! NO!! Don’t Re-Post! “Moldy Moldy Old Oldie Re-Run, (Just Fer Fun)–Tattoo or ‘This is Awkward,’ or ‘Open for Suggestion’

Or… “Don’t Shit Where You Eat.”

“Using Parking Meters as Walking Sticks”

Now, I can Honestly Say That I Have Been to Jail In-This-Country–America, as Opposed to All The ‘Other’ Countries I have been to Jail in…

Tom Waits – “Eggs and Sausage

In A Cadillac With Susan Michelson”

“Why do men chase women?”

“I think It’s Because They Fear Death”

“Old saying my mother told me. Wanna hear it?”

“Yeah. Sure. Of Course.”

“Don’t Shit Where You Eat.”

–Olympia Dukakis


Author’s Note:

Yes. I’ve done some incredibly stupid shit in my time.

Below is an actual-for-real email I sent to a soon-to-be former boss (an attractive lady-boss, of course.) and is sadly very close to the top of the Misfit Hit Parade of lame-ass-actions I have perpetrated on innocents.


I have swerved into the solution for Drunken Emails.

Who could’ve known it would be this simple?

Street Cred for Vid: Big Play Films


From: Moron <lance_moron@misfits.fubar> cc bcc:

To: Lady_Boss@job.yrfired

Subject: Tattoo

Dear Suki,

Yes, I am getting a tattoo (for my ‘mousing’ musing hand).

It will read simply, succinctly, in Big Bold Letters:


Subtle Reminder:

“No! Don’t Go There Lance!”

Brevity? Yes. (‘That soul of wit.’)

“Words have meaning Son,” my father often told me.

And short words, I have discovered, oft hold the most meaningful meaning.

It has been ‘awkward’ (to say the very least) to face you of late.

After my ‘email shot-gunning’ you, off-the-chain escapade of recent shameful regret, but… I did it and today found the courage to read all of what I did send and happily discovered, most were not of the obnoxious caliber of my historical wont.

Thank God and Baby Hey Zeus!

Alas, I wish I had an excuse.

Yet, in searching, there is one to be discovered, but so probably painfully evident that it requires no verbalization:

Two times per year, I get to ‘explore’ my darker side.

Two times per year, I choose a ‘lucky’ recipient to ‘share’ in my darkness.

Two times per year someone gets to be ‘it’.

Guess what?!


You won!

You’re the New ‘IT’ Girl!


You’re in Good Company.

Clara Bow: The Original It Girl, 1927


The thing about writers (and those so-called writers who call themselves ‘writers’) is that they are so full of themselves, so full of shit & vain by nature (it is requisite-with the breed), and every writer and so-called writer I have ever met, are… assholes. All.

Vain, pompous, drinks-too-much, full of sound and fury, and desperation just to be read.

“A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

Desperate for…

Crying for…

Waiting for…

Black Velvet, Black Velvet, If You Please…

(Feminine / Female Diversion)



I am not (not really) stupid.

I know you cannot ‘comment’ nor even acknowledge, via email, all the posts I posted ‘at you.’

I dare say you would be wise to ignore me and my ramblings, given our professional relationship.

Yet, if you did read even one of the posts on my blog, (actually I think you read the first one I begged you to read—not the ‘best’ one, but one which apparently was on my mind–at the time)

It is a very simple thing to comment, ‘in disguise’ as


Or ‘any-mouse.’

Or simply, “A Fan.” (tongue in cheek)

Too easy.

Do that once and I will be sated.

Do it twice and you get a

For Free Mickey Mouse Pencil Sharpener,


An Autographed 8X10 Hollywood-Type-Glossy Photograph of Jesus Christ.

Sermon-on-the-mount, highly recommended, and our best-seller

But you cannot have both; there is a limited supply.

Do it thrice:  You should seek counsel.

Professional help.


Never mind…

“Writers are assholes.”

“Lance is a ‘writer’”

“Ergo, Lance is an asshole.”



There is a point to this post, but most assuredly, I have forgotten my initial inclination in that regard.


Jeopardy musical theme plays


Oh yes!

Now I’ve got it!

This is my convoluted apology to you.

I am, and shall always remain, an Honorable Military Man.

I am cognizant of the duty (and the mission)

And, admitting I was wrong is something which seems to be easier (and more difficult—same time) to do lately.

My first wife once accused me of aspiring to be “King of the Idiots.”

(She was an idiot savant…well, you’d have to know her to get my meaning, yet, I think–know, that I have posted about her…ON-MY-BLOG)

Back to my point:


I am beginning to grow bored with my job.

You are the best supervisor/boss I have had in recent memory. All, and I do mean ALL respect you.

This should be enough for me (and for the foreseeable future it shall be)


I don’t like to shit where I eat, BUT (and this is a curse), I have a opinions and I need to get that tattoo—post haste—and with all due prejudice.

I like you Suki.

I respect you.

I am trying to help you professionally (in my way).

And NO!

I am not trying to ‘do’ anything other than ‘talk’ to you and ‘work’ for you.

To quote Nixon:

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear…”

I am a whore, but only when it comes to my writing.

Nothing else these days (aside from my computer addiction) means anything to me.

Rest easy.

I am not as bad as I may, at first glance, appear

(Truth: I am worse, but I do not bring that to WORK)



(Yes: you may quote me. I’d be flattered…. Hahahahaaa)

See you on Friday.

And remember not to work too hard.

Life’s best moments can be fleeting.

Cherish Them


Number One

“Win or lose, win or lose
To the losers go the heart-sick blues
To the victor goes the spoilings
Honey, did you win or lose?”

(Heads up: I lost)


To an Athlete Dying Young


The time you won your town the race

We chaired you through the market-place;

Man and boy stood cheering by,

And home we brought you shoulder-high.

Today, the road all runners come,

Shoulder-high we bring you home,

And set you at your threshold down,

Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away

From fields where glory does not stay,

And early though the laurel grows

It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut

Cannot see the record cut,

And silence sounds no worse than cheers

After earth has stopped the ears.

Now you will not swell the rout

Of lads that wore their honours out,

Runners whom renown outran

And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,

The fleet foot on the sill of shade,

And hold to the low lintel up

The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head

Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,

And find unwithered on its curls

The garland briefer than a girl’s.

Lovely, Beautiful Joni

Lovely, Beautiful Joni

My Most Recent Experience With The Minions of the Commerce Cop Shop… I Love The Commerce PD; They Look Out For Me.

I Will Expand Upon This Later. Probably Much Later. If Ever. So Don’t Hold Your Breath. We Shall See. See you in Jail. Cheers!

Morons Minion’ng Menions (Don’t Mention Minions In My Recent Present Preference Precedent)

Moron 'R'' Us!

Little Bird

Jerry Jeff

My Main Man

I Forgive you that paralyzed fact that you are from

Up-State New York

Street cred for vid: 709Austin

Fun fact I just noticed. (And I generally notice a lot…. Bullshit!

I generally Miss mos ever’thang. missed this one first time around…

Fun fact; One of the dudes in the band is Nat Maines daddy…. Lloyd)

(Helpful Hint: He’s the dude on the steel gee tar.)

Mister Lloyd Maines:


If you do not laugh at this, you are not human.

From a recently sent email string to a woman I am trying to woo…. and failing ‘Les Miserables’ at it.


A little bird landed on my vehicle. I approached/reproached said little bird. Then Asked,

“What do you want, Little Bird?”

Little Bird said,”I have a msg for you.”

“Do tell, and do not shit on my car.”

He/she said (difficult to establish gender in these situations) He/She/It said,

“Marla is bored with you. Move on”

“Thanks” I said, as I went back into mi casa…. looking for my shotgun…


I came back.
Little bird was gone.
I shot out my head-lights anyway.
No point in wasting my rage.
Or my big-ass twelve gauge.


Hour later, a policeman showed up
I invited him to go get fucked.

Probably not the wisest words ever to ever escape my lips.


Author’s note adddd-end-um:

This was supposed to be a ‘light’ post.

I fucked it up.

I dropped in a very sad song.

By Jerry Jeff

A ‘Lost Gonzo Band’ song I have been listening to all my nat’ral life.

But I never really listened to the words.

Until now.

Wish I hadn’t.

Oh Mesico! Lance, You Lie: Chapter Six–Note to Self: “Self, Finish The Edit Later”–Some Names Have Been ‘Mortified’ To Protect The Guilty

Ed Note on this video: The dude playing lead guitar is Linda’s (Ronstadt) Just so you’d notice I noticed.

Go to fuk all y’all!

Haters Gonna Hate

Expeditiously Move Them To The Fuk-Off Channel

Shake it Off Bitch!

Chapters: One Two Three Four Five


There were a few other escapades no less bizarre during this time, but I won’t recount them here. Like the infamous naked, midnight go-cart ride over and through some very nicely landscaped yards of the Lake Charles rich and famous. Well, rich anyway…

“Don’t start Lance. Get on with the pot smuggling story.”

After several more ‘adventures’ as described above, Kim and I decided we needed to go to McAllen to expedite things with the Mexicans.

We took our partner Kirk with us for balance and also because he had some friends in San Antonio we could hang out with before we drove south to McAllen.

We ended up staying in San Antonio for several weeks before making our way south. Long story why and not particularly exciting, so I’ll skip it.

We arrived in McAllen late one sultry Saturday night and having nothing better to do until morning when we were to hook up with Pablo, we decided to drive into Mexico and visit ‘Boy’s Town’ in Reynosa.

Kim had been there before and told us how the deal worked:

“Before we go, we have to make sure the car is clean. No pot, no guns, no nothing. If we get busted they will put us in jail for a w-h-i-l-e.”

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