“Don’t Shoot Me; I’m Only The Piano Player”

I used to shoot small birds

Yes, back in the day, I pleasured me by shooting to death… sparrows.

download

(not pretty, is it?)

Not proud of it. And as Texan-Rightly, not ashamed of it neither. (What we did then, back in the day…)

“Just Texan Kids havin’ fun,” they would say. (‘They’, generally being Grandmothers—maternal grandmothers)

“They looked aside.”

Looking back now, I am ashamed of all the sparrow lives I so easily and callously took.  Tis a small thing in the big scheme of things, yes I Know. But, it bothers me still. As I am certain the memory of dead kittens haunts my ‘maternal’ grandfather over all those ‘Damn-we-got-too-many-cats-he’ah-on-this-place.” (As he shot them to death in front of my young, sensitive, later to become, my mother)

Mental scars

Many.

****

Don’t shoot sparrows

And don’t shoot kittens.

They will haunt you.

For some many years.

I suppose this is the point of this post.

‘Don’t shoot.’ (unless the sparrow is trying to kill you, that is…)

-Lance

Y’all Wanna Know The Worst Tactile Sensation Ever?

Shitter.png

 

Of course you do.

It is when you go to flush the toilet and that handle snarls back at you, rather limp-wrist’d, as if to say,

“Not tonight Asshole. Go back to sleep.”

(Now, in some truth, I could probably improve this post. For example: I should not have referenced ‘limp wrists”. In truth, y’all know how it is when you go to flush that toilet and there just ain’t no resistance. “Limp Wrists’ was just about all I could manage at the time of publishing…. (Isn’t that funny? Like I am a fucking news paper?) Dead-lines!

Some one shoot me!

(Make it quake! Head Shot! Right thru the mouth–or better…the mouse.)

God and some foll’ers will thank  you.

Foretelling  ‘Foreboding’ (See? I tend to edit as as I go… My father once tole me, “Lance! Enuff! Enough! It takes an editor to be smart; that is why we make more monies.”) some deep sea-toilet trolling (trolling?)  diving to fix.

Yeah…

Really?

Don’t think so.

Maybe tomorrow…

(There are three (other) toilets in this ‘Mouse-House’)

“So, fuck off.”

(My toilet did not reply)

Yes,  I talk to my toilet… don’t we all?

“Take your hand off that mouse Mister! Don’t make me come over there.”

“Yessir! Please don’t shoot me; I’m just the piano-player.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me. What do you think, Jim?”

“Yeah. Bullshit. Shoot him.”

“OK.”

Bang! Bang!

“He gone.”

(Sorry, Si Robertson; some of this … this is probably out-of-context)

Then again…

Maybe not.

We will not even begin to speak about your brother.

Damnit! I miss Christopher Hitchens!

 

Even more embarrassing:

You know the toilet is broke dick dog.

Yet…

You still try to ‘visit.’

And it takes three tries to get into the door.

(Yet, it is a really small door–just sayin’– and not so easily navigated, drunk nor sober)

Only to be so disappointed (yet again) over the the whole toilet experience.

OK.

Fine!

Resist?

Naw!

Below, please discover Lenny’s take on toilet-training.

(and of course: entertaining, or reasonable facsimile)

 

I Don’t Even Know Where to Begin

When I go to a post and find a video, or a song, I always watch/listen, simply because I assume the author put it there for a reason.

I take the time.

I am distraught today

“Why?” Because of… News… I am watching CNN, Al Jazeera, even FOX.

Things are fucked up.

Really fucked up.

Yep

So… in that vain vein, I just give you this below.

(Who said the1980’s music sucked?

Why? Music sucked? Oh yeah! Lance did… Lance is an idiot)

You tell me.

Cheers,

Lance

Vid Credit: BeGrooovy

My GF just walked out the door to meet up…with a friend… to get a pedicure.

“Have you been watching the news?” I asked.

“No. That is yer job,” she said.

“Yep. Well, the Mid East is on fire.”

“America. See you later.”

“Of course.”

I cannot even begin to explain how I feel now.

“Just one more year and then you’ll be happy.”

 I was almost a NAVY SEAL.

“You’re Probably Not a Diva: You’re a Cunt.”

I recently discovered my posts are all over the place:

(under my bed, in the laundry hamper, in the shitter, the garage, the liter (sic) box, et cetera)

I guess this is just how I must roll.

Sincerely aspire to not pissing anyone off.

But,

If I did/do,

There is still a chance for  at redemption.

Tomorrow

Maybe

By God’s Grace

Possibly

We’ll see…

Cheers Y’all

 

Fall Back Friday

Ummmm Kay… Kids…

Slumping Writer Here.

(not really slumping; just lazy)

Anyhow…

More original shit (manana)

That is a no-shitter and a premise.

But… back in my ‘Pup Daze’ I did post some good shit. (Well, I thought it was good shit)

Here is the list of a few of my favorite things:

Take a chance; have a glance. Find Romance: Drop a dime; Take the Time;  Buy some wine.

Shine. Shine on.

(it won’t cost you one dime… just send one dollar, postal money order…)

http://wp.me/p2Yfgl-6y

http://wp.me/p2Yfgl-6h

http://wp.me/p2Yfgl-4R

http://wp.me/p2Yfgl-37

http://wp.me/p2Yfgl-Z

http://wp.me/p2Yfgl-37

http://wp.me/p2Yfgl-25

 

And there is more.

But I won’t bore.

Cheers,

And thanks for watching.

-Lance Out.

 

My Mother The Car

Sometime shortly after I mustered out of the U.S. Navy…
I found me suddenly in need of a car, a vehicle, a mode of transport, fuckin’ wheels.
Never really havin’ given two shits ‘bout such, I found myself in front of a pawn shop in Honey Grove Texas early one morning. Too early, in fact.

But, I skip ahead (as is my wont)

Let us go back in time (just a few hours; be patient)
I had fallen ‘in love’ with a woman (It happens)
Got drunk one late night; decided I needed counsel (from Peanut—My Yoda—problem was, I was in Commerce, Texas and Yoda was in Honey Grove, miles and miles and styles away)
What to do?
Drive to see him on Endor.
Jumped into my chariot and almost made it.
Alas! A bar ditch jumped up in front of me.
The car did not survive.
Happily, I did, but now I had a real problem:
Yoda was still miles away.
Walked the two miles to HG and spied a vehicle “For Sale”
Walked in to the pawn shop and inquired:
“Yall take credit cards?”
“No Son; we do not.”
“Damn shame,” I said. “’Cause I wanna buy that car y’all got for sale out yonder. Well see ya.”
“Wait! Wait! We can make an exception!”
“OK, gas her up and get her ready.”

And the rest, as they say, was History.

P.S. This post was inspired by a memory my good friend Mark, over at

http://markbialczak.com/

brought out in my mind. Thanks Mark. Peace On!

PPS: The ‘Car’ Had a half-life about as long as a bottle of Jim Beam in my house. 

Well, I just got back from New York city; Kris and Rita done it all

“Rita Coolidge, Rita Coolidge cleft for me”

ritacoolidgeandkrisk.jpg

–Willie Nelson

Since it is still Texas Independence Day, I am gonna continue to bombast my Blog with Texans I admire.

Here is (in my mind) one of the greatest (and most misunderstood and underrated) Texans: Kris Kristofferson, Rhode’s Scholar, ruffian, redneck, poet.

He married well. Too bad it didn’t take. Rita Coolidge! He should have found a way to make that work…