Stinkhorn Rodeo

Ain't Dead Yet

2006-08-30T15:21:00.000-05:00

There's years of sweat and blood soaked into the ground here at the Stinkhorn Ranch, and no sir and no ma'am, we ain't givin' in fer nuthin'.

Patchin' thangs back together after a rather bone-dry tour of the Rodeo is a peice of work, and that's whar everyone has been bent double taskin'.

And fer some reason, a whole mess of laptop batteries blowed up on us.

Thangs will get to percolatin' again mighty soon.

Ya'll come back, cause once a few more chores is settled out, thar's plenty I and the others here got left to speak on here on the blog.

Ya'll just rest up a spell, and we'll get to full bore in a bit.

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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Rodeo on the Road

2006-08-13T13:39:00.000-05:00

Howdy.

Nope, we ain't gone away. But the summer sure is THE busy time here to the Ranch. The Rodeo has been on the road and travelled from Tennessee to Tucson to Abilene to St. Louis and down to Tuscaloosa and Baton Rouge and then over to Macon and back up to Kokomo and hell I can't even remember where all we been.

Truth be told, Concha Loca had done give me what she called a "digital camera" and a "laptop" so's I could be capturing all manner of sights on the road and I suppose some sorta daily entries as the Stinkhorn Rodeo travelled from there to here and such.

Took me two months to figger out this heap of 'lectronics weren't busted - just needed some batteries.

She never told me nary a whisper about batteries. And of course, I didn't ask or say nuthin' neither.

Wrangling the livestock, the crew, the feed, the trucks, and bailin' cowpokes outta some crossbar hotel cause of some fisticuffs and havin' to tape and tinker with ever-damn-blessed-peice-of-equipment on the road just ain't leavin' much time fer keyboard peckin' and computer cowboyin'.

Hellfire, we shoulda been in Chicago last week fer three shows and we wuz all broke down in Paducah instead. We limped back into the Stinkhorn Ranch on Saturday about 3 a.m. and as soon as we wuz parked I curled up with a bottle of Old Grandad and soothed my senses with whiskey and sleep.

Got up around sunrise today and Chief had made some serious grub which I and all the other hands done et up and then I went back fer a few more shots of Old Grandad and then figgered I should fire up the 'lectronics and do some computer cowboyin'. Now I know I counted some 600 pieces of that there email, and to be plain as Pete, I just ain't gonna answer all your ponderin's today.

Beside, I got half a bottle of Grandad left and tomorrow will be full of chores to get us steered back onto the trail and Chicago.

Real quick too. But more missives will be just ahead. This is just a howdy and hell yes we're still here so quit yer frettin'.

'Course we has all been aware of how the countryside is full of talk of war and fears. Ya'll seem as stirred up and skittish as a herd of cattle caught in a thundestorm. Stay calm and be safe and wait fer dawn.

Til then, I'll say adios and be back with ya afore ya know it.
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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Right-Wing Cowflop Crazy

2006-05-25T10:45:00.000-05:00

Some of these Right-wing batshit crazy bloggers in Tennessee are so bone-dumb I've heard rocks claim a higher IQ.

Some just plain twist the truth til it squalls and thrashes and eventually lies as still as a body takin' a dirt nap. I ain't gonna give ya no lin-connections to these idjits 'cause it would rot yer mind to read the cowflops they calls facts. And I think even the tiniest of saplin's knows balderdash when they hear it. My advice is to simply avoid this backwash of stupid as best you can and find ya some more truthful and clear waters.

One owlhoot is a' claimin' the all the news about Hurricane Katrina was jes' a heap of liberal media lies. Buckaroo, let me put you onto a secret - giant corporations driven by good old American profit head the major news outlets. Is weapons manufacturer GE a liberal hotbed? Maybe it's that Viacom is all hippie-fied.

Another is all shook up there's gay people - even though they's been around as long as they's been people on the planet. Some squeal like fearful critters if ya says the name of Clinton or Carter out loud. Fear has taken such a deep root that it's best to leave 'em be and write off their lands as poison. Another not-so-secret fact: whining liars like Ann Coulter don't give a damn fer yer so-called Conservative Agenda - her agenda is salacious rumor and gossip meant to sell books and make big bucks. You what buy into it is just hoodwinked and bushwhacked and left fer fodder in the field.

Bottom line here is that if ya was to rake off all the lies and crap and call it what it really is - half-baked politcal partisan bleating - then all that's left is a few handfuls of open-minded and thought-provokin' writin', such as what you'll find here at the Ranch.

And I got chores to do.
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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Past Is Future At Present

2006-05-11T13:28:00.000-05:00

I took a mosey this mornin' over to a place called The Existentialist Cowboy, readin' a piece he done about reporter Edward R. Murrow's comments made in 1958 to Radio and Television News Directors about what television is and ain't, what it might be, and how the whole set-up was workin' and not workin'.

Part of that speech ended up in the movie, "Good Night and Good Luck," which was a damn fine movie.

The E.C. offers a link to the speech and has some excerpts and thoughts on it.

It is a heap to ponder on, and might ought to be read on a daily basis to every News Director today, maybe even memorized.

Murrow was a clear and plain speaker, who understood the weight of words and images, and we ain't got not one feller on network nor cable showin' one-tenth the courage, pluck and gumption Murrow had. Just take a look at the openin' comments the man made in 1958.

"This just might do nobody any good. At the end of this discourse a few people may accuse this reporter of fouling his own comfortable nest, and your organization may be accused of having given hospitality to heretical and even dangerous thoughts. But the elaborate structure of networks, advertising agencies and sponsors will not be shaken or altered. It is my desire, if not my duty, to try to talk to you journeymen with some candor about what is happening to radio and television.

I have no technical advice or counsel to offer those of you who labor in this vineyard that produces words and pictures. You will forgive me for not telling you that instruments with which you work are miraculous, that your responsibility is unprecedented or that your aspirations are frequently frustrated. It is not necessary to remind you that the fact that your voice is amplified to the degree where it reaches from one end of the country to the other does not confer upon you greater wisdom or understanding than you possessed when your voice reached only from one end of the bar to the other. All of these things you know."

Read it all.

I got chores to do.
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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

O Reilly Smears Dead Publisher

2006-04-28T16:14:00.000-05:00

Lowdown owlhoot, past multi-nominee of Wiener Wrangler of the Week and all-around Jack With No Trade Bill O'Reilly showed off his addle-pated form of journalism once again by smearing a man that is deceased. Even showed a picture of the poor dearly departed taken prior to his steppin' into the Great Beyond.

The details are here.

O'Reilly - when ya gonna declare a War on Dead People?

Another lyin' bushwhackin' idjit, House Speaker Dennis Hastert and some other GOP congressfolk hold a press conference on Energy and higher than hell gas prices by drvin' a few dozen feet in a hybrid SUV then takin' a block or two ride back to his office in his normal gas guzzler.

Me and a heap of others here at the Ranch has puzzled out the GOP election strategy for 2006 - behave like idjits so's that Democrats get elected, then blame ever blessed thang under the sun what's turned tits-up and failed since 2000 on 18 months of Democrats in congress.
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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Huntin' Fer UFOs Via the Pentagon - Jes' Stupid

2006-04-27T12:47:00.000-05:00

Seems there was this here computer cowpoke over across the ocean in England who figured it would be just as fine as frog teeth to hunt fer aliens and UFOs by what the tech experts call "hacking" into the U.S. government computer systems. (and I has to admit it, fer most of my aimless life, I figgered 'Hacking" was the sound a feller might make if something got stuck in his windpipes.

Anyway, this here feller says in a news report:

"During 2000-1 from his home in Hornsey, north London, and using a computer with just a limited 56K dial-up modem, he turned his sights on the American government and military.

"My main thing was wanting to find out about UFOs and suppressed technology," he said insisting his intention was not to cause damage. "I wanted to ... find out stuff the government wouldn't tell you about."

He said it was easy, despite being only a rank amateur. Using the hacking name "Solo", he discovered that many U.S. top-security systems were using an insecure Microsoft Windows program and had no password protection at all.

"So I got commercially available off-the-shelf software and used them to scan large military networks ... anything I thought might have possible links to UFO information," he said."

Now that there excuse sounds so all-fired stupid, it might just be true. Then again, stupid grows like leaves on trees in summertime. Feller also says he can't yet reveal what all he found out unless he has to go to trial.

Some things is just plain obvious - in other words, jumpin' illegal into the computer systems of the Pentagon is like swimmin' in a pool of gasoline and smokin' a cigar. Only bad trouble can follow.

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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Stormclouds Gatherin' Over White House

2006-04-25T15:29:00.000-05:00

Finally some spring warmth has thawed out the Ranch, and it looks like the love affair with the High Sherrif Bush in the Heartlands is also at an end. The Illinois Legislature is about to enact impeachment charges using an obscure law, accordin' to this here press report:

"The Illinois General Assembly is about to rock the nation. Members of state legislatures are normally not considered as having the ability to decide issues with a massive impact to the nation as a whole. Representative Karen A. Yarbrough of Illinois' 7th District is about to shatter that perception forever. Representative Yarbrough stumbled on a little known and never utlitized rule of the US House of Representatives, Section 603 of Jefferson's Manual of the Rules of the United States House of Representatives, which allows federal impeachment proceedings to be initiated by joint resolution of a state legislature. From there, Illinois House Joint Resolution 125 (hereafter to be referred to as HJR0125) was born.

Detailing five specific charges against President Bush including one that is specified to be a felony, the complete text of HJR0125 is copied below at the end of this article. One of the interesting points is that one of the items, the one specified as a felony, that the NSA was directed by the President to spy on American citizens without warrant, is not in dispute. That fact should prove an interesting dilemma for a Republican controlled US House that clearly is not only loathe to initiate impeachment proceedings, but does not even want to thoroughly investigate any of the five items brought up by the Illinois Assembly as high crimes and/or misdemeanors. Should HJR0125 be passed by the Illinois General Assembly, the US House will be forced by House Rules to take up the issue of impeachment as a privileged bill, meaning it will take precedence over other House business.

The Illinois General Assembly joins a growing chorus of voices calling for censure or impeachment of President Bush including Democratic state committees in Vermont, Wisconsin, New Mexico, Nevada and North Carolina as well as the residents themselves of seven towns in Vermont, seventy Vermont state legislators and Congressman John Conyers. The call for impeachment is starting to grow well beyond what could be considered a fringe movement. An ABC News/Washington Post Poll Conducted April 6-9 showed that 33% of Americans currently support Impeaching President Bush, coincidentally, only a similar amount supported impeaching Nixon at the start of the Watergate investigation. If and when Illinois HJR0125 hits the capitol and the individual charges are publicly investigated, that number is likely to grow rapidly. Combined with the very real likelihood that Rove is about to be indicted in the LeakGate investigation, and Bush is in real trouble beyond his plummeting poll numbers. His cronies in the Republican dominated congress will probably save him from the embarassment of an impeachment conviction, for now, but his Presidency will be all but finished.

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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Meet Dr. Doom

2006-04-04T14:46:00.000-05:00

Meet the real-life Dr. Doom, who to thunderous applause, presented the idea that it is time for a man-made plan to reduce the human population to 10 % of current levels.

The idea was made in speech in March at the 109th meeting of the Texas Academy of Sciences, and he urged that somethin', say like, airborne blasts of the Ebola virus could do the trick.

I've heard some low-down, no-good and just plain crazy talk from some poor sodbuster who's spent too much time in the sun, or drunk up far too much rotten hooch. We all have. But when those who heard the speech applauded for it, with a standing ovation, I gotta wonder about how in Hell such murderous talk gets took seriously.
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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Pretend People Whine About America

2006-03-16T14:39:00.000-05:00

Last night I decided to go see an old friend, name of Festering Raymond, who wanted to show me his brand new color TV set which he called a Plasma TV. Festering Raymond has a leftover wound from a mining accident back in 1892 and has a fancy wheelchair, but don't get out much so he is always mail-orderin' up all kinds of gadgets and electronics and has three different satellite TV feeds too. He gets mighty excited about this stuff and so I rode over to see his new gear.

I had to make room on his lime green couch by pushing aside a vast expanse of what I call grocery store magazines, all full of stories about giant bat-children and celebrities with stretch marks and such. Anyway, he was talkin' a blue streak about some famous movie and TV folk whose names didn't ring no bells with me, but he always has a very fine stock of hooch so I nursed a bottle of Maker's Mark while he rattled on and on.

He said some li'l gal who was a singer or somethin' named Jessica Simpson had done snubbed an invite from the High Sheriff up in D.C., President Bush and he laughed a lot about that. Said she was out a'raisin' money fer a group of folk who run somethin' called Operation Smile, which gets plastic surgery fer poor kids overseas, but that she did not want to help Republicans raise money at the same time. I did find a Web news story on it.

Festering Raymond laughed and said, "When a cute blonde tells the Big Chief in D.C. no go fer dinner, the Big Chief's ego has got to wilt and shrivel like snowflake fallin' into an open campfire!"

The he started in on this here TV show he saw the other night, where fake attorneys argue fake cases in a show called "Boston Legal." Even dug out a copy of the show he had made on DVD and made me watch the thing. I did sorta recognize a feller on it from an old show called "Star Trek", but now he's an attorney and ain't no space captain no more.

Festering Raymond's Plasma TV sure was big and loud. I kinda like a color TV what don't look like a drive-in movie screen but he's happy to have it so it ain't no skin off me. Anyway, at one point this other attorney-actor went off on a big speech about how America just ain't right no more. Festering Ray kept sockin' me in the shoulder and sayin' "See, ain't that a great speech!"

I found a transcript of it and video of the tv episode here.

I was polite and all to Festering Ray, but kept my thoughts to myself - See, the way I figger it, if TV actors in pretend courts or cute blonde celebrities are the only folk willin' to stand out and argue fer the rights of Americans, then we is in one big, deep stinkin' cowpie. Used to, regular folk had a lot more say and used to say it more.

Time keeps changin' I guess.
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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Wingnut Rodeo Round-up

2006-02-24T15:15:00.000-05:00

It's been a winter season with little if any snowfall here at the Ranch, but a dustin' of snow can make a simple mosey through the pasture as hazardous as a mosey in a field of landmines - hidden dangers could send you skiddin' your heels through an unseen cowpie and land you on yer backside. The same is true in today's media-driven and Web-filled world.

It's a given thing that cows and horses just plop away where they stand and any field will have 'em everwhere. Any cowboy or gowgirl worth their salt has an eye out to keep their boots clean and their backsides off the ground. And a little snow may make the fields appear as bare, shiny as a new penny. Ya gotta be aware of what is just beneath the surface.

So as a public service, I has found a web site which captures the word and the voices of what folks has done labeled "Wingnuts". The feller that does the page collects all kinds of lowdown owlhoots who twist and distort facts or ignore them and spew out what amounts to a steamin' cowpile of untruths and outrages.

The page is called Calling All Wingnuts and I think you'll enjoy it.

Well, Concha says I got some chores left to do. Adios.
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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Stampede of Decay

2006-02-19T09:30:00.000-05:00

I ain't never claimed to possess much wisdom, and I has tried to be somewhat thoughtful on this here page, but I have about had it with the bone-dumb, chuckle-fucks who have given up and live lies and call it truth.

I used to figure stupid was bein' slowly but surely eroded away in the growth of humankind, but seems like stupid is on a growth spurt, fed by pure old horseshit and hopelessness. The American mind is rotted with greed and stupid and fear, most likely cause it has lain fallow in the murky woods, and Nature says if ya lay down and quit growin' and movin', the only growth that will occur is a stampede of decay.

I been readin' and seein' more and more witless, so-called adults pee their pants like babies if the word "terrorist" is used, and they run screamin' and defenseless into the arms of Daddy Government. That there Ranch Boss named Bush in the White House says "We ain't safe no more. Oceans don't protect us from our enemies no more. You need fewer freedoms so's we can bag these varmints a'tryin' to kill us."

Well, I'll be dipped in shit. I guess folks is so fear-fed and hysterical they forgot that oceans was ignored some 50 year ago when "our enemies" and our country too developed somethin' called Inter-Continental Ballistic Missiles, which was capable of dropping a few hundred megatons of atomic blasts on any point on a map.

Now, there is fear of what a cell phone and backpack or maybe a shoe might do to somebody.

Shit, American parents want laws passed by Daddy Government to make video games all sugar and spice. Why don't some of these breedin' factories with too much money think maybe little Johnny or Sally don't need cable TV, computers and high-tech wireless game systems stacked up in their cribs - make the children wait til they's more growed 'afore handing 'em the reins of adulthood?

For years, I watched and read about the mass of uneducated, religious zealots overseas hack away at each other in blind, ragin' hate leavin' behind nuthin' but dead bodies and more hate. TV preachers today want to put out hit squads for political assassinations - and I mean the preachers in this country and most any other. If you was to spend half of one day readin' history books about Europe and the Mideast, you'd discover the sermon today is as mindless and hateful and superstitious as the sermons back then.

Dammit it all, folks, Liviin' in the moment of who's gonna get some TV fame fer singin' old songs and bein' labled an Idol or which dog food commerical on the Super Bowl is funniest is mighty stupid. Plumb ignorant.

The Bosses in Washington themselves reviewed what they didn't do when a Hurricane Katrina hit the Gulf Coast and called the result "death by bureaucracy". The report says and I quote "The institutional and individual failures we have identified became all the more clear when compared to the heroic efforts of those who acted decisively. Those who didn't flinch, those who took matters into their own hands when bureaucratic inertia was causing death, injury and suffering."

Ya'll might wanna ponder on that.
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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Valentine

2006-02-15T11:22:00.000-05:00

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man:
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

--William Wordsworth 1802

How.

Chief here.

Chief, you say, it been long time since we hear from you. Where you been?

Chief has many explanations, but will reveal the only one that matters:

Chief had good holiday with family. Me have good New Year's with friends. But Chief receive bad news a few weeks back. Chief's father has cancer. Chief lost his mother to cancer almost 10 years ago, now Chief's father has cancer. Chief been very worried.

But, good news is—Chief's father has cancer that is isolated in salivary gland. Chief's mother was not so lucky. Her cancer—small-cell carcinoma—was the worst and she die very quickly. Chief's Pa—Little Brook—will soon have surgery to remove gland. If cancer in gland removed contained, him may not even need radiation. Problem is: him 79 years old. So, Chief worried about father's strength concerning upcoming surgery.

Little Brook quit smoking tobacco in the 1970s; however, him chew Red Man for about ten years and now him have cancer in salivary gland. This is lesson for all of you. Leave tobacco alone.

Chief, you say, you talk about smoking peace pipe in recent blog entries. Is Chief a smoker? Is him a hypocrite?

No, me say. Chef smoked for many years and quit three years ago. Occasionally, Chief smoke peace pipe symbolically, and use the gesture as a means for making peace. But even now me consider leaving pipe behind. Demons within smoke outweigh the good. Perhaps a new peace symbol should be created.

Many of you have heard Chief's story before. It's not uncommon among homosexuals. Chief wait until late in life to admit him gay. Relatives, including Chief's sister, Hiawatha, encouraged Chief to stay closeted for fear of upsetting father. Of course, in retrospect, these fears were unfound. And Little Brook loves Chief regardless of his orientation. And now, Chief is continuously amazed that Little Brook is so accepting of Chief and his husband, Daisy Dude. Even today, me receive not one Valentine from Little Brook but four—one for me, one for Daisy, and two for the children. Chief's heart wants to burst knowing that father, Little Brook, loves Chief and his family. Chief only wish that his mother knew Daisy as well.

So, as cliché as this entry sounds: Carpe diem. Seize the day. Live your life to fullest and never be hesitant to let those you love in on your story. Those that don't remain your friends and family were never really friends or family anyway.

So, please keep Little Brook in your thoughts and prayers. Though we all lose those we love eventually, Chief would like for Little Brook to hang in there a little while longer. After all—he is my father.

Blessings to you and yours.

Chief
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About the Writer
Chief Pocamanhole is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Hand and resident Chef.

Who's Got Yer BioWillie?

2006-02-09T13:15:00.000-05:00

Leave it to a cowboy to figger out a way to start up a bio-diesel company - that Red-Headed Stranger has done it. Seems the company will feature a picture of Willie and his guitar on the pump. You can buy it in Georgia, South Carolina, Texas and California. And yep, it's called BioWillie. All of us here at the Ranch chuckled some at that one.

I has always had an appreciation fer the ways of science and engineers and such, though I don't always understand how they do what they do. I ain't got that kinda book-learnin', but I has pondered quite a bit on the notion that over the last hundred years, we can't seem to get past our slavish addiction to the combustion engine. How it is that technology grows faster than gallopin' horse ever where else and all the little doohickies of science scattered about the typical American ranch get obsolete with each passin' hour, yet the little engine and the four-wheeled (or however many wheels yer rig has got) monsters seem as permanent as desert sun.

Heard some talk on the color TV set t'other night about the country needin' to end it's "oil addiction" and stop importin' so much dang foreign fuel. But the Ranch Bosses at Exxon say that there is plumb stupid. Never happen, they say, and add to that coment that we all is on a Global Ranch now and needs to learn to all be dependent with each other rather than warrin' and fightin' over oil.

Guess when their whatcha callems - quarterly profits - is in the tens of billions, ya figger ya got the world by the short and curlies.

And that's why I prefer doin' my chores and travels sittin' on my horse Huston, which has always been my perferred mode of transportation. All I needs to get Huston movin' is some Oats, which I can buy at the Feed Store in town, which they get from Old Farmer Stubbs fields over in the valley, or sometimes some apples, which I can pick myself from some apple trees which is all over the Stinkhorn Ranch.

While the world can fret and worry all it wants, the Bio-fuels of oats and apples and horses seem to do just fine here fer me. 'Course I ain't no scientist. Maybe they'll ponder it all out one day.

Well, got some chores to do. Vaya con Dios.
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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Disunion Speech Was Only Kidding

2006-02-03T09:49:00.000-05:00

"WASHINGTON - One day after President Bush vowed to reduce America's dependence on Middle East oil by cutting imports from there 75 percent by 2025, his energy secretary and national economic adviser said Wednesday that the president didn't mean it literally.

What the president meant, they said in a conference call with reporters, was that alternative fuels could displace an amount of oil imports equivalent to most of what America is expected to import from the Middle East in 2025.

But America still would import oil from the Middle East, because that's where the greatest oil supplies are.

The president's State of the Union reference to Mideast oil made headlines nationwide Wednesday because of his assertion that "America is addicted to oil" and his call to "break this addiction."

Bush vowed to fund research into better batteries for hybrid vehicles and more production of the alternative fuel ethanol, setting a lofty goal of replacing "more than 75 percent of our oil imports from the Middle East by 2025."

He pledged to "move beyond a petroleum-based economy and make our dependence on Middle Eastern oil a thing of the past."

Not exactly, though, it turns out.

"This was purely an example," Energy Secretary Samuel Bodman said."

Read the full article here.

Why ain't I surprised??

Well, back to the real world and real chores.
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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

A State of Disunion

2006-01-31T14:46:00.000-05:00

I hear tell the president is plannin' on a talk in front of TV and Congress tonight, an annual report on the state of things in the U.S. of A. I don't know about you, but if he ain't blubberin' and cryin' and beggin' forgiveness for the last year of stupid mistakes, then he ain't sayin' nuthin of worth a'tall.

An honest-to-Pete assessment of just one national nightmare, the whipsaw of confusion and incompetence of the Feds over the hurricane named Katrina, ought to make the man weep in shame. Now there ain't a ranch hand in history what has ever been able to change the winds nor the waves - but every one worth his salt knows when to prep the ranch fer a storm. If a cowpoke don't fret about every hoof in his herd, or get the shutters bolted on the windows, or know that sometimes, storms is so bad you got to get every hoof to high ground quicker than you can say "draw!", why then that cowpoke just don't give two cents fer nuthin' and has throwed responsibility to a wild wind so's it'll fall far away.

Any human alive is gonna make a mistake - that's just a sign of being alive. Refusal to admit a mistake when yer done caught in the middle of it is just bein' dumber than a post.

I can also testify that as a ranch boss, iffin' you start thinkin' ain't one soul what can raise a question without gettin' a backhanded smack, then yer ranch is gonna fall the hell apart. Iron-fisted, two-faced, mule-stubborn, and blinder-bound makes fer one sorry leader. Pretty soon, every hand will start slackin' on chores and followin' yer example of lyin' and short-changin' and incompetence and things either ain't done or is done poorly. And that ranch will just fail to survive.

The current leadership has an $8 trillion federal deficit.

There was that durn Harriet Miers deal. It ain't a cause fer national mourning, but sure was a bone-headed move.

Folks in the V.P.'s office has been indicted and they was a even a feller workin' there caught as a spy.

The Medicare deal is as sloppy as a drunken hand of poker, energy policies run in a circle like a stray pup chasin' its own tail ... 'Course findin' fault in a politician is easy pickin's.

But these here issues will be likely ignored, and the usual "everything is gettin' ready to be better" and "it ain't that bad and won't be as long as ya'll do it my way" will roll out instead.

Well, I better get to my chores afore I get all lathered.
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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Five Habits of Johnny Rawhide

2006-01-28T12:00:00.000-05:00

Well I been busier than a small tick on a large dog and apologize fer my lateness in arrivin' to this here topic, which I admit has had me somewhat addle-pated so more time has passed as I have pondered just how to answer this particular query.

Livin' such an anachronistic life here at the Ranch - shovelin' shit out of stalls and brushin' down the horses and attachin' wireless computer systems 'tween the bunkhouse and the mainhouse and clearin' out winter brush (with no members of the White House Press Corp to evaluate the event) and even makin' an elaborate series of remote video cameras along certain fence-lines and livestock barns - well, it all makes sense to me but I am sure a random interloper would gaze somewhat cock-eyed at my efforts and habits.

I also attempted somethin' of a parley with a ranch boss from the nearby Lazy Eye Ranch after I spied one of their hands, a lowdown owlhoot name of Eb Chisum, stealin' a stack of lumber I cut myself from a stand of locust trees. The parley ended poorly as a round of fisticuffs broke out and I ended up spendin' two days at the local cross-bar hotel with Eb and two other cowpokes from the Lazy Eye who jumped into the fray.

Concha Loca weren't none too pleased with the stretch of time I spent on the cot at the hoosegow, though at least them drygulchers from the Lazy Eye has not been seen since that parley incident.

Well, let's see here - a list of Five Weird Habits. Guess I can offer a few examples what would fall into a description of the weird.

1. Ever since I was a sapling and had notions of explorin' the world of technology and science, my Uncle Nick Rawhide got me mighty interested in the internal workin's of television sets. Nick said there weren't no better TV ever made than the Philco, which was called "The World of Tomorrow Today", and he had a shed covered floor to rafters with old sets and parts and wires and we used to do a heap of tinkerin' on them things. I kept all them old tubes and such when Nick passed and to this day, I find much relaxation re-buildin' sets as best as I can. The internet itself has been a boon to this habit, and several sites has some good history on the old sets like this one and this one here, which has a fine gallery of pictures.

2. I'd rather ride my horse Huston than drive a motor vehicle anywhere I go.

3. Ever time I travel with the Rodeo, I stop and visit as many used book stores as I can and buy old paperback western stories, by writers like Zane Grey, Phil Ketchum, Max Brand, Stewart E. White and many more. Once I read 'em, I give 'em to the Three-Rivers Regional Library.

4. No matter which cowboy hat I wear, I always stick five wooden matches in the hatband, which was a trick I picked up from a feller name of Bean Station. Saved my life once in a scrap I had with a pack of wolves when I was campin' off the Laramie River in 1982.

5. Although I love to play poker and craps, I will never set foot inside a casino in Nevada, because I am conviced the whole dang state is radioactive.

And by the way, iffin' anyone knows places I can buy spare parts fer a Philco, send me an email.

I got some chores to do, so I'll say adios.
--------------------

About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Ritual

2006-01-17T14:37:00.000-05:00

How.

Chief "tagged" by Concha to reveal five weird habits. Me no like this game. Not because me no like talking about self, but because Chief hates chain letters and other junk mail this game reminds him of. So, in honor of good friend Concha me will reveal some of Chief’s weirdness. But me no play by rules, and me no pass along. Ha!

Who to say what is weird? Who to say what is normal? You see, this game starts as friendly way to learn about people; but with it—as with many things in life—there are consequences. Me say: Are you ready for the consequences? What if you no like the consequences? We all know what happened to the cat...

Repercussions are inevitable, but should we solicit them when unnecessary. Why bother a turtle that moves slowly. Perhaps he likes his speed and does not wish to cross road faster. By helping him avoid dangerous road, you may be speeding him toward certain death or crippling by raccoon that awaits him on other side.

Life is chance, and we must carefully select our actions and what they generate. Chief might have written a beautiful peace about mid-winter, children, pets, or life on the range. But now he has been interrupted with the requested revealing of personal habits and his train of thought is gone. So, you get what you ask for and miss what you will never know.

"Deep," you say. "Chief you are so wise."

No, me say. Chief been smoking too many mushrooms.

But I digress...

Chief is—how to say—obsessive compulsive. Everything has its place and must be there. When things change, Chief not so comfortable. That why kitchen runs much smoother at ranch now. Chief is very organized. Concha appreciates this and recognizes it as strength; however, Daisy Dude not very organized. Chief would best describe Daisy as haphazard and oblivious to Chief’s sense of order. This... makes... Chief... crazy—but me no can show it; me Indian, and Indians are cool. So, when wigwam is a wreck, and Chief tired of cleaning—him lets it go and pretends it no bother him. But it like walking on sharp rocks, and makes me feel drunk. This will last a few days until me clean everything sparkly and start all over again.

Because of this obsession, Chief is also a creature of habit. Me have morning ritual, hygiene ritual, cooking and cleaning rituals, husband rituals, children rituals, glass box rituals, bed-time rituals, and sleeping rituals. Rarely do these vary, and the difference is always tiny. Change is inevitable and almost always for good; however, like many people: me no like it. Me find comfort in familiarity and pattern.

Me can sleep anywhere at any time. Daisy thinks me have narco-something. Me sometimes fall asleep on horse back (and if riding same horse with Daisy—me definitely going night-night). Daisy no understand this and him complains. Him always have hard time sleeping. Chief can sleep sitting up or lying down, in a chair, bed, or on the ground. It no matter—Chief can sleep there. Chief can also fall asleep instantly and never has trouble falling asleep. Chief a light switch that is on or off. Fortunately, his tent peg works the same way (Daisy no complain about this!).

In relation, Chief can tune you out. You can talk, talk, talk, and me no hear if me no want to. Chief has many thoughts in head and can balance them equally. If what you say weigh less than thoughts in Chief’s head, then me will continue with internal thoughts and probably not hear you even though I seem to be paying attention. This really drives Daisy crazy. But me mostly not do it on purpose. Since Chief was child, him process thoughts this way. It simply helped me collate thoughts and process information faster. Chief very sorry if book him reading outweighs your flower garden. Different strokes...

Lastly, Chief is dangerously optimistic and trusts people way too freely—thus, people can take advantage him. People who know me know this. Me believe almost anything anyone tells me. Chief will be your best friend always unless you put tomahawk in his back. Then, forget it. Rarely does anyone come off of Chief’s shit list; very trusting, yet very spiteful.

"Chief," you say: "Does this make you bi-polar?"

Me say: Not telling. You only asked for five.

Chief will say one last thing before me go make apple strudel: Me hate clichés (with a passion—ha!) but opposites do sometimes attract. And though I know we make each other crazy, Daisy and I love each other something powerful. And because of that love we learn to live with our eccentricities and—who knows—perhaps we learn from them. One thing I do know is that I wouldn’t want him to change one bit.

Now, I officially tag you to go and kiss someone you love.

Yes, dogs count.

Chief
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About the Writer
Chief Pocamanhole is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Hand and resident Chef.

The 5 Unnatural Habits of Concha Loca

2006-01-14T20:08:00.000-05:00

Well tarnation, I done been tagged with one o them crazy meme thangs. Joe Powell done shot me down with it, and I'm a guessin I oughta play along some. So I got to play by some derned rules and sech.

The first player of this game starts with the topic five weird habits of yourself, and people who get tagged need to write an entry about their five weird habits as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose the next five people to be tagged and link to their web journals. Don't forget to leave a comment in their blog or journal that says You have been tagged (assuming they take comments) and tell them to read yours.

(Coarse, Mr. Powell didn't bother leavin no notice on this here blog. He was bold as bull in heat and emailed me with the news.)

I shoot with my eyes closed (but I hit my mark 9 outa 10 times, so don't be thinkin nothin stupid).
With that said, I will shoot any television or radio on the ranch that is showin or playin Bill O'Reilly. A warnin to anyone plannin on a stay here at the Stinkhorn.
I only own and wear white cotton socks--I don't like no colored up socks. My feet sweat and then turn all blue or purple or pink or red when I wear colored socks.
I have to use my own toilet paper when using any outhouse that is used by any body t'other than myself.
I sing my chickens to sleep every night. I don't see this as unnatural, but the boys here on the ranch sure give me a time bout it.

So I pass this trouble on to my compadres here at the Stinkhorn, Johnny Rawhide and The Chief. Off the ranch, I'll point my gun at the right Reverend Gisher, Dave who is always away from home, and The Editor who waltzes over to the ranch now and then to share her troubles with me.

I'll go give 'em all the bad news now. Then I gotta go sing to my birds.

You all take care.
xoxoxoxo
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About the Writer
Concha Loca is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and resident Chicken Whisperer.

Fartin' Around With The Internet

2006-01-12T13:13:00.000-05:00

There's always more fun than you can pack in a hundred saddle bags on the Internet.

For instance, what happens when you take one of the net's more popular blogs and run it through a program called The Dialectizier - here's one example using Instapundit - but you can run your favorites through this program and entertain yourself for a few minutes at least.

Meanwhile here at the Ranch, we are all working to get on a normal schedule after a holiday season that was a busy as a three-legged mule in a plowin' contest. Winter always brings a need for repairs fer fences and roofs and the owlhoots from over at the Lazy Eye Ranch has been conductin' raids and plunderin' our supplies fer their own needs and we is all het up some over this. If it keeps up, we may have to take the law in our own hands and settle this.

More posts is on the way, so stay tuned.

But they is more chores to do here than any of us can count.
--------------------

About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Food, Games, Breaking Wind, and Other Entertainment

2006-01-04T00:05:00.000-05:00

How.

Chief here. Many good times have been had in past two weeks. Holidays spent with family—old and new—make things so much warmer this time of year.

On New Year's Day, Chief make big traditional meal of roasted turkey, black-eyed peas and cornbread, collard greens, and potatoes au gratin. Very tasty. After kitchen clean, Johnny, Concha, Daisy, and Chief return to our wigwam for parlor games while kids—Koko and Jacy—entertained themselves with many DVDs they received from man with bag (Cinderella, The Incredibles, Pee-Wee Herman's Christmas Special, The Incredible Adventures of Wallace and Gromit, March of the Penguins, The Wizard of Oz, and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to name a few). For some reason Santa was very generous this year and the children are especially grateful.

But me digress...

Chief, Daisy, Concha, and Johnny played Scrabble until sun was well over the silo; then we got the Rook cards out. Me happy to say that Concha and Chief taught Daisy and Johnny how to play cards. We broke out the fire water and much fun and good sportsmanship was had—even though Chief did get up and run around the table, whooping and flapping his wings when he shot the moon. Me guess Chief a little drunk and crazy-acting cause Johnny's eyes lit up like I was gonna scalp him. Concha and Daisy laughed so hard that Daisy broke the leg of chair he was leaning in and tumbled over backwards. This made Concha laugh so hard she snorted at one end and farted at the other. By now we all laughing, lying on floor and holding our sides. Koko and Jacy come running into room and scold us: "Be quiet!" they say. "We can't hear Willy Wonka!"

Anyway, Sunday was a very good day to start the year with.

This time of year, many find it customary to make list to declare best whatever. Chief also compelled to make list; however, Chief is fond of turning to past as many new things these days have no luster (this because Chief is getting older, and refuses to waste time on crap). There was a day when Chief would always finish a book no matter how bad it was. No more. Chief want to use every valuable minute reading (watching, listening) to good things, and not wasting time on crap. With that in mind, here are Chief's recommendations in no particular order:

Books
The best books Chief read in 2005 are

Back Where He Started by Jay Quinn (light, romantic, and southern)
My Life So Far by Jane Fonda (excellent nonfiction; Chief’s favorite—but haven’t read Carter’s book yet).
When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops by George Carlin (keen observation; masterful language. Carlin helps Chief speak better English).
Firelands by Michael Jensen(gay western, romance, horror—best of everything)
The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger (one of the funniest books Chief ever read)
The Shining by Stephen King (reread; very scary, very good)
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers (southern classic)
Mystery and Manners by Flannery O’Connor (reread; best book about writing
Sunset and Sawdust by Joe Lansdale (Lansdale is consistently entertaining)

Music
Not much music impressed Chief this year. But the new CDs me listen to most are:

Madonna: Confessions on a Dance Floor (see Chief get his groove on)
Foo Fighters: In Your Honor (favorite for horse riding with iPod)
Alice Cooper: Dirty Diamonds (Chief’s all-time favorite songwriter)

Movies
Chief and Daisy not venture far from ranch much these days, so many movies we no see until DVD. These are favorites from 2005:

Land of the Dead (daisy made Chief watch this and me really like)
The Jacket (still trying to figure this out)
Brokeback Mountain (classic)
Good Night and Good Luck (everyone should see this; people should learn from it)
Batman Begins (like reading comics again; make Chief feel like papoose)

Movies Chief really want to see, but have not are:
Capote, King Kong, The Constant Gardener, Crash, A History of Violence, Mysterious Skin, Oldboy, Walk the Line, Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit, Corpse Bride, Syriana

Glass Box
And finally, these are glass box programs that Chief watched most this year:

"Lost" (this show remind Chief of his favorite show " The X-Files")
"Property Ladder" (Daisy and Chief watch this for educational purposes; very entertaining, very informative)
"Daily Show" (VERY funny—and Daisy has a crush on Jon Stewart)
"Weeds" (most original of 2005)
"Survivor" (comfort food)

As you see, many of these are not from year 2005—but they are what Chief enjoyed in 2005 and this is Chief's list. Those that no like can go piss in windstorm. Chief would discuss many of these in more detail, but sun is rising and me must go make breakfast. Maybe Chief will discuss some in future. If you have questions just ask—Chief love talking popular entertainment.

For now, Chief must leave though. These days are cold and long, but Spring is around the bend. Stay warm and exercise your mind.

Chief
--------------------

About the Writer
Chief Pocamanhole is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Hand and resident Chef.

Back at the Stinkhorn: Concha Returns

2005-12-28T02:00:00.000-05:00

It's quiet here on the ranch. Yup, quiet. 'Cept for the occasional grumble of the old gas heater firin' on and off from the basement. That ol' monster of a heater keeps us ranchers warm from the cold outside--cold is 10 degrees and covered in a fine and heavy blanket of snow with a high flyin' wind that whistles like a freight train. I am the only one awake in the ranch house. Sittin' here in my red longjohns and fuzzy socks, sippin' on a hot buttered rum.

I sent the Chief outa the kitchen 'bout 2 hours ago where we were fixin' some vittles to serve for meals tomorrow. I then tramped through the 4-foot o' snow, went to look in on my birds to make sure the heater was workin' properly. Since I was out there, I did a walk of the ranch's livin' area, admirin' Johnny's handiwork with all them twinklin' lights. Then I went to the power box where he got em all powered in and turned them off fer the evenin. Then all was dark 'cept fer the stars and the wanin' moon turnin everthing the color of yesterday. The snow and the winter moon and the twinklin lights is about the only thing I like 'bout this time o' year.

As some of ya know, I don't celebrate Christmas, 'cept when it comes to children who I might be friendly with at the time. I like the big ol' tree sittin' close by me, the scent o' pine, all the gingerbread cookies the Chief made up to decorate the tree, the long string o' popcorn and cranberries and the constructionn paper-loop garland the kids and me made up. They is all pretty and sweet and fine to look at. But come Christmas day, I took out my horse, Pandora, for a slow ride along the ranch proper, waitin' 'til all the gift openin' was over.Everbodyy here on the Stinkhorn knows not to get me nothin' ('ceptin the kids, who is allowed to make me a present if they wish--I knitted them up some scarves and hats and mittens outa some fine wool yarn I procured while overseas) cause I don't give out nothin.

Some think I'm just an old Scrooge, but those who really know me are understandin' o' my feelins. I don't take to all this craziness that makes this time o' year so difficult fer so many. The pressure is like a boulder fallin' on yer foot: you is forced into it and stuck in a hurtin place forced to hold a smile on yer face. And many of you may like drivin back and forth to the mall, trying to find perfect presents for everbody you know, whether ya like 'em much or not. I don't. I don't like bein' told I have to be happy and cheerful if I ain't. I always give presents to people I love when I can. I always do good when I can, and I don't see why I have to center all that good stuff just at one point in the year fer a way a believin that I don't believe. Don't seem fair if ya ask me. Not fair nor right.

I lit a big ol' bonfire on the Solstice, burnt some herbs, said some blessins, and settled into the cold. I didn't make nobody on the ranch do this with me (although a few did, includin' Jenny Five-Hats, who is the biggest Christmas lover of all). I don't stop no one from havin' their fun, but I ain't participatin' in it. And that's what I love 'bout the Stinkhorn. On Christmas mornin', when I put on all my heavy winter ridin' togs, no one said nothin' 'bout it, nor gave me a funny look. And when I got back to the ranch house, covered in a shiny layer o' ice and frost, there was Chief waitin' with some hot chocolate, and Johnny with a bottle o' somethin' to spice it up. And Daisy regaleded us all with some funny story 'bout a trip he made recently, and the tots was a playin' with all their goodies, and then Chief and I went into the kitchen to pack up the feast which we here at the Stinkhorn don't eat ourselves, but serve up to the needy folks in town.

That's my doin', and Chief has made the whole tradition all the easier and tastier. And it's a "winter" feast, 'cause no matter if you is Christian or Jewish, no matter if youins celebrate somethin or nothin, it's winter and it's cold and a good meal is a good meal. And we will do this ever day up to New Year's Eve Day, when Chief promises all the folks at the ranch a fine ol' meal to celebrate the new calendar year. And Johnny promises a fire work show in the cold night air. And Jenny Five-Hats will sing us songs and play her guitar, and we will countdown the end of this year, and some'll make promises 'bout the next one comin.

Then we'll be in January. Sweet January when I don't have no expectations put on me by folks that don't even know me. We all want to start off clean like the snow I see out the big window here in parlor. We ain't none of us ever gonna be that clean, but I don't hold that 'gainst nobody. Shame some people in this here world don't feel the same way 'bout me.

So, here I am, back at the Stinkhorn. Gotta get up early, feed the birds then get the wagons loaded up with food to haul into town.

Hope you had a fine holiday, how ever you celebrate, or if you, like me, choose not to. Keep your longjohns on and stay warm.

Hugs and Kisses
Concha
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About the Writer
Concha Loca is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and resident Chicken Whisperer.

Makin' Christmas at the Ranch, Part Two

2005-12-23T09:08:00.000-05:00

As promised, this here is Part Two of the Christmas events here at the Ranch.

As I said, I was headed up into the further reaches of the barn to locate whatever battered boxes of Christmas ornaments I might find - some of which I is sure has been tucked away since the Ranch itself began. Now it is true the Oklahoma Lester and Chicago Bunyan, two of the old-timers here at the Ranch, had offered to help and even gave me some advice on where such items might be found, I took it on as my own chore though was sure to pay heed to much of what they told me.

"I know I whittled a fine little snow-feller back in 1950-something that's still around and you'd best find it," said Lester. 'Course Chicago Bunyan told Lester he was dumb as a post to think some mouse hadn't done et it all up by now and I had to stop 'em both from getting into a dust-up over it. Christmas and Ranches has built-in tensions. A few swigs of Gentlemen Jim soothed em and I kept the rest of the bottle 'cause it were a gift from an old friend name of Budd Hanzo, who knew I been havin' some women trouble. (But that's a whole 'nuther tale.)

I ain't no Hard-hearted Hank, nor am I a Weepy William - but to go a' huntin' fer Christmas items as the aromas of all the bakin' hams (which the Chief made special for Indiana George who ain't never et one vegetable his whole life) and the cornbread and cookies all cookin' up and comin' from the kitchen as the Chief works at conjurin' all manner of holiday vittles - well, let's just say the mood overall was most fine. The air was thick with memory.

Most ever ornament and decoration whihch had survived in the loft which I could locate tended toward the homemade variety, which is only fittin' as most all of us here at the Ranch place a higher value on what we can create on our own. I guess it was my first year here when someone, no idea who really, crafted some wreaths fer the front doors of the Main House, Bunkhouse and barn with a stretch of coiled rope, some red and green ribbon and a hunk of broken wood what had been seared with a brandin' iron what read "Happy Christmas". I found two of 'em and I'll have to make a new one fer the barn I guess. 'Course I could allow fer old Oklahoma Lester and Chicago B. to make a new one and keep their fussin' in check.

I also found three boxes of old beat up boots what had been stuck down inside some old felt-made Christmas stockings and all kinds of names - some I knew and some I didn't - labelling each one of 'em. I sure never heard tell of New Jersey Nathan Meadows 'afore, but I aim to hang it up just so's he knows he is remembered.

They was also a somewhat mildewed box which I almost overlooked as it seemed mostly full of hay, but underneath was a whole cache of Santa Claus shapes and images of all kinds. They was some made of corn husks and cotton beards, and one what looked like a boot that had been stitched up with some o' them googly-shakey-eyes and a Santa hat made outta some old pair of long-handles. It looked a little scary, but again, since it was made by someone here at the Ranch, I reckon we ought to haul it out too. I also found a carved up bit of plywood that had three Santas on it, and rather than look like old Saint Nick, they had the faces of three of the most famous Stinkhorn Riders I ever heard of - Dancing Dan the Cajun, Whistlin' Wilkesboro and Rio Gonzales -- they is legend here not only fer helpin' to build the corral but also fer heapin' up a wagon with wooden toys and such and drivin' fer miles on Christmas Eve to leave toys fer youngins in seven counties.

One box had no real items inside it anymore - just a large collection of broken shards and shiny pieces of what had once been ornaments of all kinds. All silvery and golden and some other colors I could not identify, they reminded me of a person's memory as age tears time to shreds -- fragmented, torn, incomplete and dim reflections of what was once whole. I decided to leave it put, and use it only to hold any other decorations what might end up broken by this season's end. At least they can all be shattered together.

As for lights and such, well, they was sure strands of electrical wires and stubs of what might have been lights, broken plugs and bulbs -- nothing I would want to apply actual electrical power for.

As much as I dreaded it, I knew I was gonna have to head into town and one of them so-called discount stores where a feller is like to pay ten dollars for four foot of lights. My horse Huston was not interested in making the trip - he looked at me as I neared his stall and made a sound more like Nooooo than a Neigh.

Biloxi John has a Chevy truck made about 1967 and held together by luck and rust which I was allowed to take, as long as he got to go with me, as he said his new girlfriend, Julie Tulips wanted some fancy smellin' bath oils, he said. I ain't quite sure what oil was good fer any kind of bathin' so off we went. But we never made it into town.

We passed this house where they was a big rental van in the yard and Biloxi yelled to stop and had the door open even afore I could full stop the Chevy. Turns out it was his friend Kevin Barlow, whose wife passed back in summer and Kevin was leavin' the old place behind, headed to his son's house out in Pueblo, Colorado. Biloxi remembered that the Barlow place used to be lit up like an airport during the holidays and so he stopped and asked Kevin what was to come of all them lights.

"I left em over in the shed," Kevin said. "Ain't got no interest in hauling Christmas memories to Pueblo. Yer welcome to take em."

Long story short, we got all manner of lights, even some of them so-called 'rope lights', though in honesty they is more lights than rope. But we dang near filled the truck with all that we found. Didn't even get to say a proper thanks to Kevin as he was done gone and drove away afore we knew it.

So back at the Ranch, me and Biloxi got us a couple of ladders and a couple of staple guns and commenced to tackin' lights along the edge of ever roof and rail we could find.
Biloxi had the idea of puttin' some bright green flashin' lights around Concha's chicken coop and so we did - and then he hauled this here funny lookin' four-footed thing he called a reindeer outta the back of the truck but I made him haul that up to the barn. Looked to me more like a deer skeleton and gave me the frights.

So here at last, with a few days to go before the 25th and at night time the Ranch glows and twinkles like a little piece of a Las Vegas casino has fallen from heaven.

As fer me, I may follow the path of them trio of old Ranch cowboys from way back when and haul some toys and such to the little youngins hereabouts on Christmas Eve. Seems like children delight it in all a site more than most.

It started snowin' good as evenin' rolled around, and the Chief and Concha came out of the kitchen with a couple of mugs of hot chocolate and flavored with what they said was something called a "liqueur" which i could hardly ponder meanin' from, but it sure tasted good. The whole ranch looked like one o' them picture postcards and we all decided it weren't half bad lookin'.

I ain't sure who did one thing, as no one would own up to it, but ever saddle and bridle had a couple of golden bells and ribbon tied to 'em. And all through last night in the quiet fall of the snow, all of us could hear faint-like across the Ranch was the sound of them little bells. Makes fer a nice holiday.

So from all of us here to the Ranch to all of ya'll, we wishes ya'll a Merry Christmas and good fortune for a new year. I think I'll have me some more of that hot chocolate and that fancy liqueur.
--------------------

About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Makin' Christmas At the Ranch, Part One

2005-12-22T13:23:00.000-05:00

I ain't exactly sure how it fell to me to be the one what got to string up Christmas lights across the Main House here at the Stinkhorn Ranch, and across the rail fences of the corral and find the tattered remains of a couple of old cardboard boxes which was alleged to be the last place any or all of the old Rodeo Christmas decorations was knowed to be. Me and electricity ain't exactly of the same cloth.

Still, I do what I can here to the Ranch to help out and Concha said I was the one to fetch 'em up, so I set about doin' it. Odd thing is, once a feller sets to a chore, he is prone to keep at it until the chore is done, even if the chore can somewhat chafe a feller.

Some years back, afore I hit the Ranch, you was more like as not as to find me and my horse Huston takin' our ease from the bitter wind of winter and drifts of snow up along the Calf Killer Mountain, where they was this cave that offered plenty o' room and nary any critters to compete with fer housin'. I'd provide a ripe and juicy apple fer Huston and he'd provide me with ... well, just companionship - somethin' most folks get to seekin' this time of year. Once way back in time when I was just a sapling, and livin' with my pa and ma over on Forgotten Stone Plateau, we'd have us a decorated tree and a handful of bright packages fer each other and maybe a steamin' hot table of good grub and that was Christmas and I found it to be a Horn of Plenty.

I recall once pa and me went out travelin' the edges of the Forgotten Stone in a quest fer us a nice lookin' pine to fetch home to be decorated with popcorn strings and ribbon and paper ornaments ma had made over the course of time. They weren't no TV to watch, nor any radio or record players stacked up with Christmas carols or ballads or none such at all. Pa would take the guitar outten the back of his room, and he'd commence to strummin' whatever carol-like tunes he could recall, though it seems they all kinda started the same way but then he'd just kinda strum away findin' cheerful and pleasin' notes that was mighty easy on the ears. Guess he just made it all up but fer us and the two younger toddlers at the house and it all seemed like we was a' joinin' in on all the thoughts of Peace and Goodwill toward others.

Well anyway, it had snowed fer a few days by the time pa and I went to fetch us a tree, and the snow banked up against my waist as I attempted to follow the steps left in the snow by pa, where the snow barely came to his boot-tops. He kept a' askiin' me iffin I was taking a chill, but I said no, even though it felt like my face was a block of ice and I had no idea if my toes had done broke off in tiny frozen pieces. This was a quest we was on and I wouldn't about to turn tail and head home and leave pa to fetch a tree by his lonesome.

After an hour or so, we came to a high slope overlookin' a small stand of trees, all lined up like little green soldiers wearin' snow on their shoulders. Happy to know these here might do and I could go back and thaw my frozen parts in front of a roarin' fire, well, I headed down that slope in one hell of a hurry. Didn't take but a second to start tumblin' ass over heels down that slope. Now, at the bottom of the hill, just circlin' the stand of trees was a dang hedge-fence of sticker-bushes, somewhat dried in the winter time, but loaded with enough sharp points and branches to snag a herd of horses. In an instant, I was wedged deep inside them bushes, plumb caught up upside down and hanging on the razor sharp barbs of them stickers. I could feel them dang things jabbed into my flesh through all my winter garb and the wind whipped around so I could swear my blood was freezin' solid along my arms and legs and especially hurtful was the ones what had stuck into my youngish face.

Pa had to take the ax he was totin' to knock away the dried but deadly branches of the sticker bush 'til he could reach my upside-down body and he says, "Hang on, I'll have you out in a moment, but it's gonna hurt to get you free some." He was right. In a moment I was on my own frozen feet, tenderly grasping at the winter-hardened barbs to draw 'em out and away from my flesh. Probably was a good thing it were so cold out, else I bet I would seeped blood for hours from a few hundred holes.

Pa then said to just stay put fer a minute and with just a stroke or two of the ax he chopped free a fine full pine about four feet tall that seemed like a perfect-shaped picture of a Christmas tree.

We trudged back to the wagon and then made our way home once pa had me wrapped up in a big old blanket that had been servin' as out seat cushions on the way to fetch that tree. I remember bein' mighty proud of that there tree which had tried to kill me and was now a sight of much beauty sittin' near the table and shelterin' what seemed to be the biggest stack of presents I ever saw. 'Course I had scabbed up so bad, I kinda looked like a bowl of cranberries, but it all made me aware that even a small amount of Christmas cheer arrives only with a bit of sacrifice.

Ok, now this here is the end of part one of the story about Christmas at the Ranch and I'll finish up my tale for ya'll tomorrow. Right now, I gotta get back to some chores. But don't fret - they's more story on the way.
--------------------

About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Holidays and Heroes

2005-12-19T19:38:00.000-05:00

How.

Chief is pissed off because me not want to dignify this subject by acknowledging it. But since to address it, it must be acknowledged—me have no choice.

"Happy Holidays" is not new phrase. It not meant to be offensive to people of any background. It is a salutation like "Merry Christmas," "Happy Chanukah," "Aloha," "Buenos dias," "Howdy," and "Bite me." This unwarranted hostility toward folks using seasonal greetings is juvenile, petty, and ignorant... and Chief is plenty pissed.

Chief's life-pardner, Daisy Dude, explains that this whole thing is smoke signals to take focus off Iraq war, presidential (lack of) approval polls, and the fact that this country has not just been veering in wrong direction, but completely missed the turn and gone galloping off the cliff. Are Americans really this naïve? Chief not want to believe so, but events transpired in last five years prove otherwise.

"Happy Holidays" is a phrase that has been with us commercially for more than sixty years and socially for who knows how long. The word "holiday" comes from root words "holy day," and should not offend anyone—Christian or otherwise—because holy day can be applied to any religion. If people could unruffle their feathers long enough to ponder human language and its derivatives, they should be more offended by fact that Columbus and groundhogs are considered holy; but folks no have time for that because they are too busy watching "Supernanny," eating Big Macs, and taking out home equity loans to fuel their Hummers.

Chief not offended when wished "Happy Chanukah" by Jewish friends. Chief's African friends not offended when him say "Merry Christmas" to them. So, why so many Christians in uproar by phrase "Happy Holidays?"

This country needs to get laid!

Which bring me to another of Chief's favorite topics. No, not nookie—though Chief loves warm bed/cold night holiday nookie (hmm, is that holy too?). Chief talking 'bout the death of American archetypes.

America much too young to have many archetypes, but conceited and misguided enough to cling to theirs as if holy3so far enough as to put a Texan in White House to kick ass and take names3however, it educated folk that know this concept is just as hollow as the literary, philosophical, and religious archetypes we put on pedestals to represent our beliefs, ideals, etc.

Archetypes are welcome because they bring comfort with familiarity. Their presence make us feel safe because they are known to us. This technique used in many outlets including religion, literature, film and even standup comedy (Daisy Dude think Carrot Top funny. Me... I do not understand). Archetypes have been passed down since the cave drawings of mythical warriors, and the way humans identify and relate to them seem almost genetically inherent. But in reality, the only true archetype of any culture is that we're all human—thus, we're all fallible.

Brokeback Mountain is beautiful movie based on heartbreaking story—and completely deconstructs the myth of the American cowboy. Chief was much impressed that Larry McMurtry—author of such iconic pieces as Lonesome Dove and Hud—sought to write screenplay for a movie that turns the cowboy mythos upside down.

Annie Proulx—author of the Pulitzer prize-winning, The Shipping News—published “Brokeback Mountain” in the New Yorker several years ago and—like McMurtry—has understanding that love has no boundaries. Also, that homosexuality was just as prominent among Marlboro Men as it is now and was in ancient times—people were just less aware in sparse populations.

Chief has been watching for release of this film with much anticipation. Two weeks ago, it only show in New York, L.A., and San Francisco. Now, it only in big cities, and Chief and Daisy feared it would never reach Stinkhorn Ranch. So, we saddled up and went to Bethesda, Maryland, to see movie last night (and spend a brief pre-Christmas with distant friends and family). The movie was on three screens and all showings sold out before the first rolled (thank goodness for online ticket-purchasing). Daisy and Chief were wide-eyed watching Ennis and Jack’s twenty year relationship unfurl tenderly and comically, yet slowly build to a tragic climax. There not many dry eyes in theater when movie over—and I’m sure that many others, like Daisy and Chief, talked until moon was high about the film. Thanks to Concha and Johnny for keeping the kids.

So, cowboys are humans too—as are gladiators, Casanovas, conquerors, and patriots. No one deserves to be iconized, and yet for some reason we crave heroes to adore. We should know by now that the heroes are within ourselves. And as my granddad said: "Everyone wipes their butt before flushing."

If that doesn’t humble you, I don't know what does.

Happy Holidays!

Chief
--------------------

About the Writer
Chief Pocamanhole is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Hand and resident Chef.

iPod on the Range

2005-12-13T13:56:00.000-05:00

How.

Christmas is here. Season of thanks is past; season of giving is upon us. Chief has been away with friend, Bono, on charity drive for children of Africa. We raise one hundred million dollars for toys for children. Chief bake many pies to help feed the continent. Bono say: let’s give them iPods. Me say, no—they have no computers. Him say: Let’s give them X-boxes. Me say, no—many have no electricity. Him say: Let’s give them Tivo. Me say: you go sing Vertigo. Make money. Me handle gifts for children.

Bono good friend. Him have good heart. But him a little fucked up from too much reefer in younger years.

Every year Chief gives to many who are less fortunate than us. That’s a lot of gifts, but me do what me can. Me bake many sweets, make hand-carved toys and dolls, and buy many used books for children. Nothing compares to the feeling you get making a child smile. It fills Chief’s heart to bring joy to a little one with so little.

American children are spoiled—my own included. It is frustrating, but not their fault. They were raised in a culture of TV and advertising. Our children were taught to want the newest things immediately, as if vital for survival. This bad because children grow up to be adults who crave same thing. It is an addiction, this consumerism—a malady that exists predominantly in America, but is spreading into other countries as well.

I know many parents who prevent their children from watching too much television; this not always because of content, but because of advertising. Even watching a show as stupid and harmless as “American Idol,” lends itself to commercials for iPods and cell phones and other frivolous adult-toys that target children. And if that not bad enough, there are also many commercials for such wholesome shows as “The O.C.,”

“Nanny 911,” “Prison Break,” “Trading Spouses,” and “Cops.”

But Chief, you say—surely, you are not promoting censorship. Me say: Chief is not advocator for censorship; Chief and Daisy Dude enjoy adult shows. But it is our job—as well as other parents—to monitor what our children watch; and this can be difficult if you let it. We find select shows, and select viewing times work best. And we’re always present for answering cryptic questions like “Daddy, what are tampons?”

Your children do not need iPods—they will lose them! They lose gloves, coats, money, shoes, socks, food, toys, and would probably lose their hair if it wasn’t attached (and in one case Jacy did; using his Daddy Daisy’s beard trimmer he gave himself a very fashionable reverse mohawk). Most adults cannot keep up with all of the sparkly new toys available—and we expect children to?

Also, they don’t need them. They can listen to music you approve at home. When they are on the bus they can read, and should be reading or socializing with their friends—not bouncing epileptically and shouting “Hollaback Girl” with headphones on (Chief HATES that song).

So, you say: Chief, what do we give our children for Christmas, Kwanza, Chanukah, and Festivus? Chief say: You decide; it hard enough for me to figure out what to get Koko and Jacy. As soon as other parents give in and buy cell phones and iPods, then your child immediately wants one. So, me usually get them one thing they really want, and then lots of things Chief wants them to have—like books, creative toys, and crafts.

Why are we a society that associates image with possessions? The gifts we are born with—innocence, honesty, integrity—erode with time because of our addiction to the next new thing. We must carefully instill retention of these values with our children and hone them to be responsible human beings in spite of all these unnecessary materials. We must adapt and co-exist with this nonsense, much like we always have; it is our responsibility to find healthy ways of introducing toys—as well as topics—into our children’s lives.

So, now Chief must get busy. Are you going Christmas shopping, Chief?—you say. Me say: No, me do all that in November. What did you get Koko, Jacy, and Daisy?—you say. Me say: Light Brite for Jacy; Easy Bake Oven for Koko, and many books and music for Daisy—and many cookies and cakes for all.

Is that all?—you say, suspiciously. Me say: No, there is Santa Claus.

What is Santa bringing your family?—you say, prying.

Me say: an iPod, Xbox 360, and Tivo.

Me say no more.
--------------------

About the Writer
Chief Pocamanhole is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Hand and resident Chef.

Dog Days In December

2005-12-08T22:36:00.000-05:00

From The Devil's Dictionary:

DOG, n.: A kind of additional or subsidiary Deity designed to catch the overflow and surplus of the world's worship. This Divine Being in some of his smaller and silkier incarnations takes, in the affection of Woman, the place to which there is no human male aspirant. The Dog is a survival -- an anachronism. He toils not, neither does he spin, yet Solomon in all his glory never lay upon a door-mat all day long, sun-soaked and fly-fed and fat, while his master worked for the means wherewith to purchase the idle wag of the Solomonic tail, seasoned with a look of tolerant recognition

So I have often pondered on the Dog and his life amongst the humans, and when a friend recently reminded me of the words used to define him in "The Devils Dictionary," well I thought it was time to talk about 'em here.

I figger the animal we now refer to as Man's Best Friend started out much different - lurkin' outside the range of the fire's light and the warmth and the food, hopin' fer some scraps and taggin' along at some distance as folks traveled from place to place and home to home. The Dog was likely the receiver of some hostilities fer a while, dodgin' rocks hurled in annoyance, fired upon from the home 'cause he got too close.

Likely one day, a youngin thought the Dog looked cute, or maybe the youngin just got curious about the creature Who Never Went Away and Never Got Too Close. So maybe theys had a meetin' of some mutual fashion and fascination. I figger too, the first meetin' most likely didn't go well - Dog got spooked and ran or spooked and bit the youngin and years may have passed afore they tendered such affections again. Humans is an experimental creature, testin' the edges and boundaries and never much to accept a harsh line, always lookin' to soften it.

Dogs is persistent too, perhaps that's why we ended up lettin' 'em in and near the home and the fire and the food. As Survivors, we share some traits and sympathies. Hell, we even have the concept of "underdog" as some kind of hero for humanity. If nothin' else, that concept shows how humans and Dogs has shared much over the eons of time. I'm sure the first time some human made a small bowl or dish fer special usage by the Dog, someone in the house kinda went off about what a stupid idea that was - but even a sourpuss, owlhoot human appreciates charity even if they don't understand it, so we allowed fer the Dog dish.

I see how humans today spend much time and money on their pets, as we now call 'em. The Dog and the Cat has curled up in our laps, with the promise of wags and purrs and loyalties to come. A horse won't curl up on you nor purr and often forgets some of loyalty - yet will turn in a hard day's work if cajoled properly. Concha has made her chickens do Shakespeare and such, again, much work involved.

But we don't require the Dog to work no more. Nope, though some still use 'em to great advantage whilst out huntin' other lifeforms. The Dog always has the way of makin' the Master feel like the Master has made a good decision. It's not that I think the Dog has bellied over fer the Master, so much as understood the Master's needs. Knows how to make 'em feel like havin' a Dog close to hand is a fine idea. I admire that. There's a mind at work in a Dog and a Will to succeed. It has not come without cost, of course, for the Dog - it has allowed itself to be bred into the oddest shapes and configurations of fur and paw, bred to serve some single purpose, even bred to just be a display item at some high-dollar "show." It's like some Dogs take the heat and the fire so's the mass number of Dogs can curl up by the fire and eat like Kings.

Now I hear tell in some parts of the world, humans took to eatin' Dog and still devour the creature. Can't imagine that tastin' much good, but Hunger is a fierce motivator. Yet, I can almost see a Dog in my mind's eye sidlin' up next to a human and indicatin' that a Horse or a Chicken would taste better. And even imply the Dog would be willin' to help eat 'em if necessary.

I has had much pleasure over my life thanks to the companionship of a Dog, well, more than one as they is prone to shuffle off to Death's Doorway quite quickly due to cars and cruelties of one kind or another.

I ain't real sure if they are part of our better nature or we are part of theirs.

Well, hell, here I am philosophyin' again. And all this work ahead tomorrow.
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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Links to Ponder

2005-12-06T12:19:00.000-05:00

Ya ever think when you on purpose or accidental find yourself listening to Rush Limbaugh that people actually like and believe what he says? I think the boy is like an unemployed Rodeo Clown - he has to make up the bull he has to taunt.
Then t'other day I got sent a link to this here song makin' fun of him Why not rip into a chorus yourself of this here tune? I betcha ya start hummin' it as ya do yer daily chores. It makes a mockery of a mockery -- which is prolly some kind of new math.

Another slice of American pie I has grown sick of is this comedian Larry The Cable Guy, who got hisself ripped up pretty good by another comedian, David Cross. Read about that here.

And since this is a link-filled post, here's another one -- after all, any list that contains comparisons of Santa Claus, Lex Luthor, Scrooge McDuck and Jed Clampett is worth a pause. So you'll find 'em in the Forbes Fictional 15.

Well, I got shovel-duty in the barn. Adios.
--------------------

About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Word Wars

2005-11-30T12:59:00.000-05:00

Seems them owlhoots and high sheriffs up in the nation's capital is havin' some fits and woes over words to use when talkin' about the war over in that desert country, what has been goin' on fer the last few years.

Now ya gotta understand that words gets parsed more by politicians than any creature outside of a prescription drugmaker bisiness. Like them commercials what says nothin' about what they's sellin' cause they is a mite fearful someone might actually understand 'em. Same goes fer the politicians.

T'other day, the high sheriff at the Defense Department, name of Rumsfeld, has had what he called an "epiphany", which is a high-dollar word fer "mistake". He said he pondered on it some over the weekend and decided that the word "insurgents" weren't fit fer the mess, er, make that the war in Iraq. Instead, he says the folks shootin' back at our troops and other Iraqis and blowin' stuff up should be called "enemies of the legitimate Iraqi government."

He has also had hisself a quandry afore when it comes to words, feudin' over words like "quagmire" and "slog".

Today, the President hisself also had some tussles jes' tryin' to say what it was he wanted to say. He made comments about the now-unacceptable word "insurgents" but then went on to lump them folks a' shototin' at everbody not on the U.S. side of things as "Rejectionists", "Saddamists and former regime loyalists", and "terrorists affiliated with or inspired by" them Al-Killer folk. I got mighty confused jes' readin' about it all, so I guess I can't fault the Powers That Be fer havin' tough time figgerin' out what to do and when to do it and how to make it (whatever IT is) and be done.

Them politicians all seem real positive that it'll all work out in the wash. Which leads me to ponder the word "positive." I like the way it is defined by Ambrose Bierce:

POSITIVE, adj.: To be mistaken at the top of one's voice.

Oh yeah, afore I go here, ya'll been askin' fer the whereabouts of Concha Loca and I am under some bona-fide orders to not say to much. You may recall she has been a sweatin' and workin' on her all-chicken production of "Romeo and Juliet" and the good news is they is all on tour. I can't say much else, seein' as how some high-falutin' Hollywood types has been seen lurkin' about the Concha Loca All-Chicken Shakespeare Tour Bus and they is some fear of her ideas gettin' stole. She says to say "howdy" and she'll have plenty of tales of the Tour to share as soon as security allows.

Well, I got some chores to get to.
--------------------

About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

The World Is Too Much With Us

2005-11-22T01:53:00.000-05:00

The World is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn,-
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

—William Wordsworth, 1806

How.

Many bad things happening everywhere. But now is time to give thanks for good. It sometimes difficult to lay to rest thoughts and images of bad things and this can lead to feelings of despair and helplessness—but we must, even if temporarily. We must take solace that we are nurturing new generation and must lead by example. So, turn down glass boxes, turn away from newspapers, and concentrate on who you are, why you are here, what got you here, where you are going, and who you owe thanks to for such a blessed life.

Chief's friend, Johnny Rawhide, did this recently and told you about it in his last entry. He may not have given you all of the personal details, but he did inform you of how he liked to clear his head and become attuned with nature. This is splendid way to reflect on personal journey and dismiss crude and careless actions of those in which you have no control.

Chief loves poetry. Chief can always disappear into a dusty text of English Romantics and find truths that still hold today. This a form of meditation for me, and a chance to flush out mental impurities, residual negative energy, bad karma, etc. Like Johnny, romantics knew that nature was a powerful force and that if we ever needed to be humbled, we should just contemplate the world’s overwhelming magnificence. If those with lofty egos would practice this, many would be spared their futile aggressions.

The human race is arrogant and self-indulgent—believing that our actions could actually destroy the earth. Destroying each other is possible and likely inevitable; however, to think we humans could alter the evolution of this planet is egotistical. The earth was here millions of years before us and will be here millions of years after we have gone. And should we blemish its surface with minor scars it will return again, glorious and beautiful. So, Chief is thankful for the earth and the abundance of gifts it bestows on us every day.

Chief also thankful for family and friends, for whom life would be less cherished without. Me thankful for my husband, Daisy Dude, and our children, Koko and Jacy—who are no end of joy for me. It is for them that Chief lifts his head every morning and smiles. Me also thankful for Concha and Johnny who provided shelter for us when we had nothing, and adopted us into their family with such genuine enthusiasm, making us feel welcome.

And lastly, Chief thankful for the Creator. Though He is called by many names, He is really but one to us all. Me thankful that not only with this earth, and our family and friends, He still continues to bless us with gifts of literature, laughter, learning, and love. These are things that are important to Chief and color his world with vivid detail.

And there you have it. Giving thanks is brief and helps us to realize that important things in life are few. Paring down the layers of a lifetime and finding the core—the essential reason for being—is cleansing, rejuvenating, and educational. Some people pay much money to reach this truth, but the answer can be found in what surrounds you—you just have to pay attention.

Chief.

--------------------

About the Writer
Chief Pocamanhole is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Hand and resident Chef.

Out By The Campfire Again

2005-11-17T09:02:00.000-05:00

Howdy.

I did me a bit of campin' here over the last few days. Gettin' out of cities and town and away from all the rushin' people is like clearin' out the smoke in yer soul. Took some blankets, saddled Houston up, and made sure to take me some coffee and some bacon and a cigar or two and some grain fer Houston. When you get out there, you learn that simple is the best recipe. The fast pace of Time itself and the illusions we coat over it can fog a feller's thinkin'.

I figgered a long time ago I had me my own path to walk, and knew fer sure it was a far piece from the rest of this grand ol' U.S. of A. I am particular aware of the Freedom we have here, opposed to much of the world, where they hack off yer limbs fer dressin' one way or 'tother, torch you and slam you into some moldy forgotten crossbar hotel jes' fer speakin' yer mind.

When I was a youngin, I read a speech by a feller name of Theodore Sturgeon, who wrote about spaceships and such, and Sturgeon said "90 percent of everything is bullshit." As I have ambled on this here path, bein' fortunate enough to live and learn, I think that maybe that percentage has hiked up on us all. Hell, we may be past 95 percent.

The moon was high and bright last weekend, almost like daylight, as I leant near the campfire, watchin' sparks chase one another and then disappear. No TV, no radio, just the wind slippin' through the trees and the sound of Houston makin' an occasional stomp or huffin' his breath hard like he is wonderin' why we are out in the cold and is gettin' impatient with me fer dawdlin' about and jes' lookin' at the sky.

And I started ponderin' on a thought that too many Americans and too many folk all over the world have somehow thought the lie was better than the simple truths. Seems like the Fake, the shoddy imitations of Life what tumbles outta yer TV ever ten minutes, and rubs off black on yer fingers from newspapers and magazines, the endless stacks of new and improved brand name bargains at yer local Wal-Mart or Gourmet Market which stretch from the store and onto the Internet and as fer as the eye can see, and all the black, bilious, bloated festerin' lies of folk who love government and money and fame and all manner of pretend importance -- hellfire, it ought to make any normal, sensible human sick down in the pit of his or her stomach. I guess we all need some illusion or myth to stop us from tremblin' in fear or to cling to like a tree limb floatin' past a drowin' feller caught up in the rapids. So we get used to the Fake, like an ornery blood-relation who overstays his welcome in yer home and don't do squat to keep yer home in order.

We get all surrounded with stuff, hopin' it will bring somethin' akin to satisfaction. That's why I like keepin' things simple. Folks get to chasin their own tails in a rat race, and pretty soon they's rats everwhere and madness and wild pursuit of somethin' that don't even exist. Seems the more you swallow all the other lies, the more lies of your own weigh you down like some kinda drownin' stone.

Some hot coffee, a warm fire, a cigar I has at my leisure all out under the eternal, boundless stars .... I gotta say that gives a satisfaction and a happiness the world has overlooked. I figger there's more simple, honest real happiness gets shoved aside fer the thunderin' herds of consumerism than most of us ever know.

Well, thats about it fer now. Just wanted to jaw a little, maybe get ya step away from all the noise and falseness fer a bit. Might make ya feel better 'n ya might know. I got a heap of chores this mornin'.

Vaya con dios, amigo.
--------------------

About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Shadows in Smoke

2005-11-14T15:30:00.000-05:00

Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart. –Anne Frank

These are the times that try men's souls. –Thomas Paine

How.

Chief no like news. News these days seems all bad. And Chief no need news because he has Daisy Dude. Daisy Dude track news like elk. Him use many tools for capturing news like glass box, sound box, internets, and toilet paper. Him tell me what me need to know. Most time me not like what me hear. But Daisy Dude makes good buffer by telling me happy news also. He knows bad news make Chief depressed.

Daisy Dude say: Why people no learn? Why people so stubborn? Why people so stupid? Our country is being led by corrupt men, making money and misleading honest folks. Have these people no souls? Why would we support such arrogance? Common sense should prevail, but people follow with blind allegiance to a political party façade.

Daisy also say that practically half the country supported the current administration—an administration that has habitually lied since the 2000 campaign. Him say he no understand; is half our country just ignorant and careless, or are they unsympathetic, acrimonious, belligerent, malicious, conniving schemers?

That a lot of big words. Make Chief head hurt.

Me say: Me not know why people cannot see. Not one good thing has the Texan done that Chief can think of in last five years. Even well-intended programs like "No Child Left Behind" are not working. And now he is talking about bird flu?! Many Americans have died in Southern United States and Iraq, and he is talking about bird flu. What next, killer bees?

Daisy Dude's eyes grow large. Him say: DON'T YOU SEE? HE IS TRYING TO DISTRACT US FROM THE OBVIOUS: HIS ENTIRE WATCH HAS BEEN A COMPLETE AND UTTER FAILURE. HE JUST HAD TO BE PRESIDENT AND HE'S ALWAYS GOT WHAT HE WANTS BECAUSE HE WAS BORN WITH A SILVER SPOON IN HIS PIE-HOLE. HE HAS COLLEGE CREDIT WITHOUT ATTENDANCE, MILITARY CREDIT WITHOUT ATTENDANCE, AND NOW HE HAS THE PRESIDENCY WITHOUT—CAN WE ALL SAY...

Me say: Be quiet. Head hurts. Yes, it is distraction, but it more than that. It is the one thing that the Texan has always used when everything else fails: fear. People no like illness. You say "flu," people cover mouth. You say "chicken pox," people step away. You say "Ebola," people run screaming.

Chief no believe well, Chief no want to believe—that people are mean. Most people are good. Some are naïve and some are confused because many are ill-informed. Chief believes that many follow the Texan because they fear not to. Americans have been taught to fear more in past five years than Chief can remember in lifetime. People want to believe one who tells them he will protect them from boogey men. People need leaders. But the Texan is no leader. He uses fear to trick Americans into thinking he is. He is a bad man. He uses fear of the unknown (terrorism, weapons, or illness) and he uses fear of progress (stem-cell research, same-sex marriage, and equal rights for all) to suit his needs. If being responsible for thousands dying were not enough, the Texan has stifled our growth as a nation, casting us like a stone into the ocean from which it will take decades to return to shore; Chief thinks this is his biggest crime.

Most people are good, but vulnerable; so many have been altered by the alchemy of mass media. This country has been transformed into sheep, cowering from wolves that make tall shadows on the cliffs.

Me say no more. Me tired.

Daisy take my hand. Him say: I love you, you optimistic bastard (Me think: leave my mother out of this). Him say: everything you say is right, Chief, most people are good. But you must know that there are many evil people out there creating, manipulating, and enforcing this fear philosophy of yours—this is what keeps me up at night.

Me say: me no want to think about it. Me rather think about peach cobbler, macaroni and cheese, or how to make perfect soufflé.

Daisy say: That's why I'm gonna marry ya, Chief. Because I love that you can take my mind away from these things with just a smile.

Yeah, well me not moving to Canada. Too cold.

No. Let's stick around a while. See what happens.

Him smile. My tent peg gets big.

We go to bed.

Chief
--------------------

About the Writer
Chief Pocamanhole is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Hand and resident Chef.

God Ain't A School Board Member

2005-11-11T10:07:00.000-05:00

Any old person or any young can tell you to count on one thing fer sure when you hear 'bout a Sermon from a Parson or Preacher - and that is, they always predict the most dire, troublesome, fearful Hell and Degradation all of which has done spied you out and is makin' a beeline to yer pathetic life and snatch up yer soul and send it to Perdition. It's what they is there for. (Now none of these comments today has one thing to do with Reverend Gisher, who often comments on the pages of the Rodeo, 'cause Rev. Gisher ain't yer typical Parson.)

Some might reckon on a Man of the Cloth testifyin' on lovin' yer neighbor or chasin' envy and hatefulness outta ever room of yer heart. But that seldom occurs. They was a circuit ridin' Parson I knew when I was about yay-high to the second strand of bob-wire 'round the back forty. He had him a mule he rode on, and the Parson, what we all called Parson Jobe, he wore the same thing winter or summer: coal black pants and coat, a starched-stiff white shirt with a frayed collar and a black string bow tie that had been worn and washed so much it looked like a withered strip of jerky.

I'd sight Parson Jobe headed my way, wobblin' and swayin' on that mule, the Parson's back as stiff as mesquite, and bein' a friendly child, I'd wave to him and say "Howdy Parson Jobe!" whenever he passed. Parson Jobe always reined up his mule and aimed his steely eyes right at me and would sit motionless fer a bit. He never once said Howdy back at me. He only said one thing and he said it ever time - "Boy! You answer me this! Iffin' you was to be struck down dead by the Hand o' God right now, right here in this dusty field --- will you wake to walk amidst the gold-lined streets of Paradise or will you wake screamin' in Eternal agony and Damnation and a wrigglin' on the end of Lucifer's fiery hot pitchfork??"

Now, I ain't the sharpest nor has I ever been, but I knowed enough even as a sapling to smile as big as Texas and say with the most cheer I could muster, "Paradise, Parson Jobe. Paradise!"

He never would smile nor say nothin', he just nodded his head and flicked the reins on that old mule and kept on his way. I done knowed if i said anything else, he would heap up tales of Hell and Despair until I begged fer relief and cried out the name of the Lord God fer Salvation.

Now, the reason I was recallin' old Parson Jobe came today as I heard on the color TV that this here TV preacher what runs some kinda Club fer Jesus named Pat Robertson (youhas to pay cash money to join his Club) has done called up God's Wrath fer some folk in Pennsylvania because the voters in their town elected some new people for their school board. Robertson told them folk in that town they "voted God out of their city" and not to come botherin' God iffin' they was to need them some comfort.

I reckon God ain't never set on no School Board anyway, as ever School Board I have ever seen in action or heard tell of was nothin' but a bunch of theivin', spiteful, owlhoot, half-wit idjits what ain't even qualified to teach the letters of the alphabet to a class of 5 year olds. While God can bring Wisdom, a School Board can only bring taxes.

So people of the town of Dover, Pennsylvania, I tip my hat to you fer bein' God-fearin' American voters who believe in Democracy. Don't fret one moment over a TV preacher who spews up visions of the Apocalypse. That's just what they do.

I got me a chore or two left to get to.
--------------------

About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

The Pony Express--Tuesday, November 8, 2005

2005-11-08T18:30:00.000-05:00

Every Tuesday, the Rodeo Riders over here at the Stinkhorn Ranch gather together their emails and share them with our readers.

November 6, 2005
Dear Johnny Rawhide,

Howdy ya'll. I bet you and the other cowpunchers have had many a night's entertainment roaming the ranges and doing a little old-fashioned cow-tipping. Tell us how that works!

Signed,
Jersey Cowhide Kid

Dear Kid,

Well, I hate to douse yer campfire there but you are talkin' pure, Grade A hogslop.

I ain't never done such a thing and never heard of a single hand here at the Ranch ever doin' it either. What kind of owlhoot half-wit is gonna take pleasure in teasin' a sleepin' cow? I figger iffin' someone was to do that, they'd just as like kick a midget or smack a baby youngin in order to steal a two-cent candy whistle.

One summer night, though, about six seasons back, a cowpuncher name of Smoky Louisiana got too much hooch and got a weird idea in his pickled brain to try and put a couple pairs of old boots on a mule outta the barn we used to call Clyde. Clyde was a sweet ol' cuss and seemed smarter than some folk I has knowed. After the fact, Smoky said he had got the idea in his head from a TV show he saw once called Andy Griffith, about cow rustler what put shoes on a cow.

Smoky took a half-moldy pair of boots and did in fact get on boot on ol' Clyde before he got a whale of a knock upside the head from Clyde. Sent him flyin' ass over backwards into a barn wall. Even left one perfect-shaped horseshoe print in his forehead just as plain and clear as cool water. Some folk got to callin' Smoky Hoofer instead of Smoky fer a while

However, Kid, in response to yer letter, I just happened to read a story 'bout a recent actual Science "investigation" into the whole Cow-Tipping Controversy and they seem to think the whole thing is as fake as Iron Skillet Jim's false teeth. It's got a whole scholastic breakdown and everthing.

Get a new hobby, Kid.

I got some chores left to do. Adios.

-Johnny Rawhide

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Where No Man Has Gone Before?... Better Late Than Never

2005-11-07T00:15:00.000-05:00

How.

So much to do. Me have to make quick trip to Florida. Seminoles have council of which I am to be a speaker. Halloween is over and Thanksgiving real close. Me must make big meal for ranch this year. Not as big as past meals for reservation, but big nonetheless. Daisy Dude is at a Move On rally, raising support to investigate current administration, as well as raising support to overturn current Supreme Court nominee. Me at home raising children.

Recently, me see a gemstone in current cow pie of news that many people probably not notice. Chief point this precious opal out to you because we all need good new—especially since lately we seem to be in dark ages. You say: What is this news, Chief? Me say: Mr. Sulu is gay .

This may not be relevant to all, but me especially proud because George Takei is part of show Chief grew up with. Star Trek broke boundaries with interracial casting, strong women characters, and brought intelligent stories to glass box by weaving current political and ethical issues in tapestry of science fiction and fantasy.

Yes. Chief Pocamanhole is a nerd. Chief loved original Star Trek series because of its representation of many cultures and what we could learn from them—good or bad. Because of George Takei's announcement, me want to see many old episodes again because Chief now know that—secretly—another culture was represented as well. Mine.

Ok. Ok. Chief know you have many questions. Me try to answer.

You say: Chief, why does Mr. Takei wait so long (him 68 years old)? Chief, why is this a good thing? Chief, how you watch "Star Trek" when you say glass box was myth on reservation way back when?

Me say: it very hard to come out of closet—especially Chief's generation. George Takei is two generations older than Chief—so, it more hard for him because of environment at that time. McCarthyism was just fading into history. Media exposure was limited, making homosexuality less visible—more apt to rumor, exaggeration, and stereotype. Many other personal factors as well: religious, familial, political, and social upbringing. Few brave men "came out" in those days or before, and many were persecuted—figuratively or literally. Sadly, this sometime still happens today.

But George Takei "coming out" is good thing because many people relate to faces on glass box. People much more comfortable with diversity once a face can be associated. Many famous people scared to "come out" because they fear repercussions of that association; these people are shallow, insecure, and unhappy. And this is the life they choose.

But I digress, Chief feels it is very important that well known faces accept and be proud of themselves and their heritage. Promoting positive image very important in distancing ourselves from past suppression and establishing strong foundation in present—where instability is commonplace and idiots rule.

Also, since George Takei is much older, many miss him in public eye. Now, people can learn he is much more than actor. Chief very surprised to learn of Takei's civil-rights activism, humanitarianism, and current battle with the Terminator. See for self:

What many may not know is that Takei, 68, has been a passionate activist for civil-rights and a community leader for many years. He is chairman emeritus of the board of trustees of the Japanese American National Museum, is on the advisory committee of the California Civil Liberties Public Education Program, and even ran for L.A. City Council in 1973, losing by only a small margin. An L.A. native, he was appointed to the board of directors of the Southern California Rapid Transit District by former L.A. Mayor Tom Bradley, and to the board of the Japan–United States Friendship Commission by President Bill Clinton.

"...Arnold Schwarzenegger is like some of those duplicitous Southern politicians who would say one thing and yet maintain segregation in the South. And that's what he's doing here. He's a dangerous politician, in the same way that Strom Thurmond or other politicians who say one thing in order to try to curry a broad base of support, and then when push comes to shove, they act in a segregationist way. You know, that's what Arnold Schwarzenegger is. When he first was mouthing the words he was mouthing I thought, 'Hmmm, alright, let's see.' And then this bill was passed, which was landmark, and it hung on him. And he failed utterly. When you see things like that, you say, 'I can play a part in trying to change some of those constraints that we have to struggle with.' We talk about diversity, ethnic diversity, but there's another kind of diversity [sexual orientation] that we haven’t really come to grips with as a society. And the segregationist mentality is so strong, but it's as destructive as racial segregation was in the South, or incarceration on the basis of looking like the enemy, as in the case of Japanese-Americans during the second World War—you know, it's that same mentality, and in order to be vocal on those issues, I think I need to address those issues as who I am."

http://www.frontierspublishing.com/features/feature_second.html

And Chief especially like that we have something in common: We are both double-minorities. Me gay Native American. Him gay Japanese American. Him in Japanese internment camp. Me on Indian reservation. We should form club. Black Sheep Society.

Finally, as child, Chief did have access to glass box in general store owned by white man named Festus Bradley. Festus was mean to little Indian boys unless he was drunk—because when him drunk him soon unconscious. The Bradley's had son named Keith, and him Chief's friend. Only Mrs. Bradley know this because she nice lady. "Star Trek" had reruns on Saturday nights at nine o'clock and Mr. Bradley always passed out by them. Mrs. Bradley would let me and Keith watch "Star Trek" and "Carol Burnett," eat Slim Jims, and drink Yoo-hoos while Mr. Bradley snored in back living quarters. Mr. Bradley died eleven years ago of natural causes. Him mean as Medusa and still lived to be ninety-two! Mrs. Bradley wised-up and left him when Keith in high school. They move to San Francisco. Me no see him since. One day, while making pineapple upside-down cake, a crow landed on windowsill and whispered to me: Keith Bradley have much in common with you. His name now Lady Marmaduke. Him drag queen at Moby Dick's on 18th Street.

But I digress. Important thing is that Mr. Takei is back in spotlight. And unlike Starfleet—whose mission was noble and just, but fiction—Takei's new adventure is far more important and, perhaps, more rewarding and relevant.

May he live long and prosper.

Chief
--------------------

About the Writer
Chief Pocamanhole is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Hand and resident Chef.

I'm Gettin' Riled Up Awful

2005-11-02T20:00:00.000-05:00

There is plenty of squallin' and squirmmin' over secrets in the government of the U.S. of A. and I expect most anyone already knows that this here country has made secrecy a bed where all them politicians sleep, curled up like snakes under a hot rock. Seems there's different kinds of secrets fer different kinds of folk. And I also expect all of ya'll done know how a little ol' secret of your own can sometimes rise up and rend your life to tatters.

I'm sure the Foundin' Fathers had to meet all secret-like and whisper to one another as they plotted a revolution against their King in England. I'd hate to think what would have come to this here land if we had not shook off their yoke. It's been keepin' "independence" and "freedom" what has been the tougher mane to comb through.

War is always a thing full o' secrets and whispers, and on Wednesday I read in the Washington Post that the C.I. and A. has been operatin' "secret prisons" in other countries ever since the horrifyin' attacks in New York City and Washington, D.C. back in 2001. Now I'm the first to defend my home and hearth with a ferocious intent. But ain't no one in this government got the right to operate secret prisons in this country nor any other. It is a clear violation of everthing about why we formed this here country.

Can't say too much surprises me though, when all the good citizens of this nation done handed over their freedoms and rights while shakin' and frettin' like small woodland creatures over what some "terrorist" might do. They done put a notion in the collective heads of the citizens that has made us carve up freedom with contrary laws called a "patriot act," which don't make no one a patriot but sure gives the government a heap more power than they need.

Liberty ain't safe. Same for freedom. Standin' up fer what's right ain't never the easy path.

But I can see the old Founders must be spinnin' like dirt-devils in their dirt-clothes over such a loco, bushwhackin', dry-gulchin' piece of American policy. Secret prisons is just plain wrong, top to bottom. But until more of us grow some backbone and hold these varmints who think they know better than anyone else in the whole world accountable, well, it ain't gonna change.

And that is startin' to make me real mad. Ya'll don't want me mad.

Just the idea our President has approved of the operation of secret prisons chaps my ass up to my shoulders.

I'm gonna go settle down. Done riled myself up.
--------------------

About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

The Pony Express--Tuesday, November 1, 2005

2005-11-01T19:04:00.000-05:00

Every Tuesday, the Rodeo Riders over here at the Stinkhorn Ranch gather together their emails and share them with our readers.

October 5, 2005

Dear Johnny Rawhide,

What does it take to get people to come to their senses about the dang government corruption
here in the U.S. of A.?

Mad in Montata

Dear Mad,
That there is a good question.

Seems to me we have yet to reach the "tippin' point" here in this country when it gets to corrallin' these yayhoos runnin' riot.

Now, a "tippin' point" is gonna be different for ever thing there is. Appears to me there has been some pressure added of late after the plain supidity what led to death and destruction down on the Gulf coast and some of them politician boys like DeLay and Frist and Rove and Libby gettin' caught with their hands deep in the cookie jar.

But we ain't at the "point" yet—I knew a cowboy onct name of Yellow Teeth, from out Abilene way. Yellow Teeth was an ugly and smelly SOB, mainly cause he never took care to wash up none nor clean hisself. He got a bad pox of some kind some year back, wouldn't see no doc, nor take no medicine except whiskey. Made him limp somethin' fierce and he got to smellin' even worse. He'd be all sweatin' and rundown from fever, which seemed to get worse with ever return.

After a while, he couldn't get much work, cause the stink was so bad. And then he lost what work he got cause he was layed up so much from fever spells. One day all sick and puny, he got a scratch on his leg from a poorly taxidermied wildcat he had made hisself and kept round his house. His leg turned bright red and swole up too and he was forced to stay in bed most of the time.

I would stop and see him from time to time, totin' water into his house and bringin' him coffee beans. Well, sir, one day I stopped in and he was as cold and blue as a mountain stream and had done kicked the bucket. Dead as dead can be. Yellow Teeth kept ignoring a heap of tippin' points until one day the tip went back the other way and landed square on him and killed him. He used to say "I've gotta get worse some 'afore I can get better." Seems to me he never give no thought to helpin' "better" reach his clammy, stinky flesh.

So as long as folks like you, Mad, and me and the rest of us here at the Ranch keep proddin' and pokin' fer some "better" to get to us, I reckon we still has a chance to improve.

Vaya con Dios,
Johnny Rawhide

Whats That Behind You?

2005-10-31T16:45:00.000-05:00

How. Halloween is here. Time to dress in scary costumes and beg for candy. Time to celebrate Day of Dead, Samhaim, All Souls' and All Saints' Day. Many Christians no like Halloween. They no understand origin. They think Halloween is evil, no let children dress up. They think Halloween is ancient holiday of bloody sacrifice. Ha!

Halloween has been with us for centuries. In old times, the Druids—like my people—used to celebrate end of summer with festival. They lit bonfires, ate roasted nuts, and partied. It was believed that evil spirits roamed this time of year and treats were left out to appease them. Also, Druids would dress in scary costumes to confuse spirits. People did these things to ward off evil, not welcome it.

Me think Halloween means much the same now, but most folk do not pause to reflect on its meaning. Folk these days in big hurry. Most folk content to shop for all their goods and buy whatever glass box tell them to. Most folk have no time for history—especially politicians. World is full of stress and bad juju because consumerism out of control. Everyone must have latest, newest thing. Possessions define character. Ha!

But I digress. Me think Halloween has much more profound meaning now. With holiday we teach our children that it OK to be scared. Being scared is part of life. We are preparing children for loss of innocence—because innocence is lost when children learn real horrors of this world. We are softening blow for them. We are their teachers as well as their Santa Claus.

So why not enjoy Halloween with your children? Make scary costumes. Eat candy. Make your wigwam spooky. Confuse the spirits and frighten the evil away. Teach children to enjoy moment because we—as adults—know the party ends all too soon.

Daisy Dude likes to scare me. He watch many horror movies on glass box. Me no like horror movie. Every year he make me watch his new favorite scary movie. Me no want to watch, but he beg and tease me and my tent peg gets big.

So, last night we watch Land of the Dead. This movie scary and gross but very interesting. Zombies try to take over city and eat people. Zombies now smarter than people think. They organize attack—so, logically, their actions demand respect. Rich man in tall building no respect zombies. He try to buy things to comfort him in world where money not worth anything. He not very bright. He much like Bush. Me think this no accident. Me enjoy movie (but close eyes during scary parts).

Me not spoil end of movie for you. But point is—Halloween is for adults too. Fear is cathartic, and we need to be distracted from evil spirits too. Scariest thing on glass box is daily news. So, why not cuddle with your pardner and enjoy vampires, wendigo, and zombies. The fear is healthy, honest, and fun—and the cuddling may lead to nookie!

So, have a happy Halloween—children and adults of all ages. And try eating candy corn and salted peanuts at same time. Taste just like Payday bar.

Chief

--------------------

About the Writer
Chief Pocamanhole is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Hand and resident Chef.

Wiener Wrangler of the Week: Friday--October 28, 2005... Sort of...

2005-10-27T23:15:00.000-05:00

Every Friday Stinkhorn Rodeo will choose from three no-account, no good, lowdown, rascally, bushwackin, varmits who've made this big ol' ranch we call The Earth a little less pleasin to ride. The three "Candidates" will compete for the title of what we like to call, The Weiner Wrangler of the Week Award...

Let me tell ya'll there was some mighty fierce talk 'round the kitchen table here at the Ranch on Wednesday and Thursday evenin as we chewed over potential nominees fer this here week's Wiener Wrangler Award.

Some of the folks we talked about included that Karl Rove owlhoot, plus the Vice-President's right hand man, "Scooter" Libby, and even that woman reporter from the big metropolitan tabloid, The NYTiimes, Judith Miller—and it seems ever one of these dry-gulch, hog-wallerin' varmints is all balled up in the investigation of possible Treason over tellin' secrets about an agent of the C.I. and A.

Then ol' Daisy Dude chimed in with a two-cents idea that, well, just plain made sense of all of it.

He can be kind of a quiet feller, and he just sort of stood up in real slow kinda way, and said one word: "Fitzgerald."

Now what he meant is mite complicated—see this here High Sheriff Special Counsel, Patrick Fitzgerald, has been keepin' a list of whole herd of varmints involved in this case of violatin' laws about the secrets of the C.I. and A., and on Friday, he is likely to name a bunch of 'em in what they call an indictment.

Well now, after Daisy Dude said that, all we could hear was "Big" Broadside Rucker a'chewin' on some of Concha Loca's special Thursday night chocolate chip cookies. Concha herself kicked back her chair on two legs and perched in mid-air for a moment eyein' each of us one at a time.

So I thought I might as well say what we was all a'thinkin'—I cleared my throat and said, "Stinkhorn Ranch and Rodeo Riders, a show of hands. All in favor o' waitin' till Mister Fitzgerald names the varmints he is gonna indict 'afore we name us a Wiener Wrangler, raise yer hand."

It were unified and unanimous.

So no Awards on this here day - least not till Mister Fitzgerald offers us his view on these yayhoos. I 'spect we'll all be eyein' the color TV mighty close fer the next day or so.
--------------------

About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and resident Sharp Shooter.

Skiddin' Into A Cowpie

2005-10-26T20:00:00.000-05:00

Here at the Ranch, or anywheres else for that matter, I takes notice of little things that people do—some of 'em is mighty funny and some is plain off-kilter and some just leaves me puzzled somewhat. People is by far the oddest critter in or out of a corral.

Take for instance this whole worldwide Internet deal. I has no end of wonderment when I look through all the pages and pages of stuff people have tacked up for all the rest of us to take a look-see.

Some people has been a'runnin' this one page here pokin' fun at that lawyer that the President wants to make sit up on the Supreme Corral. Ain't many folk care for the idea and I am with 'em. The President would do hisself a big favor if he went on the color TV and smacked hisself in the forehead and said,"Dang, ya'll, what was I a'thinkin'? Let me have a do-over."

In the meantime, you oughta take a gander at this here fake Harriet Miers blog. Ever time I take a look-see, me and a bunch of the other hands here at the Ranch get to laughing harder than when "Big" Broadside Rucker skids into a fresh cowpie and goes tumblin' ass-over-tea-kettle. Ol' Broadside somehow can't never remember to watch where he's a'goin.

UPDATE: I ain't never done this 'afore, but seein' as how both Harriet and the President went ahead did what we all knew was best -- for Harriet to back off from 'a runnin' for the Supreme Corral -- then I figger I'd note it here. If my readin' of events is right, she backed down Wednesday night about the same time I posted this here column. Her blog, cited above, is now all done up in a somber black mourning background. Only thing left to fear is who will be the next crony to come a'tumblin' from the White House. Now, you can get back to readin' the rest of this here page.

A day or so back, I was watchin' the color TV and them talkin' heads what does what they call "the news," tells a tale about this here family where a woman has done had her 16th child. Now, in the old days, a feller needed a wife to keep makin' youngins so's they'd be enough folk about the farm to keep things in workin' order. Shoot, one kid might get the nickname "Firewood" cause that was his main job—collectin' wood—or might name a youngin "Sawtooth" cause his main job was to make sure that they was planks o' wood when they was needed. It took a batch of 'em to make life a bit easier.

But in these here modern times, a woman poppin' out 16 youngins don't make much sense to me. And then Concha Loca showed me this here web page that this here family was a'puttin' up on the Internet. The pappy in this family is named Jim Bob, he says, and their page is here. Sure is a heap of talk about the Lord and I guess if I was a Pappy of such a vast herd of folk, I'd be beggin' for the Lord's help quite reg'lar. Shoot, if you was to take you a look-see at his FAQs, they's talk about gettin' financial aid outta the Bible, and a heap of mighty strict Bible-learnin' for all the youngins. And they is recipes too, mostly reads like "mash up 50 or 60 of these things in two or three bowls and dole it out".

Like I said, some things here on the Internet is funny and some is plain odd. And, while I hate to pick on the President again, I will. Seems him and his ranch hands sure do have a lack of humor. There's this here fake newspaper called "The Onion," and iffin' you can't tell it's fake, they' somethin' not hooked up right on yer insides. Anyway, what with all the warrin' and sufferin' and potential indictments and troubles across the country, some owlhoot up at the White House decided that "The Onion" weren't funny and wrote 'em a letter about it.

Jeez O. Pete. Let me offer them office owlhoots around the Potomac a clue: Iffin' a newspaper names itself after some kind of vegetable, like onion or squash, it's a joke. And if you can't enjoy a laugh, then maybe you oughta take you a break, get set down in some shade and cool off.

Well, I got some chores to do 'afore lights out.
--------------------

About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

The Pony Express--Tuesday, October 25, 2005

2005-10-25T16:35:00.000-05:00

Every Tuesday, the Rodeo Riders over here at the Stinkhorn Ranch gather together their emails and share them with our readers.

October 24, 2005
Dear Johnny

How come the UT football team lost to Alabama?

Signed,
Heartbroken Oak Ridger

Dear Heartbroken,

I ain't much for watchin' college football on the color TV much since it seems all they do is take commercial breaks and promote ESPN or CBS or somethin' ever five seconds. All them sports-talkin' owlhoots jabber on and on as if there jaws had come unstuck, and they always ask what one play or t'other means for the NFL.

College ball is over-commercialized and franchised and these days it's like watchin' some NFL trainin' camp scrimmage.

The real reason UT lost? Well, take you a peek at the Bible. Says there is a time for everythin' under the sun. So Bama is in the sunshine and UT is in the doghouse. I 'spect it'll change again.

So suck it up, Heartbroken, and act like a grown-up.

I got chores to get to.

-Johnny

October 21, 2005
Dear Concha Loca,

The Stinkhorn Rodeo is one of may favorite places to read on the Internet today. I never know what to expect!!

A frontier-style can-do spirit is evident here, and I love the Wiener Wrangler Awards you and your Riders provide each Friday.

I was wondering how can I make a nomination for consideration for a Wiener Wrangler Award?

Yours,
Kentucky Cap'n

Dear Cap'n,
As a fan of the Wiener Wrangler Awards, you ought to have noticed that at the bottom of the page it says:

The Stinkhorn Rodeo Riderswould like to know if you have any candidates worthy of Wiener Wranglin'. Send us an email namin' the varmint and why he or she is worthy of bein' a Wiener, and we may just put up a Wanted poster.We'd all of us here like to hear from y'all when it comes to wieners needin' wranglin'.

Adios to you Cap'n. My chickens be a needin' some feed.

-Concha Loca

October 22, 2005
Johnny,

What's this story about you and L'll Libby Scooter that Concha has mentioned once or twice?

We want details!

Thanks!
Curious in Columbus

Dear Curious,

Yep. There is a tale to be told. Hold yer water and I'll tell it soon.

I can tell you'ins that is has many parts, some adventure, some tragedy and some rowdy evenin's. All will be laid bare 'afore you know it. Jes' keep readin' the Stinkhorn Rodeo.

-Johnny
--------------------

Email Us:
The Stinkhorn Rodeo Riders enjoy readin'
your emails while they is sittin' 'round the
kitchen table. We will feature our favorites
every Tuesday in our Pony Express!

How Does Your Garden Grow?

2005-10-24T15:42:00.000-05:00

How. Many of you not know, but Chief has been on personal journey for the last part of week. Chief take journeys often to nurture mind and body. Growth is very important to us all. We must see ourselves as plants. We need to tend carefully to our own personal growth. Like taking sustenance for our physical bodies, our minds and souls are equally hungry. Always take time to feed your mind and soul and grow equally within yourself. Balance is very important. Without balance there is stress. With stress there is chaos.

But I digress. Chief take periodic Journeys alone—to grow. It is habit from long time back. Everyone has habits and we must learn to accept them as part of human nature. Daisy Dude snores, Koko hums, Jacy picks his nose, and Chief takes journeys.

Chief is in Baltimore—home of famous American writer, Edgar Allen Poe—to visit friend and medicine man, Chief Patapsco. On this journey we make cakes and bread to sell and raise money for new favorite charity, the Point Foundation.

You see, Chief is past middle age and from different generation. Chief was in homosexual "closet" until past 30-years-old. Me not know why. Me guess many things factor; being from different generation, different religious views, different social environment, and many other things that dictate perceptions and hone behaviors in people. In retrospect, it is silly. You are who you are and no one can change that. There can be danger from those that fear you though, fear being different. And the pressures from my tribe were large, homosexuality being equated with weakness.

But now there is satisfaction in being part of new generation. Me not talking about marriage and equality—though they do play part. Me talking about youth. With more exposure to diverse culture, people are becoming less afraid of being different. In my day, television was almost a myth. And when I did see the magic glass box on our reservation, I found offensive representations of my culture (Paul Lynde, Liberace, and Tonto to name a few). Also, gay prose and plays were less seen and read, as subject was taboo.

Now, media has become so homo-saturated, that you cannot turn without seeing commercials, hearing music, reading magazine, etc., dealing exclusively with gay culture. And though our generation still has some trepidation concerning homosexuality, it is with new generation that we grow.

In recent article from Time magazine, it is shown that people are "coming out" at a younger age and there is less confusion, guilt, depression, and anxiety over personal acceptance within different tribes. Of course, there are still exceptions—narrow-minded fools will always be with us—however, percentages are increasing toward acceptance with astonishing speed.

Me could write for long time about this phenomenon, but me no have time. I have included magazine link for you. But me was telling you about charity bake sale for the Point Foundation...

The Point Foundation gives scholarships to gay teens—many who have been ostracized by their families—and is one way the gay movement has responded to this newfound emergence of gay youth.

Many of you say: Chief, I thought Daisy Dude was the political one. Why are you on a mission to eradicate social conventions? Me say: I am just a cook and a gardener. I am here to bake bread and raise money for children. I would do the same for any children, anywhere in world. These children just have something in common with Chief, and me wish to see them lead more positive lives from a younger age. Chief never had this opportunity.

So, normally it will be Daisy Dude off on political adventures while I stay home with kids and watch “Will and Grace”—but this is one of my spiritual journeys that just happens to raise awareness and money for good cause.

Long ago, people grew their nourishment, taking sustenance from the land and not from the shelf. I always find it wise to learn from past when preparing for future. We are a garden, our children saplings. We must tend to our children and help them grow with whatever tools we have. I am not always fond of the time we live in, but it is still better than the time we left behind; therefore, I feel my garden is an investment for the future and the diversity of culture it promises. What do you grow?

Chief
--------------------

About the Writer
Chief Pocamanhole is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Hand and resident Chef.

Weiner Wrangler of the Week: Friday--October 21, 2005

2005-10-21T00:50:00.000-05:00

Weiner Wrangler Candidate #1: Karl "The Trickster" Rove

Wanted For: Wanted For: Over 30 years of lyin', fibbin', and fabricatin' to the entire U.S. of A., and smearin' the names of all kind of Americans workin' folk.He's also the feller who is at the very center of allegations of pure Treason fer leakin' secret information to certain press and media folk.

This here varmint dropped out of college in the 1970s and joined in with a gang of some of the worst political owlhoots and low-down dirty tricksters in our humble national history—I'm talkin' 'bout that Watergate mess what tarnished the shine of America and left this here nation in shambles.

This here link has that tale and his sordid past.

Havin' political smarts ain't no crime, but this Wiener Nominee seems to always go for the nasty bushwhacker approach whenever the facts gets in his way. And now in the midst of allegations about violatin' the laws of our nation meant to protect national security, he has somehow been put in charge of headin' up "recovery efforts" in the battered landscape of new Orleans

A real competitor don't fight dirty—that's a trick fer losers. And a President who lets all this no-good, back-bitin', hateful and crooked dealin' is doomed hisself.

Weiner Wrangler Candidate #2: Neal "The Boor" Boortz

Wanted For: Speechifyin’ in favor of eliminatin' any poor people from aid or assistance in a time of disaster. Now while this here talk-radio idjit’s ramblin’ did not get a whole lot of press coverage, he plain showed how he thinks America is fer only one kind of folk – rich folk. On October 14, he flapped his yap that if they is some horrible crisis,then the rich should be saved first and if anytime is left, maybe then help out the poor who might somehow survive.

How would a dang rescue worker know who’s who? If a disaster hits, will we have to wave a page from our bank balance statement? What dollar amount is the cutoff? Maybe we ought to have a federal list what says who gets saved and who gets left behind?

We's heard plenty of stupid pourin' out the mouths of folks, yet this slop is mighty dangerous. "The Boor" claims anyone not wealthy is a drag on the whole nation, a loser, a life best left unlived. That oughta scare the bejesus out of ever patriot in the nation. Who does he think actually does the labor and the chores what keeps this country prosperous? Everday folk, that's who—folk who work to put the chow on the table, rent or buy homes to shelter their families, struggle from daylight to dark and some from dark to daylight to make ever damn thing there is in this country. This villian curses the poor, and none but the lowest, mangiest, scavengin' Wiener does that.

Weiner Wrangler Candidate #3: Elizabeth "Busy Body" Foss

Wanted For: Stickin' her stuck up nose where it don't belong.

If y'all read Concha's post of yesterday, you know how this here candidate earned her nickname. This lowdown, loudmouthed, lordly, lugubrious, spittle-licker wants to take your baby's dollies away 'cause she can't rightly tolerate the notion of an independent, educated, informed, and self-sufficient woman.

Not seein' the forest for the trees is just the $100 doll on the top of her toychest of crimes—although it's the one we's focusin' on today. When a well-off woman who spends her money on buyin' expensive dolls for her youngins can't see her way to thinkin' that other young gals don't have it so good, then it don't rightly set well with us that she's tryin' to injure and insult a company that donates money to a organization that wants to see young gals lift themselves up.

She's a five star general in a class war, but we's the proletariat, and we is locked and loaded.

And the Wiener is...

Elizabeth "Busy Body" Foss
In Concha's words (like we could keep her from speakin' her mind on this here haughty varmint—Johnny backed up five or six-feet just to give her room to spit): "Mrs. Foss...lies to you all sayin' things like the Girls Inc. web site don't have nothin' "suitable for girls" on it. She's all hepped up 'bout her little gals holdin' baby dolls on they's little laps, learnin' to be mommies, a thinkin' that Girls Inc. is bad because they make sure young gals don't get real babies they can't love or care fer 'cause they don't have rich mamas and papas that can fill their shelves with expensive dolls.

"[T]there is plenty more youngins out there waitin' for a family they ain't never gonna get, or livin' in a household that don't bring 'em no future. They's gals out there who come from homes with just one mama who is a gonna make more homes with just one mama. They's gals out there that need folks 'round them to tell them they's special. That they shouldn't take no guff from no one. That they can get themselves to college and get themselves a good job and raise they's kids in a house full o' love, no matter the number o' dolls on the shelf. And that's the kinda good work Girls Inc. does. It's probably the kinda work Mrs. Foss does fer her own little gals, 'cause she's lucky and blessed enough to have the sorta life that other gals don't.

"Far as I can tell, Mrs. Foss, you been spendin' all your greenbacks on expensive dolls fer yer own little gals. So, I don't see the good in a worryin' 'bout folks not bringin' youngins into the world ifin you ain't out there doin' all ya can to helps the ones that is already here. And 'fore you go tossin' out all them fancy dolls and they's fancy doll clothes and books, maybe think about all the little gals out there that ain't got no dolls at all."
--------------------

Email Us:
The Stinkhorn Rodeo Riders would like to
know if you have any candidates worthy
of Wiener Wranglin'. Send us an email namin'
the varmint and why he or she is worthy of
bein' a Wiener, and we may just put up a
Wanted poster.

Yes she can, and she will!

2005-10-20T02:45:00.000-05:00

I been spendin' a lotta time with Koko. Well, actually, she been spendin' lotsa time with me and the chickens. She's sweet with them birds—helps to gather the eggs from the hens in the mornin', comes around after her lessons with Maybelle Worts or workin' with Lucky Lucy to look at the baby chicks in the hatchery, and she helps me get my star cluckers ready for productions of "Romeo and Juliet." Koko is delicate gentle with my birds, as she is with most things. She pays close attention to folks, observin' them and such, and marks things down in her mind. She's blessed peaceful to be 'round. Not the kind a child you have to constantly eyeball, like her brother, Jacy (bless his heart), but the kind you watch outa pure wonder at the magic they is to the world. Which makes me wanna protect her all the more just in case some owlhoot comes around wants to scoop her up and do her wrong or break her spirit.

Koko and Jacy lost just 'bout everything in the twister that destroyed their home—came here with nothin' but a little family and a lotta love. So while Johnny has made it his personal quest to make Jacy have all he needs as a young man, I've done my best to make sure she gets what she needs.

So, Sunday afternoon, Koko and I gots ourselves all gussied up for a gal's day in town. We went walkin' along the square, takin' in all the autumn shop windows full of delightful things. Stopped in at Annie Layfaette's cafe for spiced cider and apple pie. Went and bought her a whole buncha new dresses, and denims, and shirts and such. Little footed longjohns and flannel night dresses and shoes and socks and purty little knickers with the days o' the week embroidered on 'em. By the end of the day, we was plum tuckered out and draggin' our feet when we passed by Miss Emma Tree's Fancy Doll Emporium.

It was closed up for the night, but there in the window was a wondrous collection of beautiful baby dolls, and lady dolls, and fairy dolls. Dolls what wetted themselves or talked in every possible language. Dolls who had magic hair that grew short to long, changed color from raven to flaxen, or curled up from bein' straight.

But there twere one doll in that window that lit up Koko's eyes like the Fourth o' July: an American Girl Addy doll all in a pink striped dress, and black stockings, and sweet little boots—a black young lady doll with golden earrings and blue ribbon in her hair. Koko just had the look o' love that filled me with a wantin' to please her.

Now, I like kids—don't have none o' my own, but I sure do like 'em. Nature's seen fit to limit my inner workings to form without function, and my lifestyle (up to the time I landed on the ranch) ain't permitin' for the kinda care a yougin deserves. I ain't never had no ideas 'bout bein' a mama neither. But that don't keep me from lovin' youngins. Like I've always said: I don't got no plans for ownin' an elephant, but the baby ones sure is cute. So I's gotta say that little Koko has done stolen my heart away somethin' fierce, and I wanted nothin' more for Koko—who'd lost all her toys in the twister—than to have that there doll.

So, yesterday afternoon I headed back into town and paid a visit to Miss Emma Tree's Fancy Doll Emporium, but when I got there, I was faced with quite a site: a buncha folks in a tizzy, holdin' signs and a screamin' and keepin' the good and peaceful town folk and their yougins' from enterin' Miss Emma's without a fightin' and a scratchin'. But I'm Concha Loca, and there ain't no crowd of crazy folk gonna keep me from Sweet ol' Emma's place o' business. One good crack o' my whip and a set look in my eye, and them folks parted for me sure as the Red Sea parted for Moses.

Once inside, I found Miss Emma a cryin' in the back o' her shop, cowerin' like a cornered critter. I got her seated in a chair and brought her a glass o' water and calmed her some (wish I had some o' the Chief's bear piss tea), and asked her what all the fuss was about. All she could manage to do was point at a couple of sheets o' paper on the floor—somethin' printed out from the Internet.

It was a little story by a Mrs. Elizabeth Foss who writes for the Catholic Herald.

Every night, when I put my daughters to sleep, I snuggle next to them under the pink, rose-festooned canopy over their bed. We talk about all sorts of things and I stay until they drift off. During the quiet time before the blanket of sleep envelopes my little girls, I gaze through the semi-darkness at the dolls on the shelves opposite the bed. The dolls are lined up after a day of play, a beautiful, tangible testimony to the innocence of girlhood...They are American Girl dolls and they are an integral part of feminine childhood in our home.

Seems she and her husband has spent lots o' greenbacks (these dolls ain't cheap, and they come with all manner of pricey dresses and dolly toys that will cost a body more than a months salary) loadin' their daughters' shelves with these dollies. But she come to find out that the folks at American Girl is givin' some of the money they's make off the sale of an "I Can" wristband to Girls Inc.

Now, I know somethin' 'bout Girls Inc. 'cause they helped several of our cowgirls at the Stinkhorn make somethin' o' themselves when the world and life tried to tell 'em they tweren't nothin' special. Girls Inc. is a 141-year-old national nonprofit organization that sponsors educational and empowerment programs for gals, and wants gals "to be strong, smart and bold." The folks at Girls Inc. says that the "I Can" initiative supports three specific Girls Inc. programs—building girls' skills in science and math, developing leadership skills, and encouraging athletic skills and team spirit.

Since 1992, they's given over $1.8 million in college scholarships and have done all they could to help work on laws that prevent violence against gals.

I kept a readin' Mrs. Foss' purty little tale and come to find out the she and a handful o' "Godly" busy-bodies got their knickers in a bunch 'bout Girls Inc. 'cause despite all the other things the organization does to help gal youngins, Girls Inc. also supports a gal's right to choose, a gals right to get birth control, and a gal's right to pick her life pardner. Mrs. Foss even lies to you all sayin' things like the Girls Inc. web site don't have nothin' "suitable for girls" on it. She's all hepped up 'bout her little gals holdin' baby dolls on they's little laps, learnin' to be mommies, a thinkin' that Girls Inc. is bad because they make sure young gals don't gey real babies they can't love or care fer 'cause they don't have rich mamas and papas that can fill their shelves with expensive dolls.

Sorta like the baby gal Koko was 'fore the Chief 'n Daisy adopted her.

I'm gonna say somethin' that might seem ugly to ya, but I frankly don't give a hoot if you'ins don't have the mind to make sense of it. No child should have to have the life that Koko and Jacy had 'fore the Chief and Daisy came along and gave 'em a family. Koko and Jacy are lucky and blessed, but there is plenty more youngins out there waitin' for a family they ain't never gonna get, or livin' in a household that don't bring 'em no future. They's gals out there who come from homes with just one mama who is a gonna make more homes with just one mama. They's gals out there that need folks 'round them to tell them they's special. That they shouldn't take no guff from no one. That they can get themselves to college and get themselves a good job and raise they's kids in a house full o' love, no matter the number o' dolls on the shelf. And that's the kinda good work Girls Inc. does. It's probably the kinda work Mrs. Foss does fer her own little gals, 'cause she's lucky and blessed enough to have the sorta life that other gals don't.

Far as I can tell, Mrs. Foss, you been spendin' all your greenbacks on expensive dolls fer yer own little gals. So, I don't see the good in a worryin' 'bout folks not bringin' youngins into the world ifin you ain't out there doin' all ya can to helps the ones that is already here. And 'fore you go tossin' out all them fancy dolls and they's fancy doll clothes and books, maybe think about all the little gals out there that ain't got no dolls at all.

***

Last night, I tucked little Koko into my bed (we wuz havin' ourselves a little slumber party). She was wearin' her new little pink nightdress with the purple stars on it. Her hair all picked out in that fine little afro she like to wear, and she was clingin' to her brand new American Girl Addy doll. I sat on the edge of the bed to begin to read her the winner of a 1994 International Reading Association Children’s Choice Award and a 1994 Children’s Book Council Children’s Choice Award, Meet Addy, by Connie Porter. It tells the story of nine-year-old Addy Walker and her mama livin' in slave days, escapin' from the plantation they live on. It's a sad story so far, and a little scary, but nothin' I don't think Koko shouldn't be allowed to hear. She's a smart gal, Koko is.

And once't I was done readin', once't little Koko had drifted off to her dreams (I can only hope they's happy dreams), once't I'd kissed her on her pretty little cheek and let the Chief and Daisy look in on her too (they is such proud papas), I went online to the American Girl site to order Koko an "I Can" wristband. 'Cause I don't rightly think I want the Mrs. Foss' of this world ever tellin' our little Koko she can't.

Freedom Ain't Doin' So Good

2005-10-19T19:31:00.000-05:00

One of my regular chores here at the Ranch is to make sure we has the supplies for all the ranch hands and livestock. Many others before me in the long and momentous history of the Ranch was often charged with takin' a ride into town to go to the local merchants for our needs. I reckon it was some six or seven years back, some owlhoot built one o' them giant warehouse stores that's called Wal-Mart. I ain't ever bought nothin' there and never will. Turns out, you can get investigated by the federal government if you do. Let me lay it out for you.

I once went into this here county-sized warehouse store, to get me a peek of what could be inside so much space. I walked up to them fancy invisible-beam slidin' doors and I don't cotton to no door that ain't got some kind of handle on it. Maybe folks just think replacin' handles is some kind of progress. Well, some folks is mighty confused. Anyway, I made me a mosey through that store and it like to took me half a day just to reach the back end of the place. Now while I was partly pleased to see how enormous a bounty of chairs and watches and jeans and fishin' poles and food from ever continent on this here green world were there for sale - I kept a'wonderin' who in the hell could ever actually use all that stuff 'afore it started to rot and fade. Greed seemed to just hang like low clouds over the prairie, dark and full of portents, and one day that storm'll hit and there will be Hell to pay.

I guess some folks just don't think about such things.

Then I read this here news story about a North Carolina high school boy who took a photograph as part of a school project and the Secret Service started to investigate him. One of the schoolmarms at Currituck County High School told her students to take photographs to illustrate America's Bill of Rights and the rights of just plain American folk. Well sir, this one youngin laid hold of a photograph of the President of the United States, tacked it up on the wall, and then held his hand near it in one 'o them 'thumbs down" poses and took a photograph of that -- his opinion of an elected official.

He took his photographic film to one o' them Wal-Mart stores to be 'developed' I think is what they call it. And this nosey, meddlin', addle-pated, busy-body employee saw that there picture and called the local police and they called up the federal government! As stupid as that sounds, the school marm says the United States Secret Service actually showed up in her classroom a'claimin' the need to investigate this here boy and said that photograph was mighty "suspicious". They even wanted to know why the school marm would not report that boy as some kind of threat to national security!!! Tarnation, people -- this here is pile of bullshit so big it could coat this here country from one coast 't'other and still have bullshit left over to do it twice again.

So I always get supplies for the Ranch at the merchants in town who, as most Americans do, work hard to be an independent business. I wouldn't buy salve for a deathly fatal wound at that there evil Wal-Mart even iffin' it mean I was gonna croak. I live free and I hope some you folk start doin' the same.

I got some chores left to get to. Vaya con Dios.
--------------------

About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

The Pony Express--Tuesday, October 18, 2005

2005-10-18T18:40:00.000-05:00

Every Tuesday, the Rodeo Riders over here at the Stinkhorn Ranch gather together their emails and share them with our readers.

October 15, 2005
Dear Chief,

My husband and I throw intimate family get-togethers and dinner parties where children are also nvited. If food is served to please adults, it doesn't seem to interest the kids. And If I make food that will make the kids happy, it isn't a very impressive fair for the adults. Do you have some good autumnal recipes that will both impress adult guest and please the children that join us at the table?

Thank you!
Hostess in Hartford

Hmmm. You ask wise question. Pondered for ages. My sister, Hiawatha, has two boys that eat nothing but hot dogs and ketchup. Me no understand this. When we have big beautiful Thanksgiving dinner, they sit there and eat nothing but hot dogs and ketchup (they not even use bun!).

Chief, Daisy Dude, and family are making change to eating habits. Chief have high cholesterol and Daisy have diabetes. We both overweight and need to lose to be more healthy. Me no have time to discuss—perhaps in future—but me read fascinating interview in Advocate with Melissa Etheridge last night about acid/alkaline diet. Alkaline foods—more natural foods—prevent degenerative diseases. Me say no more right now, but eat organic products. If too expensive grow your own. Me often shop at Whole Foods.

But I digress. Here is a favorite recipe for the season:

THANKSGIVING DRESSING

1 pound whole wheat bread, cubed
1 pound mushrooms, sliced
1 large onion, sliced
1 head celery, sliced
5 - 10 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon dried sage
2 teaspoons dried thyme
black pepper
1/2 cup white wine
veggie broth or broth made from chicken flavor veggie broth mix
1 egg, or not if you are vegan
salt if you need it

Sauté all the veggies in white wine, I do it in batches, too much for my biggest pan. Add herbs to the sautéing veggies. Cook 'til veggies are tender but not limp and mushies have let go of their juice.

Mix veggies with bread cubes. Add egg and enough broth to make it all quite moist but not soupy, you know, just right. Bake covered about 30 minutes, uncover and bake 15 minutes more.

Serve with mushroom gravy (below).

MUSHROOM GRAVY

4 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 cups (8 ounces) thinly sliced mushrooms
1/4 cup unbleached flour
2 1/2 cups vegetables stock, store-bought or homemade
1/4 cup dry red wine
2 tablespoons tamari soy sauce
freshly ground black pepper to taste

Melt the butter in a medium-size saucepan over medium heat. Add the mushrooms and sauté until brown, about 7 minutes. Stir in the flour; it will become very pasty. Cook this roux for 2 minutes, stirring constantly. It will stick to the bottom of the pan a little bit; that's okay.

Stir in the stock, wine, soy sauce, and pepper, and bring to a boil. Cook the sauce at a lively simmer for 5 minutes, stirring almost constantly and scraping any crusty bits that adhere to the bottom of the pan. Serve in a sauceboat.

We are not vegan, but vegan friendly. The gravy may have to be altered for vegans. My children eat this. If your children no eat, then cook with ingredients you know they like. If they no like mushrooms, then don't make recipe with mushrooms. Ask them what they like. They think like us, just smaller. Adapt meals to suit everyone's taste.

Don't make caviar. Don't make hot dogs.

-Chief

October 12, 2005
Dear Mr. Rawhide,

Is the Stinkhorn Rodeo sanctioned by the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association (PRCA) or the Indian National Finals Rodeo (INFR)?

Also, what kind of gun do you carry?

Curious in Calgary

Dear Curious,

The Stinkhorn Rodeo was first sanctioned by the Benevolent Order of the Bison back in the 1950s and we do most of our schedulin' and travelin' through them. The Ranch itself remains a member in good standin' as Outpost No. 2342. However, long 'afore that, the Rodeo had been a charter member of two groups of Ranchers - one was knowed as the Drybrush Cattlemen's Roundup, and t'other was the Cheyenne Social Club.

While I and many a few others hereabouts has been to meetin' houses for gatherin' with the Tennessee Walkin' and Talkin' Horses Organization, the Official Stinkhorn Rodeo Riders remains a one of a kind group.

I ain't never heard tell of them groups you mentioned, but I have gone out on datin' nights with a fiesty, strawberry blonde gal who is a barrell-ridin' champ from out near Nagodoches, Texas, which I hear tell is the oldest town in the territory.

As far as my shootin' iron goes, my personal peacemaker was hand-made around 1922 by a feller from Tombstone, Arizona name of Deadeye Flint, whose daddy McDraw Flint used to make the guns for the men at Fort Drybrush and once made a matched set of ivory-handled six-shooters for Wyatt Earp's cousin, Jumpin' Jim, may he rest in peace.

Anyway, ol' Deadeye based my personal peacemaker on the 1875 Schofield revolver named for Maj. George W. Schofield of the 10th Cavalry. Major Schofield's design relocated the barrel latch from the barrel to the frame. Thataway, a shooter can flick the latch just usin' a thumb and open the gun for loadin' and unloadin' with just one hand. If you practice some, like I do, why a sharpshooter worth his salt can refill all the chambers at once without lookin'. Any owlhoot what tries to take me on whether for a round of sport or for a round of pure meaness can barely get off two rounds by the time I've fired six shots and done reloaded for the next go round.

Think I'll go practice some now that I think of it.

-Johnny Rawhide

October 16, 2005
Dear Concha,

Where in tarnation have you been?! We've missed your ponderins the last week.

Yours,
Sister Sue from Sonora

Howdy Sue!

How's my rough and rowdy gal? Still drinkin' cowpokes under the table and sharp-shootin' road signs I 'spose.

Well, Sue darlin', along with all my chicken woes (which included having to get three understudy chickens ready for "Romeo and Juliet"--I lost Paris and the Nurse in the storm, god rest their souls, and my Juliet came down with the flu and had to be replaced), and the Rodeo goin' on the road for a spell, and all the other daily chores out here at the Stinkhorn, I've also been dealing with matters of the heart.

A few days after the storm, Mason came a ridin' up out o' nowhere. Seems he'd gotten word of our tribulations via smoke signals the Chief had been sending out to some friends he has up north. Seems Mason misread the first set of signals (thought they was sayin' somethin' 'bout me at the Ranch feelin' cooped up after the rainstorm, when he should have read it as we was puttin' the coop up after the rainstorm--you know how conjugatin' them smoke signal verbs goes somethimes). It wasn't until Saturday mornin' that he reckoned it out correctly, and hightailed it South.

I was happier than a pig in a mudslide to see him, and he just cozied me off to my apartments in the Ranch House for some old fashioned comfortin'. That was Tuesday evenin'. On Wednesday mornin' I rolled over under my quilt a feelin' 'round for ol' Mason Dixson Lions, and there tweren't nothin' there but a handfull o' flannel sheets and the faint smell o' sagebrush. Seems he'd come in just to bring me some comfort, then mozied off 'fore sunup to get back to the herd.

Now, you and I are both a knowin' that I ain't never been a one to make a fool o' myself 'bout no cowboy, but wakin' up in that big ol' bed, all by my lonesome set me to some fierce cryin'. And the days followin' the storm had been powerful hard on my mind. 'Bout the only happy thing happenin' 'round me was the comin' of Chief and Daisy and the kids. I'm a thinkin' I was so a wantin' of comfortin' that when Mason showed up, it filled me with a joy that I wasn't 'spectin'. And when he left, it filled me with a woe that could near fill the Grand Canyon.

'Course, Chief says it's my hormones. And he's probably right. Says a body and a mind have to work together right, like the moon and the sun. Not neither one of them can take t'other's place in the sky, but sometimes, we try and make 'em do just that. And then we set nature off her cushion and a tumblin' on her fanny.

Chief says I'm in a place o' hurtin' and when Mason came 'round so unexpected like, it forced me into a place of feelin' good when I wasn't all done a hurtin' yet. Like a good night o' drinkin', it left me feelin' lower than I had 'fore I started. Chief's put me on a low-sodium diet and concocts some special herbal tea for me to drink twice a day for my nerves. It tastes like bear piss, but I is pickin' up some.

Chief says the morning will come soon, and the sun will shine on my head once again. He also says that men is full o' shit sometimes. That makes me smile.

Good ol' Chief.

Johnny came and yanked me out for some sharpshootin' the other day. Brought my spirts up some when I knocked over more soda bottles them him, but I think he was just bein' nice. When I told him what Chief said 'bout men, Johnny refered me to the Devil's Dictionary:

MAN, n. An animal so lost in rapturous contemplation of what he thinks he is as to overlook what he indubitably ought to be.

In other words, even if they's a meanin' well, they's still full o' shit.

Well, I gotta tend to my chickens. Come out and visit us on the ranch some time. Johnny would sure like t'see ya.

All my heartfelt regrds,
-Concha Loca
--------------------

Email Us:
The Stinkhorn Rodeo Riders enjoy readin'
your emails while they is sittin' 'round the
kitchen table. We will feature our favorites
every Tuesday in our Pony Express!

... when every leaf is a flower

2005-10-17T01:47:00.000-05:00

How. Favorite time is here. Autumn brings magic colors to land and crunchy whispers to the ground. Weather is cooler, but not too cold. Autumn smells of roasted corn and spice. Autumn promises brief, pleasant comfort before winter sweeps the ground clean, frozen with blankets of white. Autumn. No mosquitoes.

Daisy Dude say autumn remind him of last year’s election. Me say don’t spoil it. Daisy say autumn was time madman took office again under false pretenses. Me say why not remember summer--gay days at Disney. Daisy say autumn means three more years of tyranny. Me say let’s make cookies. Daisy say George Bush is the evil one, here to destroy our country. Me say me know, but why not watch college football.

On Election Day last year, Daisy and me adopted our first child. Her name is Koko, which is Blackfoot for "night." She is seven years old and African American. Daisy think her name spelled Cocoa (I know, but he is very good-looking). Koko has brought much joy to our wigwam. So much joy that in June--long before the summer burned bright--we adopted a five-year-old Asian boy. Daisy want to name child Hesutu, which is Miwok for "yellow jacket nest rising out of ground." But me say no. Me name him Jacy which means "moon." That way there is night with moon--the way it should be. Daisy say "whatever."

Many of you ask questions and I will try and answer. Many of you say: Why you name children, have they not names already? Yes, but children no like their names. Koko’s name was Jacuzzi and Jacy’s name was Hyundai. When I explain to them that these names were commercial products, they no like anymore. They agree to new names, new life. They very much love Chief and Daisy.

Many of you say: Why Johnny and Concha no mention these children before? They no mention because Chief and Daisy ask them not to. The world is a big beautiful place, but there are still dark corners where evil ones try to destroy good. Our family is our family. And we have to protect our family from those who fear us.

Many of you say: Then why you speak of children now? Because we no longer hide as if in shame. Weeks ago we face a terrifying force. Huge twister come from the sky and destroy everything we have--only Chief, Daisy, Koko, and Jacy survive. When in terrible danger, there is much courage. We survived huge enemy of the land and know how sacred life is. We no longer hide our family. We are strong. Also, Johnny and Concha are good friends and brave warriors. They provide shelter and will help Daisy and Chief protect little ones from wolves and coyotes.

Many of you say: Why do you adopt other races? Why not your own? Well... unless you no pay attention, Daisy and me not same race. Also, many people in world adopt children and--though they mean well--they spoiled. They say "We only want white baby, no black baby." "We only want smart baby, no dumb baby." "No crack-addicted baby, no HIV+ baby, no handicapped baby." So, you see, many baby left behind. Daisy and Chief feel sorry for babies. Children are children. All are welcome in our family.

Koko has a speech problem. Real small. We work therapy now with Lazy Lucy in the rodeo show. Soon Koko’s slurring will stop. She already improving.

Jacy was a crack baby. We love him but sometimes him crazy. He run around in circles going "Bang! Bang! You dead! Cowboys and injuns! Cowboys and injuns! Gonna scalp ya! Gonna scalp ya! Uuuuuuuun, uh, uh-uuuh. Uuuunnn, uh, uh-uuuuhh!
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!"

Sometimes it hard to love Jacy. Perhaps Daisy was right in calling him "Hesutu." But he has the spirit of fire within him and he cannot help it. He will grow to be a powerful man and we are here to tend to him. It is what the Earth has asked us to do. And you must listen to the Earth because she is everything. She is the nurturer of us all. She is warm, welcoming, and wonderful--but, she can also be cruel. So, it is always best to please her. Those that don’t will feel her wrath.

But I digress, this passage has been long, and I need to go prepare lunch for wranglers. Just remember to enjoy autumn while you can because it is brief. The smell in the air is the last gasp of our mother Earth before her frozen slumber. She is whispering to you. Remember me and I will return. Keep warm, prosper, and I promise to return with different shades of color. We will grow and change together with the seasons.

But autumn will always have a special place in my heart. Because the colors of autumn are the colors of my family.

Chief
--------------------

About the Writer
Chief Pocamanhole is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Rider and resident Chef.

The Ranch Is Mighty Busy

2005-10-14T23:50:00.000-05:00

Howdy, partners. Johnny Rawhide here. Got some news for ya'll about the happenin's here at the Ranch as we has all been as busy as a one-legged mule plowin' on forty acres of rocky soil. Let me get you caught up.

As a constant reader here, you know we often have a pile of work to see to so's the Ranch is in proper shape and the first of October always means we has all been a slavin' and sweatin' to get the spankin' new 2005 version of the Stinkhorn Rodeo Tour ready for kids and grownups. Each Tour has special new acts each year as well as the old favorites we perform, like the blind-fold barrel run and the Jumpin' Cowpoke Clowns who dive through a burnin' ring of fire and into a 30-foot stack of fresh-harvested hay. Sadly, Chester Alvaredo, our lead Jumpin' Cowpoke, fell and broke his ankle so all the lead chores went to a new member of the group, Memphis Melvin. Memphis kept a'missin' his mark for a bit and got set on fire two or three times, but by late Thursday he flew like one 'o God's own angels through that burnin' hoop.

That slowed us all up a mite, and then we had to audition us a new Jumpin' Cowpoke, what come to us from Laredo, name of Kansas Charlie. But the Jumpin' Cowpokes is sure to bring a smile to the most sourpuss in any audience. We scour the hills and valleys for quality and don't just grab some owlhoot like the stupid folk in Washington D.C. who fill ever job with somebody's cousin or secretary. We got standards.

Another brand new act what has been in the works for the last two summers under the guidance of the legendary Concha Loca is also ready to go. The Stinkhorn Rodeo will present and perform an act never seen before in this here country nor anywhere else. Concha has put together an act that Rodeo folk will be talkin' about 'round the waterin' hole for the next few years. Concha was written and directed a one-of-a-kind world premiere for this season. A full-on, all-chicken cast, and complete and unabridged production of William Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet".

This here show knocked my boots clean off last night at dress rehearsal. Them chickens has done one hell of a job and bring a whole new look to the old Bard's tragic tale of star-crossed lovers. Miss Maybelle Worts, the local schoolmarm herself was in the dress-rehearsal audience and I seen her shed more than a few tears and I even seen Lonesome Bill a sighin' and hidin' his face 'neath his Stetson to cover his sobbin' and wailin'. Shoot, I never knew a chicken could touch my own trail-hardened heart. I 'spect some them Hollywood movie-folk will be knockin' down the Ranch gate for a chance to make it into a movie.

So, with all this happenin' and all the packin' and loadin' boxes of props and vittles for all the critters and such, they just weren't no time this week to devote to the weekly Wiener of the Week Award. The sunny side of that piece of news means that a lot of low-down, dim-witted buckos gets a week of grace from us, and gets to dodge our dead-eye aim -- but we is already at work for next week's regular edition.

The Rodeo train is about to get under full steam and head to our first stop, over in Kokomo, Indiana and then for stops in east Saint Louis and Whapeton, North Dakota and points east.

Well, there's a heap of chores to do yet and I got to get to them. Be sure to keep a'readin the Rodeo for more news and facts and all the things we think you all want to know.

Adios and see you at the Rodeo
--------------------

About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

"Trust Me" Is An Ill Omen

2005-10-11T23:55:00.000-05:00

I was in town some weeks back, had some parcels to get to the Post Office and I noticed a crowd of folks circlin' a feller who was wearin' bright red galluses over a bone-white shirt and had these light-tan boots and pants that looked like his knees and thighs had all swole up somethin' fierce. Well, whenever I see a feller who don't wear denim who ain't sitting behind a desk, I get a gnawin' feelin' somethin' is askew.

By the time I took my horse Houston over to the livery fer some feed and a brush, and then come back by the PO, the crowd was startin' to boo and hiss and that feller started talkin' louder, "I can assure you" I heard him say. I just shook my head and kept to my business then, 'cause anytime I hear them words, I know that feller speakin' 'em is lyin' and likely to get run out of town on a rail.

"I can assure you" is a gold-plated way of sayin' "I am a lyin' with ever breath." If not, why do I need to be assured? 'Cause I got a whiff of bullshit, that's why. And HE knows that I know it.

This here little story don't mean much I guess, but it's what I thought of last week when I heard the President of the U.S. of A., George W. Bush, makin' a proclamation that sure sent a whiff of that ol' soured, stain-makin' bullshit towards my nose. Just about everyone got a whiff of it too, when the President held up this woman named Harriet Miers to be a new judge fer the Supreme Court. Hellfire, I know she's his attorney and such, and I think a few folk might have made a way for her to land that job--until that is, he started telling people to shut down their brains and just "Trust Me."

That's as close to sayin' "I assure you" as I can think of, and in fact, it's a little worse. I do think ever last one of us here in the Land of Liberty has been hornswaggled once too often by this President and his falsified ways.

"Trust me and we'll find a whole heap of Mass Destructive Weapons. Trust me and we'll find that bin Laden varmint. Trust me and I can fix yer Social Security. Trust me and I will leave no child behind. Trust me to win a war, save a flooded city, keep government small, save the world from Evil, make scientists teach the Bible lesson, keep jobs in America"...and on and on and on.

I try not to fret much over it. Empty-headed, foul-smellin', and parched promises or "assurances" or "misplaced trust" tend to get a feller into quicksand one way or another. It's sorta like that story about that little kid who kept on squallin' about varmints that weren't there and makin' everyone come runnin'. One day, a real varmint showed up and not one soul came when the boy went to cryin'.

Well, I got some chores to get to.
--------------------

About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Pony Express: Tuesday--October 11, 2005

2005-10-11T01:00:00.000-05:00

Every Tuesday, the Rodeo Riders over here at the Stinkhorn Ranch gather together their emails and share them with our readers.

October 5, 2005
hi
I was searching around, trying to scratch up some links swaps and I found your site. I really love the style of this blog, and on top of that, even though I know it’s written by an 88 year old man with no teeth, the feminine persuasion of this site is well, irresistible. Beautiful. Nice job there, Festus. I really do want a link swap. I’ll pass on the wife swap.

Sincerely,
Rev. Gisher

Howdy Do Reverend!
I'm right tickled that you are enjoying our blog, although I'm hardly 88 ('course, bein' of the "feminine persueasion," I don't make a habit of given out my years). I'm all cowgirl though--otherwise, o'l Mason Dixson Lions wouldn't look twice at me (and I do like it when he looks twice). There ain't been a Festus on the ranch since 1959, or so I'm told by Cross-Eyed Jack's grand-daughter. Ain't much to know about Festus other than he had a likin' for the bottle and the ladies. But I reckon that's true of several of the hands we have here on the Stinkhorn today (including a number of the cowgirls).

I've been a readin' over yer blog, and am more than happy to put yer link on our Friendly's list. Please do keep in touch.

I've gotta get these here chickens to their coop before sundown.

Adios!
-Concha Loca
(Note: The right Reverend's bog is Less People Less Idiots)

October 7, 2005
Dear Johnny -

I was thinking of taking my wife and two boys out for a camping trip and was wondering if you had suggestions for items that I should include in our gear. I own two Marmot Equinox tents, some Marmot sleeping bags, some inflatable mattreses, and some very nice Coleman cooking gear and coolers and lanterns.

What else should we take along?

Rugged in St. Louis

Dear Rugged,

From your the sound of it, you plan to eliminate one of the best parts of camping--sleepin' on the ground. Maybe your youngins' is too tenderfooted for the trail. Maybe you are too.

You also never said nothin' about how you are travelin' and I 'spose that means your drivin' in some motor-vehicle. Maybe you ought to rethink this plan of yours and take the kids and the missus to a nice hotel near one of them Disney playlands.

And you never said you had a coffee pot. I suggest you try roughin' it on yer own and camp somewhere your cell phone can still call Triple-A 'cause I bet you'll need 'em afore you're done.

Well, I got chores to do.

-Johnny

October 10, 2005
Dear Chief Pocamanhole,

You mentioned something about muffins in your post of 10/10/2005.
Would you share your favorite muffin recipe with Stinkhorn readers?

Thanks,
Martin the Muffin Man from Meridian

Yes. Chief like many muffins. Favorite muffin is Caraway Cheese Muffins. Taste good. Make Daisy horny. Recipe Easy:

Caraway Cheese Muffins

2 cups plain flour
1 T. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
¼ cup sugar
2/3 cup butter or margarine, softened
2 oz. grated cheddar cheese
2 tsp. caraway seeds
1 egg
1 cup milk

Combine dry ingredients. Cut in butter until mixture resembles a coarse meal. Add cheese and caraway seeds; mix until evenly distributed. Combine egg and milk. Add to dry ingredients mixing only enough to dampen dry ingredients. Fill greased muffin pans 2/3 full. Bake at 400 degrees for 25 minutes. Makes one dozen.

Good luck and watch out for hungry coyotes at your back door!

-Chief

October 9, 2005
Dear Concha,

My 11-year old daughter told me there are a gang of older girls at her school, ages 12-14, who are bullies and tease the other girls and make them pay for their lunches.

Short of running to the teachers and school staff, is there anything she could do to stop their harassment?

Mom in Minnesota

Dear Mom,

Few things in this here life is as unpleasant as public school. From my learnin', girls is a might meaner than boys. Boys, they jes' fight mano y mano, 'for turnin' 'round and bein' best pardners. But girls is sneakier and and craftier 'bout their meanness. They chase you right of the ranch with they's words, never levelin' a gun or any kind o' physical violence yer way.

Girls is like chickens: they has themselves a peckin' order. Littler birds can get
mighty beat up by bigger ones jes' 'cause t'other birds is little. That ain't right. So, it's up to ol' Concha Loca to let 'em know who the boss really is. I can't be there all the time, but I sure as heck make sure my chickens is in line when I am around. And if a ranch hand should notice any shenanigans goin' on around the coop, they come and tell me.

With that said, what in tarnation do you mean by "Short of running to the teachers and school staff...? Ain't that what they's there fer? Ain't they there to keep an eye on those chicks, to learn 'em right from wrong, to make sure they follow the rules, and to keep 'em from a hurtin' one another? Them teachers and school staff is the Conchas of the school coop, so you need to get yer bottom down there right away and let 'em know things ain't right.

Now, if them folks don't do nothin' 'bout the wrongdoins of these young critters, then you gotta a 'cause fer my advice.

My birds is a waitin'!

-Concha Loca
--------------------

Email Us:
The Stinkhorn Rodeo Riders enjoy readin'
your emails while they is sittin' 'round the
kitchen table. We will feature our favorites
every Tuesday in our Pony Express!

Hail to the Chief

2005-10-10T01:30:00.000-05:00

Stinkhorn Rodeo would like to give a big Howdee-Do to a new voice out here on the ranch: Chief Pocamanhole.

Many of you read about the rainstorm that blew down my special coop and all the sorrows I had with my chickens. Friday evenin' was mighty troublesome fer ol' Concha. Everyone was pitchin' in to help me and the chickens out, but I'm sad to report that some of my more delicate birds didn't make it through the storm.

Late Friday night, after sayin' a prayer over one o' my lady hens, I headed down to the kitchen for a bite to eat. I was mighty worn out and mighty hungry and was beside myself with the sadness that comes on from losin' someone ya love. I put some water on for coffee and sat myself down at the big ol' kitchen table for a respite. There weren't no one around at the time, as the hands were all out trying to right the wrongs the storm had caused. So, I found myself all by my lonesome there in the kitchen cryin' bitter tears.

Then, all of ta sudden, I felt a hand on my shakin' shoulder. When I looked up, all teary-eyed and wet-nosed, I was lookin into the most gentle and sweet eyes a body could be a lookin' into--eyes that held all o' my current sadness, plus a whole heap more.

And that is how I first came to meet the Chief. Seems he and his pardner, Daisy Dude, had come up on the ranch durin' the storm, lookin' for shelter. With all the raucous goin' on, no one seemed to notice the two new faces. Daisy had jumped right in to help with the coop rebuilding, and the Chief had made hisself useful in the kitchen, makin' sure all the hands were fed proper for the day (since Friday is my day fer a cookin', and I hadn't even thought o' food all day).

Without a word, the Chief made me up the best tastin' coffee the Stinkhorn has ever brewed, and then served me up some homemade cornbread with some honey-butter. Next he wrangled me up a fine salad with baby lettuce and heirloom maters and a tasty basil vinaigrette. It was the tastiest grub I'd downed in my whole time here at the ranch, and I told him so.

To make a long story short, the ranch now has an official cook (no more o' Johnny's Sunday Surprise Stew), a new ranch hand (Daisy is one o' the hardest workin' bodies we got), and the the Rodeo has a new rider.

I gotta tend to my birds. So now a word from Chief Pocamanhole...

--Concha Loca

How. Me Chief Pocamanhole. Me and squaw, Daisy Dude, settle here with wranglers when heap big twister destroy reservation. We not know if we go back. Reservation no more, and may no come back. We sad. But we have each other and that is something.

Big thanks and pass of peace pipe to Concha and Johnny. We like their ranch because it free-range. Healthy chickens and homos welcome. Some frown on Chief Pocamanhole and Daisy Dude--but we love each other. So what if we fart under same wig-wam.

Daisy say we need rights like others. I say what others? Him say regular folk. I say Chief never been regular folk--me always low on totem pole. But Daisy say he will help Chief be first class. Me say good because only class me know is 5th grade. But me do know some things. Me know spellcheck.

Daisy say he gonna be political activist. Me say fine, just wash hands often. He say he gonna make changes. Me say fine, just don't change. He say we gonna get married. Me say fine, but me no wear dress (look bad in white). He say he gonna be a spokesperson for generation. Me say watch Martha Stewart--she one smart white lady. He say he gonna make a difference. He Smile. We kiss. My tent peg gets big.

Me no understand why folks so riled up about marriage. Me watch different cultures. Me learn from cultures. America no learn from others. America no learn from mistakes. America has big head. Must be boss. America should borrow good ideas from other cultures. America should grow like maze in summer. Instead, America frozen in land of winter. America big pretty pinata with no candy inside. Me feel sorry for Iraq.

Me say we go to Canada. Spain. Sweden. UK. We seek progress. We make happy life. Be equal with others. Live. Grow. Thrive. Daisy say we no can do that. We must stay. America built on freedom. We must return America to its glory. Me say no. America killed my ancestors, burned their homes, stole their land. America is a motherfucker. He hold my hand. He smile. We kiss. My tent peg gets big.

So Chief stay. Daisy Dude have many things he want to do and Chief loves him. But Chief has many things to say. So, Johnny and Concha let Chief use range to make peace with America. This makes Chief smile. But this no make Chief's tent peg get big. Well, maybe a little.

Chief must go now. The sun has kissed the hills, the sky has drawn its shade, and Chief smell smoke. My muffins are burning! Before Chief go, he leave you with wise words:

Do take wooden nickels. They sell for big bucks on eBay.
--------------------

About the Writer
Chief Pocamanhole is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Rider and resident Chef.

Weekend Roundup--10/3/05 - 10/7/05

2005-10-08T16:00:00.000-05:00

Last Week at Stinkhorn Rodeo

Monday--October 3, 2005

Defining Moments
Bad manners is a certain potent of civilization slidin' down the riverbank, and some bad manners is plain criminal, and some plain manical, and some is just greed and corruption.
Reckoned by Johnny Rawhide

Tuesday--October 4, 2005

The Pony Express: Tuesday, October 4, 2005
Every Tuesday, the Rodeo Riders over here at the Stinkhorn Ranch gather together their emails and share them with our readers.
Reckoned by The Stinkhorn Rodeo Riders

Wednesday--October 5, 2005

Smoke Signals
Seems that different bloggers had the kindness to give us a nod...
Reckoned by Concha Loca

Thursday--October 6, 2005

Life and Death on the Range
Seems like livin' and dyin' and havin' babies is all in the government's purview here in the 21st century and that just ain't right.
Reckoned by Johnny Rawhide

Friday--October 7, 2005

Wiener Wrangler of the Week: Friday--October 7, 2005
Every Friday Stinkhorn Rodeo will choose from three no-account, no good, lowdown, rascally, bushwackin', varmits who've made this big ol' ranch we call The Earth a little less pleasin' to ride. The three "Candidates" will compete for the title of what we like to call, The Wiener Wrangler of the Week Award...
Reckoned by The Stinkhorn Rodeo Riders

Wiener Wrangler of the Week: Friday--October 7, 2005

2005-10-07T17:00:00.000-05:00

Every Friday Stinkhorn Rodeo will choose from three no-account, no good, lowdown, rascally, bushwackin', varmits who've made this big ol' ranch we call The Earth a little less pleasin' to ride. The three "Candidates" will compete for the title of what we like to call, The Wiener Wrangler of the Week Award...

We're a little slow getting things out today on the Rodeo. We had a doozy of a rainstorm last night that near blew down the bunkhouse and did tear up Concha's special chicken coop somethin' fierce. We'z all o' us been chasin' hens for nigh on 10 hours now, then we had to go and towel 'em off, and make special roosts 'em in the ranch house. Concha's all in a dither 'bout her birds, so we'z all pitchin' in to make the day a might easier on her. We already have a team of hands working on rebuilding her special coop, and another team is helpin' to keep the chickens calm. And a few of us hands realized, "Hell fire! We need to finish up the Wiener!" So all due apologies for the tardiness of this here post. Hope you all is havin' a fine day, whatever range ya ride.

Wiener Wrangler Candidate #1: Clarence "The Crib Creeper" White

Wanted For: Attemptin' to outright purchase a female yougin' so's to perform unnatural "biblical" acts... and for just not bein' right!

You can get yerself all sorts a mercantile at a flea market. Jenny Fivehats sells her fine handmade quilts down at the local swapmeet ever Saturday and brings home all sorts of interestin' oddities she has seen fit to barter. But I never done heard o' no one tryin' to get hisself a child for the purposes of sexual intercourse!

Back in August, the ol' "Crib Creeper" was visitin' a flea market up East Tennessee way with a whole list o' particulars for his intended purchase: she needed to be twixt the years o' 9 and 13, and she had to be a willin' to perform unequivocal bestial acts with him. The "Crib Creeper" then left his phone number if'n somebody got about findin' such a youngin'.

A lawman up that way got wind o' this and called up ol' Clarence, pretendin' that he had a yougin' for 'im. So, "The Crib Creeper" high-tailed it back up to the flea market where he was surprised to find a lawman waitin' with the paddy wagon.

Put forth by Concha Loca

Wiener Wrangler Candidate #2: Stacey "Black Bart" Campfield

Wanted For: Shootin' off his mouth and firin' wild into crowds of people in hopes of claimin' some nationwide publicity.

This idjit done had a record of offenses, includin' bein' a duly elected representative who shows up at rallies for the Governor and gets throwed out by deputies for disturbin' the peace, and also fer tryin' to bushwhack college teachers so's they only speak in ways he likes. (A reporter for UT's Beacon has a long history of the Tale of "Black Bart.") "Black Bart" hisself never "attended" college, but he did get hisself a paper from an on-line school what said he was 'educated.'

In claimin' he has a right to join the Black Caucus at the state capitol, he shot off his mouth, his foot, and shot at anyone else nearby with no thought fer consequences and no regrets for his words. He's a'gallopin' backwards in time, and he might jes' as well try and join the Girl Scouts, and lay claim he is a victim of sexism and ageism when they say no.

Oh, and Maybelle Worts, the nearby schoolmarm says he can't spell, which is obvious if you take a gander at his blog. She also says he has no manners, which is nigh on to a crime in her book. (She allows for my poor writin' skills, but says an Elected Official ain't a cowboy, though she doesn't use the word 'ain't'.)

Put forth by Johnny Rawhide

Wiener Wrangler Candidate #3: Bill O'Reilly

Wanted For: Attemptin' to quash free speech on the World Wide Web, and America.

This week, "Spinner" was runnin' full tilt at anyone who shares opinions or writes facts, claimin' that political blogs are destroyin' the fabric of Old Glory. He is yet another purveyor of foot-in-mouth disease.

"Spinner" calls folks "assassins" and "zombies" for reportin' how much hot water he got into after bein' sued by an employee, and fer tellin' readers how the truth gets stretched to wholly unknown shapes on his dog-and-pony show. He caterwauls like a wounded wildcat ever dang night, and claims he's a victim of one plot or another on a regular basis.

It's a basic freedom in this here nation to speak yer piece, and he sure does take advantage of that hisself. Trouble is, he wants you to jes shut up and think like he does. In this here nation, patriots call that kind of loco talk the act of a tyrant and a dictator.

Put forth by The Ranch Hands

And the Wiener is...

Stacey "Black Bart" Campfield
Some folks like "The Crib Creeper" ain't right in the head, and t'others, like "The Spinner" is just downright mean, but ol' "Black Bart" seems to have 'em all beat, bein' that he's an elected official and all.

Once't, a few years back, we here at the Stinkhorn Ranch 'lowd a feller to come be part of the Rodeo--Pete Sake. Now, Pete could talk a blue streak 'bout hisself and all he'd done 'for he got to the Ranch. But when time came to put nose to grindstone, Pete came up shorter than a 2-foot ladder tryin' to reach a 2nd story window. He didn't know nothin' 'bout ridin' ponies, but sure had a lot words to throw a cowboy's way. And though he didn't do a lick o' work 'round the ranch, he sure did take to tellin' us'ins the best way to finish our chores. The final straw came when he started botherin' Concha 'bout wantin' to be a Cowgirl and began messin' with her chickens. We t'aint never seen a body run so fast as Pete Sake when Concha went after the boy with her 10-foot whip a whackin' through the air louder then a gunshot.

There's all kinds o' stupid in this here world, but Stacey "Black Bart's" Campfield's particular brand o' dumb is about is irritatin' as a skeeter buzzin 'round yer ear in the middle of the night. Ol' Mr. Campfield thinks his smarts is champagne in a crystal goblet, when jes' one look'll tell ya he ain't nothin' but Yoo-Hoo in a Dixie Cup. He's more then a bubble left o' plumb, this varmit, tryin' to claim that the Black Caucus is racist 'cause it ain't got no room fer a peckerwood like hisself. They's even offered to let him be an honorary member if'n he'd just apologize for his wrong-headedness, but Mr. Campfield still ain't bitin'. But Concha's whip'll sure take a bite out his behind should he ever show hisself up Stinkhorn way. And you can count on that.
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Email Us:
The Stinkhorn Rodeo Riders would like to
know if you have any candidates worthy
of Wiener Wranglin'. Send us an email namin'
the varmit and why he or she is worthy of
bein' a Wiener, and we may just put up a
Wanted poster.

Life and Death on the Range

2005-10-05T23:30:00.000-05:00

Seems like livin' and dyin' and havin' babies is all in the government's purview here in the 21st century and that just ain't right. While folks is ponderin' how to pay the bills, gettin' li'l Sally and li'l Dusty into the right kiddy day school so they's can matriculate at the right college, and get hitched to the right corporation, decipherin' the operatin' instructions for their Humvees and Box-mobiles so they's can watch a DV and D while runnin' from one trading post to another -- while all that is blusterin' there's a mighty mean storm bearin' down.

The high sheriff's at the Supreme Corral are debatin' if it's okay for a dyin' patient and their personal medicine man to choose a peaceful way out of this here world. Voters up Oregon way has done voted twice to allow for it and make it the law of the land, but now there's this argument that it's the Washington folk who really have that right.

More than once, I've had to help some poor critter who got all bunged-up to have a quick and painless resolution. It never gets easy, but it's the plain ol' decent thing to do. Time was, a puny, dyin' feller and their family had some shot at dignity in their wanin' hours. Gets me spooked to think a feller might have to meet some new Federal law guideline for bein' qualified to be dead.

On t'other side of the river of life, there's this new proposal that anyone who wants to bear a child in Indiana would have to get a permit if'n they needed a doctor's help to do so. Jeez O. Pete.

Now any tenderfoot knows that kids get borned all the time into homes that ain't quite ready for 'em. There ain't no real way to know what to expect, even if Ma and Pa (or whoever) has done had a whole litter of sprouts.

It's just how folk behave and to create some new legal cowpile of rules means your own decisions don't count for scrub-brush.

Everybody seems so dang hell-bent on some mirage of perfection and folks, life ain't that way. Life and Death both are wild, loose and seldom tame. Seems mighty uppity to try and hobble Life and Death with some words on a paper. But the attempt is underway and that just chaps me somethin' fierce. Partner, if we don't start realizin' the Homstead is bein' stolen right out from under us, we'll all be havin' to get papers just to breathe and walk.

Ya'll ponder on that. I got some chores to get back to.

UPDATE:
Seems the Indiana official who wanted to restrict who could and could not have young'uns has decided to the proposed law was a poorly thought idea..
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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Smoke Signals

2005-10-05T04:30:00.001-05:00

As I mentioned before, I'm a busy cowgirl, ranch boss, and chicken whisperer, and don't often have the patience for interruptions that Johnny Rawhide seems to have. You wouldn't know to look at the feller, but Johnny sometimes has the exitability of a pinto pony with a burr under its saddle. So when he came mosying up to me yesterday (while I was working with some particularly skittish hens), I knew I was in for a grand interruption.

Now understand, Chicken Whisperin' is a delicate business, and when a body has spent weeks convincing some uppity hens to lay eggs, one doesn't like bein' pulled away from breakthrough moments. But I could tell by the twitch in Johnny's right eye that he was all hepped up 'bout somethin', so I left my special coop and followed him into the bunkhouse.

Well, there was Lonesome Bill and Jenny Fivehats and Makin Jorge all surroundin' the 'puter with big old smiles on their faces. I didn't rightly know what to think until Jenny piped up and said, "We been noticed!"

Seems that different bloggers had the kindness to give us a nod: Michael Silence over at No Silence Here and XXXXXXXX over at XXXXXXXXXXXXX (see Update). So the smoke signals have gone up and there are folks out there takin' note.

Well Yee Haw!

Keep on readin' folks. We love to have you come and sit around our campfire.

I have an early morning appointment with some ornery roosters, so I'll be talkin' at ya later.

UPDATE: 4:33 PM

Seems that one of the bloggers who took the time to mention us, don't want us mentionin' him. So, we here at the Stinkhorn have removed all tell of his blog and his handle. We wish him well though, and thank him for the mention.
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About the Writer
Concha Loca is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and resident Chicken Whisperer.

The Pony Express: Tuesday, October 4, 2005

2005-10-04T00:49:00.000-05:00

Every Tuesday, the Rodeo Riders over here at the Stinkhorn Ranch gather together their emails and share them with our readers.

Concha,
Can you identify yourself or at least tell me how I got an unsolicited subscription to your blog? It looks like a dandy and humorous blog, but I did not sign up for anything,

Randall

Well good day to you Senor B!

I'm gonna take your questions in reverse, if you don't care. I'm in a backwards kinda mind this fine day--I'm even teachin' the chickens to walk backwards. It's hard work changin' a chicken's way o' thinkin'. They is simple creatures, to be sure, but they is stubborn.

We here at the Rodeo sat down t'other day and made a list of folks we thought would enjoy readin' Stinkhorn Rodeo. We were gonna just send out an email, invitin' readers to come on over and sit a spell. Then it was that Johnny Rawhide discovered that if one puts a body's email address into the Bloglet link at the bottom of our fine page, well... they's signed up. After much cussin' and discussin', we agreed to take the sneaky way 'round and go the Bloglet route stead of the email road.

Now, of course, you is always free to go over to Bloglet and cancel your subscription to Stinkhorn Rodeo. Although it would make me a tech saddened, I would understand. It sure was a sneaky way of goin' 'bout things, and I sincerely give my regrets if it caused you any distress.

Now, as to identifyin' myself. There's a fine little page of my particulars right there in Blogger. Should tell tell ya all the necessaries 'bout me. I can't rightly fathom you forgettin' me, Senor Brown. I know I ain't seen much o' ya in the last few years, me out West with the Rodeo and such, but I don't reckon I've ever come 'cross a man that forgot ol' Concha Loca and lived to talk about it. The time may well come when you are invited to join the Rodeo, and I'd hate to think that you was only pretendin' to remember me.

Well, I gotta get back to tendin' to my chickens. People from far and wide is haulin' their chickens to the Ranch for to benefit from my particular skill. It's a lotta work, but a labor of love.

Don't be a stranger Senor B!

Yours,
Concha Loca

Dear Johnny Rawhide,

I've been to more than one rodeo, but I have always wondered what a "stinkhorn" really is. Can you share any details?

Signed,
Curious In Manassas

Dear Curious -
Everyone here at the Ranch is likely to have a different answer to your question, but you've asked me so here goes.

One way to explain is to tell you that there's an honest-to-Pete mushroom what stinks somethin' fierce and is hollow on the inside. Grows almost anywhere, but you'll often sight one o' these slimy stobs near the manure pile.

So to me, a Stinkhorn may be just that: a hollowed out, slimy, steeped-in-shit stinker.

When I first came to the Ranch, I heard half a dozen tall tales about who created the Ranch and why, but it ain't like we got a history book for sale in the Guest House. I started out as a hand here at the Stinkhorn some years back, and my Grandpaw told me that his Grandpaw knew a cowboy name of Colt Johnson who was a sharpshooter at the Ranch just 'afore the turn of the century, and Colt used to say a lot of cowboys thought the Ranch was a legend back then. Near as I can cipher it, the Ranch has been here since the 1820s and some of the tongue and groove floors in the main house are the finest hand-worked wood I've ever seen.

'Course our logo here on this World Wide Web location has been around here on the Ranch fer a mighty long time too and it suggests a meanin' that keeps us all chucklin' throughout the days and nights.

The Rodeo travels all over this ol' U.S. of A., and the best way to find out about us is just to mosey on by. We all is hard-wokers, friendly and mirthful, and welcome any stranger who ain't lookin' fer trouble.

Signed,
Johnny Rawhide

Dear Concha Loca,

No one has been able to help me with this problem and since you seem to be the kind of woman who can handle all kinds of issues at the Ranch, I thought I'd ask you.

My boyfriend for the last 11 years just found out I got married five years ago. My husband just discovered I have a checking account under another name that has $12,500 in it (I blame his sister at the bank for revealing that information).

What to do?

Sincerely,
Angel In Montgomery

Dear Angel,

Why, you sure are a busy little cowgirl, ain't ya? I can hardly keep track o' one man, let alone two.

My current beau (Mason Dixson Lions) spends a lot of time out on the range movin' the Stinkhorn Buffalo around the territory. Much of my time goes into the Stinkhorn and all the work it takes to run the place and take care of all the ranch hands, and my chickens are a constant chore, and I recently decided to take up specialized horticulture and am trying to grow me some of them tiny baby corns ya see in Chinese food. So I don't 'specially have the time or the want to devote all my worry to a cowboy.

But let me tell ya, whenever ol' Mason comes ridin' up to the Ranch, covered in traildust, smellin' of sweat and burnt sagebrush, wearin' them ol' chaps, swingin' his ten-gallon with all that long, black, curly hair a swirlin' around his head... well, I get a little weak in the knees. Mason's about all the man Concha can handle.

So first off, I'd say you need to get yerself a hobby: take up blacksmith work or take a trick pony class or somethin' equally as challengin'. With all your hours takin' up by your new hobby, you won't have as much time for the boys. Then you can make yerself a decision between one cowpoke or t'other.

As far as the $12,500 goes, ain't no man's business if you have yer own money. But only a dimwitted polecat would be a doin' her banking with her husband's nosy sister a peekin' at the numbers. Withdrawal the denaro and open up an account at some other banking establishment.

Hope that helps!

Hats off to you,
Concha Loca

Dear Stinkhorn Rodeo,
Are there any job openings at the Stinkhorn Ranch? I was wondering if the Ranch was hiring, and what do you pay?

Thanks!
Unemployed Urban Cowboy

Dear Mr. Cowboy,
There's always work to be done here at the Stinkhorn: stables need cleaning, fields need plowin', chow needs a cookin', animals need a feedin', fences need mendin'. There's always a need for someone to build a campfire at night 'neath the stars and a 'tother to stamp out the embers 'neath the morning sun. We used to have a feller named Fancy Darryl that tried to do the job of keeping Concha Loca in line, but he's sinced moved on to a less stressful career workin' for the bomb squad in the LAPD.

A lot o' jobs here at the Ranch, yeseree. Seems everyone has a specialty and everyone pitches in where he or she can. Everyone makes a dollar in their own particular and peculiar way and adds to the pot at supper. We take the Rodeo out now and again to raise funds to keep the revenuers away, and of course, there's always Concha's chickens. But there ain't nobody here handin' out paychecks to nobody. You earn yer keep 'round here at the Stinkhorn by pullin' yer own weight and helpin' out yer fellow ranch hand.

If you have an interest in bein' of service to the Stinkhorn Rodeo, please drop us an email, and we sure will consider takin' y'all on. It's BYOC (bring yer own chaps) 'round here.

Take care,
The Stinkhorn Rodeo Riders
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The Stinkhorn Rodeo Riders enjoy readin'
your emails while they is sittin' 'round the
kitchen table. We we will feature our favorites
every Tuesday in our Pony Express!

Defining Moments

2005-10-03T02:06:00.000-05:00

After the recent debate here at the Ranch about which lowdown owlhoot was gonna get the first Weiner Wrangler Award (see Concha Loca's missive on Friday last) I was left with my own thinkin' about these yahoos and how they seem awful typical of folks in elected and appointed seats of power.

It ain't hardly news how some like to bend the rules and regulations to serve themselves and kick the rest of us off the chow line. Bad manners is a certain potent of civilization slidin' down the riverbank, and some bad manners is plain criminal, and some plain manical, and some is just greed and corruption.

Seeing all them good folk down along the port of New Orleans and in the mudlands of Missisippi peerin' over the the heaps of rubble and trash for sign of aid stuck in my craw. And they was patient and kept on waitin' for the Cavalry that never arrived. And then here at the Ranch, I was watchin' the color TV last week and saw the man named Brownie, who was 'posed to head up the emergency relief shakin' away his failures and stampedin' blame in direction of the folks who had already lost so much--it left me kind of perplexed.

We've had more than one disaster at the Ranch, like the time Ned Fly got Concha's chickens all riled and some got loose and were never seen again, or worse, that time Shady Nebraska and Lonesome Bill got in a drunken brawl over a gal named Sally Hawkes from the Last Chance Hotel, and knocked down a lantern in the barn--the rest of the buckaroos at the Ranch all throwed in and doused the fire, even though I weren't there to tell them. It's their ranch too. And both of 'em stood in the kitchen after with heads hangin' and their Stesons in their hands and declared they was to blame and no one else--them 'pokes almost fought over who was MOST to blame. Shady and Lonesome are still here at the Ranch, but we never saw Ned again after he went searchin' for them chickens. Guess he knew to come back with somethin' or not at all.

I had to change the station on the color TV when Brownie kept lyin' like a pig in mud on a hot day, and then I seen this here advertisement for another government agency that calls itself Homeland Security. I seen these little youngins all frettin' and askin' their mommies and daddies what to do if some god-awful thing were to happen, askin' who to call and where to go. And the fella reading the advertisement says: "everybody ought to talk about what to do in an emergency."

Well, shoot--how much do we pay these varmints to tell us that? I am positive them advertisements on the color TV ain't cheap and tax money is what gets spent to pay the tab. All them folks up in Washington--and in too many other statehouses and county seats--can do is tell us, "Ya'll better have plan."

I know finding someone so full of sand they could dry up the Missouri River if they touched it ain't hard to do. Most regular folks do the right thing 'cause they was brought up right and not just raised. Pickin' out the names of those who ended up useless as teats on a bull's forehead has become a wearisome task. Once the farm has been run to ruin, you'd best be thinkin' of what's comin' at you next. 'Fore you know it, someone will come knockin' at your front door, with promises they can do better and wantin' you to sign on for another trail to nowhere.

When I was a sapling, old Ben Two-Shoes, who got stuck on a bare and bitter reservation 'cause of so many broken treaties, told me a Politician has eyes that see things that ain't real. How in hell can a body predict what a phantom from a ghost world will do?

There's a fellow from way back named Ambrose Bierce, who onct wrote a dictionary himself, which kind of explains how a Politician sees this world. And here is what he wrote:

PLAN, v.t.
To bother about the best method of accomplishing an accidental result.

He also defined another word which these owlhoots up in Washington use all the time and here is what Mr. Bierce wrote:

RESPONSIBILITY, n.
A detachable burden easily shifted to the shoulders of God, Fate, Fortune, Luck or one's neighbor. In the days of astrology it was customary to unload it upon a star.

Alas, things ain't what we should see
If Eve had let that apple be;
And many a feller which had ought
To set with monarchses of thought,
Or play some rosy little game
With battle-chaps on fields of fame,
Is downed by his unlucky star
And hollers: "Peanuts! -- here you are!"

"The Sturdy Beggar"

I got chores to do. See ya'll later.
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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Wiener Wrangler of the Week: Friday, September 30, 2005

2005-09-29T23:07:00.000-05:00

Wiener Wrangler Candidate #1: Michael "Brownie" Brown
Wanted For: Allowin' entire American cities to suffer needless distruction and then blamin' every high sherrif in the territories for his addle-pated decisions. Ol' Brownie did one heck of a job as the ranch boss over at FEMA... a heck of job. All of of us 'round the table know he didn't start no hurricane all by his lonesome, but he sure screwed the pooch after the fact. Boy couldn't even hold down a job managin' a bunch o' uppity horses for a collection of wealthy land barrons. We here at the Rodeo don't cotton to people who can't even handle a horse!

Wiener Wrangler Candidate #2: Bill "Virtue" Bennett
Wanted For: Promotin' the slaughter of children (never mind what color they is) in a neffarious scheme to reduce the crime rate. How in Sam Hill the one time education leader of the nation could fall so far afield has all of us her at the Stinkhorn scratchin our collective Stetsons. To actually verbalize... gosh, they ain't no pretty way around what he done said. He outright put forth the proposition that if African American cowgirls aborted their babies, we'd all be a whole lot safer. Now that's just crazy talk. Ol' Johnny can't hardly get his head around the notion. (I had to personally prevent Johnny from ridin' off to perform a "late term abortion" on Mr. Bennett.) For a man who scribed a tome reckoned The Book of Virtues to utter such unvirtuous hog slop has us (and the chickens) pretty riled.

Wiener Wrangler Candidate #3: Tom "Bugman" DeLay

Wanted For: Conspirin' to allegedly launder cash money so it would reach the deep pockets of corrupt Texas politicians. Whew! This fella here... son of a bitch! Where does a cowgirl start? The list of offenses is longer than North Dakota Pete's grandpa's beard (and that's long, let me tell ya...). He's been an arm-twistin', card-sharkin', slippery-handed, double-talkin', single-minded, judge-hatin', law-breakin', bottom-feeder who probably would have no compunction 'bout takin' candy from a baby. (Around the Ranch, we call that a "politician.") But now it seems that the Texas law has done caught up with this "duly elected representative" of the people, and ol' Bugman ain't takin' kindly to it. Even if he never does see the inside of the Crossbar Hotel, his days of ridin' roughshod may be numbered.

And the Wiener is...

Bill "Virtue" Bennett
While Mr. Brown and Mr. DeLay are equally worthy of Wieners, they both hold difficult positions on the big USA Ranch, and they have made mistakes befittin their positions. But Mr. Bennett made a Texas-sized error when he ain't nothin' more than a Rhode Island-sized figure. With crime in this here country at a 30-year low, Mr. Bennett committed one of the biggest crimes we here at the Stinkhorn can't rightly forgive: bein' too ignorant to know when to keep yer piehole shut.
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About the Writer
Concha Loca is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and resident Chicken Whisperer.

Campfire Tale

2005-09-29T18:00:00.000-05:00

I was sitting by the campfire a few weeks back, listening to it crackle and to the constant chatter of all the little night critters and the sighs of the wind. It never ever feels like I'm alone at those times. 'Course, there's Huston, my horse, and sometimes we sorta converse with looks and such. At night the big bowl of the sky is full of lights and I noticed that from the smallest, weakest light of the stars or the ripple of noise from crickets crossing the canyons or the patter of other nocturnal critters, all I see and hear is full of life.

In the distance, I note a haze of light on the horizon from a nearby town. Yeah, I could have just used a truck from the Ranch for this supply run, but I like it outside and me and this here mare do fine. Might take a bit more time to make the journey, but sometimes that's the best way.

Maybe you've noticed it too--how some folks in a town, with all the shiny things the modern world brings, still act skittish, almost like they're scared or plain lonely and miserable. I hear all kinds of folk talking about "values"--America ain't got "family values", they say, and I chuckle. Outside here it's obvious. There's only one family and it's all of us and all the critters and the folks in towns in other countries or on a boat at sea or just a feller and his horse under a stand of trees sitting by a fire.

There's a lot of rush and busy in the world at times, and it's easy to think some swirl in the river is gonna pull you down, especially if you panic. And we all know there's some folks that like to stir up panic so they can do one thing--make money on it.

About two years back, I went to see some friends who have this cabin near the Rocky Mountains. Both these folks work as rangers and they have seen some astonishing things in the wild and they know a lot of history about the mountains. One night, we went into this big fancy hotel lodge place, 'cause they have a high-dollar restaurant and we felt like spending some money and eating little bits of food served on big plates. Gourmet they call it.

The three of us were having a big ol' time, and suddenly I note this fellow walkin' in the room. I recognized him as a businessman from back out my way, always has his picture in the newspaper and is what I call an Industrialist. He works to pave over every living thing to build big manufacturing plants, makes the government steal land from owners so he can make money, says its to give jobs to people, but he makes side deals to keep the paystubs fer a worker awful small--kinda like them little bits of food on the big plates. He engages in Deception.

He is struttin' in like he's the cock of the walk, and I nearly busted a gut laughing. Fer some reason, maybe cause he was near the wild mountains here, he decided to play dress-up and act like a cowboy. Had him on a pair of boots that ain't never touched nothing but pavement and hotel carpet. Had a pretend ten-gallon cowboy hat on too, and even then the little man barely hit five foot five. Hell, half the folks in the place were snickerin' at him with their hands up over their mouths. Looked like a bloated midget clown made out of pointy toes and a big hat.

I noticed too, he sure never had his picture in the newspapers looking that way.

Now see, I know, even a stupid and criminal a man as this is part of my family, same as ever other thing in this world. But he thinks the only family he's got his him, his wife, and his kids. He sees me as an enemy, I know, cause he parses the world into little camps of the Worthless and the Worthwhile. I feel a little sorry for him as I watched him struggle in them boots. I know he can't wait to get to his big suite of rooms, loaded with fake cowboy crap and looted icons from Native Americans, so he can pull off his boots and rub his fat feet and pop off his pants from his fat belly and watch stock reports on his color TV. He is such a pretend man, even he don't know who he is.

As I was sitting out here by my campfire and thinking of that night and that little man, I realized if you left a fellow like him outside at night in the wild with a decent pocketknife and a book of matches, he'd still likely die of exposure by morning.

He's already lost and out here in the real world, why he'd be even quicker food fer the coyotes. Funny how even a lost, fat, little man in an owlhoot hat can contribute to "Nature," even if he was to fall by the wayside.

Shoot, at least I know that much. I'll see ya'll later.
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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.

Moon Over My Enemy

2005-09-28T08:00:00.000-05:00

A few weeks back, I was sitting beneath the luxurious September sky to gaze upon the full moon. After weeks of hurricanes, FEMA debacles, love-life bewilderments, an unexpected death in the family, general struggles with all my demonios personales, and a cranky ol' heard o' hens that Johnny Rawhide brought to the bunkhouse... well, lying beneath the restorative glow of la luna de la madre was a welcomed respite. I love a full moon, and was happy to find some fellas whose love for the oft written of orb had inspired them to finance a trip to our nation's capitol. 'Cause after all, if you can't send ol' W to the moon, you oughta send the moon to ol' W.

MoontheWhiteHouse.com is the brainchild of Jon Rosenberg, Phillip Karlsson, and Jeff Anbinder, three self-described "average, whiny, liberal New Yorkers" who "like to drink beer" and "make bad puns." These enterprising boys are hoping that if enough people donate a dollar, they can afford a trip to Washington, D.C. where they will Moon The White House.

We believe that President Bush and his administration have been trampling the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, the cornerstone upon which our great United States of America is founded. They have branded those who would speak freely as traitors, and clamped down on civil liberties whenever convenient in their pursuit of higher poll ratings and distractions from the failing economy and the crimes of their corporate cronies.

In protest, we are planning to embrace the First Amendment with the most powerful act of speech available to us--the Moon. Be a patriot--please help us defend our hard-won freedoms by donating a dollar or more. When we reach our goal of $10,000, we'll go to Washington D.C. and Moon The White House--for all of us. For America.

Now, I don't reckon I'd like Mr. Bush to be peeking at my round and sassy, but I sure support any organization (or facsimile thereof) that wishes to go ass to ass with that sissy of a Connecticut cowboy. Not that Mr. Bush sticks around for them sort of shenanigans. He sure made a point of high tailing it to Texas when Cindy Sheehan and her crew took a notion to circle their wagons 'round ol' Casa Blanca. And if the law has a hankerin' for haulin' a mom off to the pokie just for sitting on the sidewalk, what could these three young fella be looking forward to?

'Course, if these here cowpokes shouldn't happen to reach their $10,000 goal by the time Bush leaves office, they won't simply pocket their hard-begged dollars; they plan to purchase El Presidente "a small but tasteful gift" and hold a shindig for all the donors. So tomorrow I'm sending 'em a crisp new George Washington. I'll also be polishing up my best boots just in case I get invited to the hoedown.
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About the Writer
Concha Loca is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and resident Chicken Whisperer.

Howdy!

2005-09-27T14:20:00.000-05:00

Welcome to the Stinkhorn Ranch. Plenty of acres here for ramblin', and plenty of livestock to look after. But it's the Stinkhorn Rodeo that has found fame for many a year and now we've decided to bring all the 21^st century technology to the Ranch, and that means the Rodeo is now available in every hometown. The Rodeo has been entertainin' folks from New York to New Mexico, from Hollywood to Nashville and even over at Dolly's world in Pigeon Forge.

That means we've seen a bunch of this here country and seems that some folks been selling us all out and selling you a heap of stupid, claimin' it was smarts. The Rodeo Riders shoot straight and true. And we aim to make sure this country we all call home keeps its only one, true, single foundation: Freedom.

We've seen tinhorns and cardboard cowboys try and take advantage before, and we don't stand for it and never will. Like they say, a lotta folks is all hat and no cattle.

The Rodeo also knows everyone loves a good time and good feelins. As long back as anybody can remember, the show provided by the Stinkhorn Rodeo will leave a smile on your face. Life is short, pardners, and while it may take 42 muscles to frown, it only takes four to give you a punch. But if you keep yer eyes steady, don't take no guff, and know that everyone is welcome at the Rodeo, why, things will be fine.
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About the Writer
Johnny Rawhide is a Stinkhorn Rodeo
Ranch Boss and designated Sharp-shooter.