A Hole In One

Out he went with his dream to make the changes

And strapped to his waist was the old 45.

The star he wore was made of tin but his heart was gold

And from that heart his dream stayed alive.

But on that day when the sun stood still and the birds ceased their song

He drew that old black powder Colt a millisecond too long.

Oh it discharged a chunk of lead alright, about 250 grain,

But after one small ricochet it landed in his brain.

The whole town mourned for weeks and weeks o’er the grave up on boot hill,

“Here lies the man with heart of gold, and head with leaden pill.”

He may have been right you know, his heart and all that stuff,

But being the fastest draw in the West does not mean you’re so tuff.

He should made the ones he loved a safe place for to lodge,

Instead he spent his days in the sheriffs office in the the city they call “Dodge”.

Dodge he did, all his life, the bullets, cursings, kids and wife.

He was was known for keeping law, but his home was always absent, “Paw”.



The Christmas Ape

The Christmas ape is not your friend,

Just kick his big baboon rear-end.

He will climb your Christmas tree

& give your dog some primate fleas.

Last year he came on Christmas Eve

& threw his scat at Uncle Steve!

Oh I am ready this year though,

to ward off any chimp-like foe.

I have a slingshot close at hand

with extra-strong type rubber bands.

When he shows up in festive clothes

I will whack him on the nose

with anti-ape ammunition

From my sling with great contrition.

So if you’re in my neighborhood

and see him running through the wood

It is not Bigfoot that you spy,

Nor abominable snowman passing by;

It is the Christmas Ape instead

With his swollen nose of red.

And if my story you don’t believe

Just go inquire of Uncle Steve.


(The potato has nothing to do with Christmas, just like an ape.  However, it is here to remind us all that no primates were hurt during the creation of this fine piece of holiday poetry.  Next time you see a potato you will sub-consciously remind yourself to be kind to apes.  This is good.  It is wise to keep potatoes on hand Christmas as they are great for filling those empty spaces in Christmas stockings.)

Please share if you like. Share if you don’t like.  Let’s fill the internet bloggery with the great ape message, no one needs to hear.

Be the Balm


I have an itchy, scaly scalp: dermatitis technically.  I know you are repulsed to hear my deep dark secret that I have hidden for years.  This is not a crippling or life-threatening disease but it has lasted for a decade and I am tired of it.  I have tried medical prescriptions,  apple cider vinegar, olive oil, Vicks, Lucky Tiger Salve, and everything short of 10w30 to relieve the scabby, scaly, snowdrift that covers my topknot.

Today I tried something new called “beard balm”.  Truly, a millennial market has inspired this product as the younger set is into looking dapper with whiskers.  A nice change from my generation of burly, mountain man, rock & roll freaks with hair everywhere and now that we are old, in our ears, nose, and places we never dreamed of complete with dermatitis.

I’m over it for years.  My hair is short and my beard only ever gets an inch long before it is trimmed.  I like being well-groomed, or should I say well… groomed.  Beard balm smells wonderful & it is a combination of bees wax and natural oils that leaves your beard manageable, and for me who puts it in his hair, the itch seems relieved for the moment and I am a happy camper.  I feel like one of the girls I see on the hair product commercials; if only I could swing my hair and beard slowly in the air as they do.  Sigh.

Anyway, what I know is that the dermatitis remains & it is just soothed momentarily until the balm wears off.  In the meantime I plan to enjoy the outdoorsy smell beneath my nose and the well-groomed look of the man in the top hat, minus the coat & tails.  Thank you millennials for restoring my faith in the barber shop and all that.  It has given way to a bunch of guys who for years wanted to cut their hair and look nice, but for fear of being uncool put up with the Duck Dynasty look.

But you know we all struggle with the itch.  If not dermatitis, the falseness of having to be like everyone else in order to be independent.  Talk about an oxymoron!  Have you noticed that we seldom do things just because we want to, but because everyone else does it (trends).  When I was thirty the only people with tattoos were vets and gang members, now the minority is tattooless.  Same goes for hair color: women seldom got their hair dyed because it was so “noticeable” that you were trying to hide something.  Today even children get their hair colored.  Then there’s piercings, need I say more?!

I have started a trend by putting beard balm on my head.  Only I have done this, no one else.  Thus far I claim my independent look and smell from all the other geeks.  I am the originator of scalp-balming.  If ever you hear of someone else doing this I WANT FULL CREDIT.  I shall call it “woodticledness”.  People will see and smell you coming and say, “O wow, he’s into the woodtic thing: that is so boss!”

No tattoos; no piercings; no hair color; just beard balm on the head.  So cool.  Get it now while it still a show of your uniqueness.  Be woodtic.  Be the balm.

NEW PEOPLE GROUP DISCOVERED: Uncultured & Pagan Practices

You may have heard of this, but in case you have not I’d like to share the way a certain obscure people group behave during the harvest season.  Missions organizations have been studying this phenomenal behavior pattern for years.

At the end of the year while everyone else has been working hard to support their families, the tribesmen from various villages throughout the land appoint certain aspiring young warriors to something mysteriously attractive to all the men folk.  These warriors train all year, buffeting their bodies to the point of exhaustion in order to participate in the season long contest.

Once this ritual begins, the women take care of all the chores and duties of the home until the men are satisfied with the tribal outcome of victory.  The men gather in huge crowds to watch the young warriors clash for at least two hours until the ritual ends.  Bloodied and bruised they meet again and again until the strongest tribe finally wins, but this is not settled in a few days; this takes months to decide.

There are colorful garments and headdresses the warriors wear that make them appear fierce and larger than life.  The men from the villages line the area wearing similar colors of the warriors depicting their tribes.  Faces are painted and some will paint their whole torso in bright colors as they shout for their warriors.  Some have tattooed themselves with tribal designs which they will wear for life.

A word about these warriors:  They are rewarded handsomely for their service and are not expected to do anything else in the tribe except participate in the ritual.  Although the rest of the tribesmen work hard and long hours, they gladly turn over large gifts that cost them days or even weeks worth of wages.  There are rulers among the tribes, but few of them, even their military men, are as rich as the warriors of the ritual.

Now the strangeness of this is that the winning tribe appoints a certain man to take an animal skin bladder filled with air and move it past the other warriors while he is severely attacked by the opposing warriors.  He is defended by his own tribal warriors, but is often unsuccessful and sometimes physically injured.  For this reason many of the warriors do not make it past their 30’s before they are replaced by younger men.  If the man makes it past the other tribes, he then appoints another to kick the bladder over a tall slender altar at the end of the field, which must mean, he offers the win to the gods of the tribes.

Some believe this game was handed down by aliens from whom the tribes may have been birthed.  There are often voices heard and bright lights observed during this ritual war that seem to come from nowhere.  So perhaps this belief has some credibility, but it is not likely.  There are also what appear to be women dedicated to the tribal gods who encourage their warriors with chants that seem to excite some of the village men even more than the ritual itself.

All of this seems so puzzling to us but makes complete sense to them.  The crowds of people scream and chant as the ritual goes on, week after week until a tribe claims the trophy:  A silver idol elongated and on a small stand.  Anthropologists are beginning to believe it is the very shape of the alien’s head that birthed this people group.  We of course believe it represents the hopelessness of this people group.  We need to reach them, they are obviously lost.

A word to the wise:  What we have observed in our studies is strangely attractive, especially to the men who did the study.  We encourage you not to get involved in the barbaric activity of these tribesmen, nor support the actions of those who observe the ritual as they are uncultured an unlearned.  We who have progressed know better than to involve ourselves in such paganism.

(this is an allegory, just sayin; intended for fun)