Cock-A-Doodle-Do & Glitter My Sack

Thanksgiving has come and gone. Meaning we are now officially in Christmas season. A season rife with traditions. And what is a tradition. Nothing more than a glorified rerun. So in honor of my own tradition here at ONE WORD I am rerunning this post which I modify and tweak each year before reposting as a service announcement.

Last night I did something I rarely do. No, I did not eat any green leafy vegetables. I said something I RARELY do, not NEVER do.

I plopped down on the couch and watched TV. All night long. I didn't read, I didn't write, I didn't even ponder the comings and goings of the characters in my stories. I simply shut down my brain and watched the boob tube. And Network TV to boot. This morning, I am dumber for the experience. (Actually last night I watched my beloved New Orleans Saints kick the tinsel out of her, New York Giants, but like I said this is a old post so play along)

Here is a rundown of what I saw.

A Muppet Christmas special called Letters to Santa. As a former Fraggle Rocker I can appreciate Jim Henson's creation, but this one lost me right from the get-go, when they opened with a big musical sing-a-long at the New York City Post Office. Trust me when I say, "Ain't nobody singing and dancing at the ol' PO this time of year." Or any other as far as that goes.

And another inaccuracy. There wasn't any glitter in the air. This time of year all of us that work on the mail sorting equipment look as if we've just returned from a stripper convention in Vegas.

That's right. All that shiny glitter you attach to your Christmas cards ends up in the bottom of the PO's automated machinery and when I have to change a belt or whatever, I come away looking like the love child of Tinker Bell and Sasquatch. So do all us Postal employees a favor and save the glitter for your kids school party, or help out an exotic dancer and donate it to your local gentleman's club.

After the Muppets, we joined an in progress Christmas story about a little orphan girl, an elf, a polar bear, and a fox all looking for Santa's sack. Okay, maybe my mind us filthier that a reindeer turd, but couldn't the writer's have called it Santa's bag instead of sack. And did the fabric have to be flesh colored? And did the animals have to crawl out of said container and say, "Santa needs to do some housecleaning because that is one nasty sack?"

Jay Leno narrated and Brad Garret and Norm McDonald both voiced characters in this poorly written kids story.

But wait, it wasn't just the shows that were bad. Let's talk about the commercials. Particularly the pharmaceutical ads. Is it really appropriate to advertise Cialis, an erectile dysfunction med, during a childrens show? Especially one about Santa's sack? And why do those people have not one, but two, bathtubs in their back yard? And I thought the whole point of taking Cialis was to share ye olde yuletime log. How can you do that from the comfort of you own backyard tub? Wouldn't they need to be in one tub together in order to jingle their bells. Am I alone in these thoughts?


And then there was the one about the insomnia aid Ambien. No wonder that woman can't sleep she has a rooster roaming around freely inside her house. Instead of wasting her money on pills she should invest in screens for her windows. Or maybe she's tossing and turning because she went to bed hungry. A big chicken dinner would probably solve all of her problems. Don't you think?

UPDATE on Cialis ADS

Last night I spied a Cialis ad where a dude was pitching an actual tent. Now that is a subtle message about the drug's capabilities. I wonder if next month they'll have a fireman polishing the big brass pole down at the station. Or a zookeeper doling out corporal punishment to an unruly monkey? Maybe a farmer giving the Heimlich to a chicken with grain caught in its throat? Maybe they can get the same fowl from the Ambian ads?

 

What does a weasel look like?

Good Times

I've put off this post far too long but I wanted to give more of y'all a chance to read THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES before I posted these pics.

I am extremely blessed to have a great wife as well as very good friends. Together they tossed me a party in honor of TFC's release.

Without further adieu I bring you the photographic evidence of a very fun night for me.

I APPRECIATED THE THOUGHT BUT THAT GIANT ASS PICTURE DID STRIKE ME AS FUNERAL-ESQUE

 DON'T KNOW WHY BLOGGER DECIDED TO LOAD THIS SIDEWAYS BUT SEEING AS TO HOW MOST OF THE ATTENDEES FINISHED THE NIGHT SEEING SIDEWAYS PERHAPS IT IS APPROPRIATE. THE EVENT WAS HELD AT BAR Z WINERY JSUT SOUTH OF AMARILLO.

I'M STILL GETTING USED TO THE WHOLE "SIGNING" THING BUT NOT THE PEARL BEER BOTTLE. ALSO NOTE I AM ACTUALLY DRINKING SHINER

IT'S ABOUT HERE THAT SOME OF THE PHOTOS GET FUZZY. AGAIN LIKE MOST OF THE ATTENDEES. THE LIGHTS IN THE HORIZON ARE AMARILLO.

NOTICE THERE IS NOTHING GREEN ON THOSE PLATES.

I FOUND IT QUITE FUNNY THAT PARTICULAR QUOTE WAS BEING WORN BY A DOZEN OR SO WOMEN 

SO HERE THEY ARE. MUCH OF THE GANG THAT HELPED TO INSPIRE THE BOOK. (FROM RIGHT TO LEFT  WITH THE NAME YOU WOULD KNOW THEM AS) - DOYLE, LAURA, JENNIFER, ME, HOUSTON, DALLAS, AND AUSTIN'S STUNT DOUBLE)

 LIZ AND DEE THE POWERS THAT BE AT TAG PUBLISHING AND THERE HUSBANDS WHO I'M CERTAIN WIELD THEIR OWN BRAND OF POWER (when Liz and Dee allow for it)

MONTY, THE OWNER AND PROPRIETOR AT BAR Z. AS YOU CAN SEE, HE TOO LIKES TO SPIN A TALE OR TWO

MY WIFE JENNIFER, LISSA, AND MY SISTER-IN-LAW STEPHANIE.  NO, I DIDN'T BREAK HER ARM BECAUSE SHE REFUSED TO SPORT A PEARL'S SHIRT AND PEARL NECKLANCE IN MY HONOR

ME AND "DOYLE" SURROUNDED BY FAR BETTER LOOKING WOMEN THAN FREQUENTED THE FEEDSTORE. THOUGH THAT EXPRESSION ON LISSA'S FACE IS PURE FEEDSTORE ECSTASY.
 

HERE IS A GANG OF PEOPLE READING IN AN ATTEMPT TO FIGURE OUT WHAT EXACTLY "YOU WANNA HELP ME FEED THE CHICKENS?" MEANS.

ME AND THE FAMED DEBORAH ELLIOTT-UPTON

ME AND MONTY DIXON THE MAN BEHIND BAR Z WINE.

Pearls

I'm always taking pictures on my phone of things that at the time I think ... that will make a funny or at least interesting tidbit for the blog. Then I forget what I was going to say or I simply never figure out a way to build a post around the image.

So today I'm going to toss out a few of these ...

I have no idea why taking a shot of my oldest son dangling beneath a bronze gorilla's bung seemed like a good idea, but here it is.

From an Ape's ass to a pig's. The segue makes sense here but again not sure why I've save this photo in my phone. 

What is it like to live here in the Texas Panhandle? ...

Some days it's hot ...

Others it is cold ...

 I believe I was bothered that they actually had to print instruction on how to pull a paper towel from this apparatus.

Rub and Buff? You think there is a warning on the back of this product about going blind after prolonged use?

This product sounds more like a venereal disease than anything I want spread on my sandwich.

This is the logo from a  local  Christian school. I know many fine people who send their kids there and I'm sure the staff is excellent as well as the education received there but every time I see this logo I ask why they chose sperm as their mascot.

Should I be offended that despite being under 40 they did not card me?

If you are a weight loss franchise do you really want your name associated with big rotund items like hot air balloons?

Deck the halls. Beer halls that is.

And last, but certainly not least, I offer photographic proof that I have the greatest wife in the world.

Those who have not read THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES might not get the reference but those that have have to appreciate the fact my wife had these shorts made for herself and a few other friends at the release party last week where they were so popular that she ended up taking orders from others who wanted one. The front reads Pearls Feed and Seed and they are quite fetching along with vulgar in a very subtle way.

And yes, that is a Pearl Necklace she was wearing in honor of the book and my twisted sense of humor.

SAVE TRAVIS OR HE ONLY GETS LEAFY GREENS UNTIL I RELEASE HIM

I know, I know you all opened this page to read the words of the monster sized man from Amarillo and you wound up with me instead and as you sit there scratching your head wondering who the hell is this? I said to myself…well if you’re going to be that way then I should explain.

My name is Mark Durfee AKA The Walking Man and I live in Detroit. I am a poet without much of a sense of what poetry is, except poetic justice.

Four years ago there was a mayor in Detroit named Kwame Kilpatrick, he was busted for lying under oath during a lawsuit and in the course of events it was discovered that not only had he been schtuping his chief of staff, but about a half dozen other women, none of them named Carlita which happens to be his wife’s name. Now once he was tried and convicted and put on probation a kind Detroit multimillionaire named Peter Karmanos of Compuware fame and a few other kind multimillionaires paid to move Kwame, his wife, (whom Kwame may have started schtuping again because she probably put a leash on that hog,) and their kids to Dallas.

Seeing as Travis is always remarking on his size 6’5 280 and Kwame is exactly the same size, I could feel, with all that weight in Texas, the world shifting too far on its axis, so I traveled down to the Lone Star State and to decide which of these huge hunks of meat I needed to force back to the north to stop the earth from tipping too far. Well the short of it was after a great dirty, dusty and hours long fight, I (who am much smaller comparatively to Travis) but from Detroit, which comes with its own cache of dirty fighting, hog tied the big man from Amarillo and threw him in the back of his own pick up truck (my Honda was too small) and hauled him to what we affectionately call the “D.”

I could have hauled Kwame back but we have had enough of that grazer of feed store swine product. Besides by the time Travis escapes from the evil clutches of the D the feds will be hauling Kwame back here to face 25 or so indictments for running a criminal enterprise while mayor. And then the world as you have come to know it will be right again and the axis will be back in proper alignment. You could acknowledge your gratitude for me saving the planet from tipping over but I am humble enough to know you are grateful without forcing you to say it.

So here is the deal, you put up with one piece of my poetry, make a shit ton (that is a feed store measurement) of comments and I will release Travis and his pick up truck to go back to Texas but only because the Feds really are bring the Detroit Dog back here for a federal trial. In the interim you will have to click through to HERE to not only take yourself to the D but to check up on Mr. Erwin’s welfare seeing as I left him with only his hands unbound sitting at my rusty old computer in zip code (that is Postal Service talk that Travis told me about during our ride North) 48205; which is the most murderous zip code in the most murderous city in America.  So now you are aware of the deal and you and you alone have the power to save Mr. Travis Erwin not only from Detroit but if you fail and I have to keep him here I am changing his squirrel and quail stew diet to one of only leafy green vegetables.

There was a kid named Travis Erwin

who grew up in a place called Pearls Feed and Seed

run by a reprobate named Doyle Suggs.

Now Doyle or Mr. Suggs a wise man of three ex wives

(two he married twice)

was prone to espousing to Travis

a young fella’s need for “getting in the girl” advice.

Erwin, at the time not the brightest bulb in the chandelier,

tried ever trick Suggs suggested at age sixteen years

went every which way Doyle sent him to get his manhood vested.

AND THAT IS THE PREMISE FOR THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES

But by far the sweetest part of the book is that it comes to a right ending.

OK now that doesn’t count as the poem of mine, even though there is a countable iambic meter in there if someone knows how to count that shit. That is what we call a hook so you will spend your time purchasing and reading Travis’ book. Though it’s not Bukowski, in a prose sort of way The Feedstore Chronicles comes close to some of Hanks poetry.

Now to torture you my work is below, it’s an old piece but one of my favorites. It appears in my second book of poetry which you can buy from me if you want it.

Cobblestone Kisses II

I saw a shoeless girl,

about 4.

Dancing on cobblestones

in pure bliss.

Each and every cobble

she touched gave her bare feet

a smiling loving kiss.

I wondered as I watched

Where she got the joy

to dance like that;

fluttering dress,

twirling, blessed

mindless bliss,

in a place so lacking in romance.

Dance though she did,

on and on laughing, loving, living

while she had the chance,

to be dancing carelessly to a music

only she could hear.

I wished I could be that way again

mindlessly joyful with cobbles dear

kissing my bare feet

soothing my mind taking my fear.

Wishing for a childhood

not knowing what lay ahead.

Better yet I’d like the freedom to be

dancing now this moment, this day

letting the smooth stones

take my care away.

Laughter and smiles come

so easy to children loved,

with nothing amiss

all the little ones should

be dancing and twirling in joy

as the cobblestones deliver

their loving bare feet kindest kiss.

© M Durfee

9-2-05

12-22-09(rev)

Pink Dragon Poop

I'm not a shy guy. Public speaking has never bothered me but today I'll admit to a few butterflies. As I type this I am about 4 hours away from speaking at a local civic organizations monthly luncheon. I've spoken to writers groups, a few book clubs and even taught writing classes to both kids and adults, but this is my first general assembly type of talk.

My idea to forgo a written speech and speak off the cuff seemed like a good idea as recently as last night, but this morning I'm feeling a tad more dubious over that decision, after Lettuce Is the Devil my secopnd favorite personal creed is Baffle 'em with Bullshit. I sure hope it works this time.

Speaking of bullshit, tomorrow morning me and the talented poet known as THE WALKING MAN, Mark Durfee are engaging in a blog swap of fantastical fecal fun. Hope you check out our B.S. laden posts.

In other guest post and blogging news, I danced with dragons yesterday while giving out a few tips on writing memoirs.

And today, I have the honor of making the talented Deborah Elliott-Upton blush over at the Sleuth Sayers blog.

Stop by and say high to these fine ladies if you get the chance.

'Rasslin

I have several blog post I want to get written including one with pictures and commentary of the party and wife my friends threw for the release of THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES. My former boss at the feedstore was in attendance along with 2 of his 3 sons and one ex wife. Yes the one that twice tried to kill him so I of course have some interesting tales to share about our little reunion the other night, but today I wanna share what has to be the most outlandish dream I've ever had.

As anyone who follows me on Facebook or twitter already knows my world is completely consumed with book promo at the moment. And while it is probably not productive or even healthy to do so I check my Amazon sales rank at least half a dozen times a day. After the initial sales burst the book's ranking has fallen a but but at its peak, THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES reached #478 on the list of all books and #38 among books in the humor category.

Humor has lots of stiff competition with many of the books having been written by celebrities and that I presume was the catalyst for my peculiar nocturnal illusion last night.

The dream started with a call from my publisher. We'll call her Dee, because well that is her name.

Dee tells me to be at such and sch address at 8 PM sharp for a special Amazon promo guaranteed to raise my sales ranking. When I show up she hands me some bright red tights and a pair of electric blue wrestling boots. Quickly explaining I am to wrestle the other authors in my category she says, "Do whatever it takes to win because your rank depends on it."

And this is when it gets really weird.

I enter the arena under a barrage of boos. Now I'll be the first to admit I'm no Adonis so strutting around in red boots and lace up blue boots is not a look all that becoming, but still I could't help be be taken aback by the fan's venom.

Then the announcer grabbed the PA and shouted my opponents name. America's Favorite Funnyman ... Bill Cosby.

The crowd cheered wildly as Mr. Pudding Pop himself made his way to the ring. Cosby's latest book was released the same day as THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES and while his tome has stayed atop the ranking there was a short time where I was actually ahead of him on Amazon.

Just as he didn't asked to be born, I didn't ask to fight him but that is what I did. And amid a chorus of hate-filled taunts I kicked Cosby's ass right there in that ring. I pinned him following a piledriver but the jog back to dressing room was rougher than anything Heathcliff Huxtable dished out.

Dee was quite excited I'd won but I wasn't feeling so good. Sure I'd given an old man a beat down but now all of America seemed to hate me for it. "Don't worry," Dee said. "Everyone loves a winner. Keep kicking butt and they will come around."

A few minutes later I was again summoned to the ring. This time the crowd cheered wildly. My opponent was already in the ring. Tucker Max, of I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell fame.

The crowd threw their beer at Max who is a self-proclaimed asshole and womanizer. Happy to be the good guy in the bout me I tore into to Tucker but he proved a tough opponent. At one point his bit me on the nose but I finally triumphed and knocked him out cold with a flying elbow.

And then my dream got even more strange.

I was slated to fight Tina Fey, which sounded kinda like fun to me but before the bell could ring both Alec and Stephen Baldwin attacked me from behind.

The Baldwins beat the hell out of my kicking and stomping while shouting, "How does it feel to get your ass kicked by a vegetarian!"

The referee disqualified Tina Fey and despite the being bloodied and bruised I moved on in the big Amazon Wrestling Extravaganza. AWE for short.

I'd made it the main event and Dee was excited. Her partner at TAG Publishing Liz showed up to give me some pointers. She had been scouting all the matches and informed me I;d be battling Chelsea Handler for the title. Now some of you long time readers may recall my twitter campaign a year or so back to convince Chelsea to consider my work for her new book imprint and while I did eventually manage to get a tweet and a message from Chelsea that was as far as things ever got.

Liz explained that Chelsea had won all her matches by fighting dirty. She'd distracted Ellen DeGeneres by flashing her boobs, seduced Anthony Bourdain into submission, and stabbed David Sedaris in the abdomen with a high heel.

But when we got to the ring, Chelsea was yawning and proclaiming loudly she was bored with all this fighting fuss. Besides, Chelsea said, "I only like to roll around with black guys, so I'm going to let Chuy fight this one for me.

That is when I got cocky. And pissed. Because I'd been looking forward to to grappling with someone with Chelsea's assets, but instead of a pretty blond I'd be groping a fat wee little sweaty Latino. But for the first time I thought, Yes I can be the humor king. If I can;t whip an old fat dude half my height I don't deserve to be at the top.

The bell rang.

Chuy screamed, "Viva La Mexico!" and ran at me.

midgety missile my red tight enshrouded gonads made direct contact with Chuy's onrushing forehead.

I fell to the mat.

Chuy pinned me.

Dee and Liz shook their head. "You were that close and you let an elf beat you."

I hung my head in shame and trudged from the arena amid the raucous chorus of VIVA LA MEXICO!


A sad dream for sure, but you my friends can help me sleep better at night. Buy a copy of THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES now for yourself and all your friends. Trust me, it will make a much better Christmas present than any of those other humor books. My leaping ability aside.

Down Louisiana Way

Charles Gramlich, a man whose writing talent a greatly respect had a few questions for me. 

Today, I answer them over at his blog.  

Come see us.

Booze Hound

I spotted this Lost and Found ad in my local paper yesterday and I simply had to share it.

Don't get me wrong, it's sad for anyone to lose a pet, but let's break down the this ad.

1) Is it ever wise to take your pet to the bar? Now the ad doesn't specify what they mean by taken. You see this particular bar is on 6th street here in Amarillo. 6th street is part of old Route 66 and this particular section of the road is an eclectic mix of antique stores, restaurants, nigh club, entertainment venues, and tattoo parlors. Several nightclubs allow dogs in the bar and there is a joint called the No Dogs Allowed Saloon nearby. So was this pooch left in an unlocked vehicle or was it curled beneath its owners stool? If the former then it is my belief the owner should have been smarter but if it is the latter than i gotta say it's a pretty low person who will steal a person's dog while they are drinking. Thought that does raise the question how drunk does a person have to be to not notice someone carrying off the canine beneath your seat?

2) I know crooks are dumb, but if you are gonna steal a dog why would you thieve a one-eyed one? Unless you yourself are a pirate and want a pet with a matching eye-patch I don't get this one. Of course my friend Lissa could be involved. She has a track history with one-eyed critters.

3) Why when describing a lost pet would you bother to include spayed? These ads cost by the word and given the fact that with some exploratory probing a person can not verify this information gotta say this was a wasted dime. If I;m going to waste cash by tossing in an extra word I;m gonna get my money;s worth and use something fun like onamonapia. Oh come on, don;t act like you enjoy the way onamonapia whishes off the tongue.

4) Pretty Girl? For a dog name? I don't like it. Maybe a parrot which leads back to my earlier pirate theory.

5) For any of you treasure seekers out there don't get to excited. I've been to Lowery's and frankly I';m rather skeptical any of the clientele there has five hundred smackers to be throwing around.

******

In other news my promotional blog tour for THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES is on going. Monday I was in Germany, today Canada where the ever gracious Beth Stewart let me surprise her readers. Hope on over and join the discussion.

And if you missed Stop 1 on the tour you can still check it out as well.

First Times

Today, I am in Germany, hanging out with one of my favorite people, the talented author of THE TAVERNIER STONES, Stephen Parrish. Come on over to see what chupacabres, sasquatch and blow jobs have in common.

Friday Freebie

A little teaser ...

THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES - Chapter One

Most coming-of-age stories are fraught with symbolism, hidden

metaphors, and a heaping mound of other literary devices. Not this

one. Not mine. You see, I came of age while working at a dusty

Texas feedstore. A place where To Kill a Mockingbird involved a

twelve-year-old and a BB gun. Of Mice and Men was a problem

easily solved with rat poison. And David Copperfield was nothing

more than a dude that made shit disappear.

In the spring of 1989, I was a rosy-cheeked boy of sixteen.

Doyle Suggs was a twice-divorced, thirty-year-old high school

dropout. On the surface Doyle and I had little in common, yet his

involvement in my life changed me in drastic and dramatic ways.

Doyle ran a feedstore in Amarillo, Texas. A joint called Pearl’s

Feed and Seed. Working there provided me my first paying job,

my first taste of how fun life could be, and … my first brush with

real danger.

Pearl’s Feed and Seed was named after Doyle’s mother.

Originally she ran the place, but by the time I hired on, Pearl had

long since hightailed it back to her ancestral home in Oklahoma.

Nearly all of Doyle’s family hailed from the same rural

Oklahoma town. A town famous for hosting one of the world’s

largest rattlesnake roundups. You have to wonder about an entire

town that considers it high entertainment to track down and capture

vast quantities of poisonous snakes. I don’t know how the practice

got started, but let’s hope it was a group of teenage boys that first

hit upon that idea, since it’s a proven fact pubescent males are the

least intelligent demographic of human beings. A demographic I

solidly belonged to when I hired on at the feedstore.

Even with the ignorance of youth working against us, neither

I, nor any of my high school buddies made a habit of seeking out

venomous snakes. My friends were content to while away their

time with the three F’s – Football, Fighting, and Fornication.

They washed it all down with six-packs of beer.

That brings us to me. Despite the fact that I towered over most my

age, I was too lazy to be any good at football, too accommodating

to get in many fights, and too scared of my female classmates to

find a willing partner for the latter.

But then, in the spring of ‘89, I went to work at Pearl’s.

Like all sixteen-year-old boys, my desire for cold hard cash was

rooted in a swelling appreciation of the opposite sex. Foolishly, I

believed a steady paycheck, and all the imagined things I could

buy with my minimum wage windfall, would separate me from the

pack. In my warped fantasy land, I envisioned hundred dollar bills

bulging from my pockets and girls clamoring for my attention.

Actually, I didn’t care about girls in the plural. I wanted only to

gain the affection of one : Samantha Blake.

I’d been harboring a crush for Samantha better than a year, but

given her elevated stature in the halls of Caprock High School, I’d

never acted upon my infatuation. Samantha was a cheerleader; I

was a cowboy boot-wearing rabbit raiser. She was graceful, petite,

and beautiful; I was a six-foot-three sophomore who hadn’t quite

mastered the coordination of my man-sized body. She was one

of the most popular girls at our high school; I’d lost my bid to

become FFA president.

Turns out not even Scott, my best friend, voted for me. Not

that I blame him. After all, my opponent to head up Caprock’s

Future Farmers of America was Destiny Hayes. Destiny had been

wildly popular with all of the guys since the fourth grade, when

she was the first girl to grow a set of boobs. There we were in high

school, and the other girls had yet to make up for Destiny’s head

start. Scott had been in love with her, or at least her bra size, since

elementary school, but as I said, there was only one girl for me.

Samantha Blake wasn’t like the superficial and pretentious

cheerleaders you see in movies. She was sweet, kind, and possessed

long black eyelashes that left me tongue-tied every time they

fluttered in my presence. Scott maintained that other girls in our

class were just as pretty. A point I might have conceded, except . .

. none of those other girls made my heart accelerate with a single

word. None of them made me lay awake at night thinking about

their big brown eyes. None of them were Samantha Blake. Okay,

so it wasn’t her eyes I stayed up at night pondering. My thoughts

were of a more libidinous and lusty nature. I was a teenage boy

after all. Nevertheless, my sleepless nights and unacknowledged

attraction for Samantha paled in comparison to my boss’s brand

of lady troubles.

Doyle had three women in his life. His first wife and the mother

of his three boys, Pamela. His second wife, Laura, whom he was

in the process of divorcing when I hired on and last, but not least,

Snuggles.

Snuggles was an English Bulldog. Her fur was brown and white,

and she was one of the laziest, not to mention nastiest, canines to

ever down a bowl of kibble. Snuggles possessed runny, pus-filled

eyes, a loud, raspy breathing pattern, reminiscent of an asthmatic

Darth Vader. Her stubby, bowed legs that barely kept her flabby

gut from dragging the ground. She also happened to be Doyle’s

most prized possession.

Ninety percent of the time, Snuggles curled up on her doggy

bed behind the counter and refused to move. Too bad for me if

I needed something from the cabinet her fat body was pressed

against. Once or twice per day she would hoist her smelly carcass

from the fleece pad, only to use my pant leg as a depository for

her snot-crusted eyes. A nasty habit to be sure, but that act beat her

other habit all to hell.

Doyle lived for the times when Snuggles went into heat. Having

read an ad in the Thrifty Nickel for English Bulldog pups fetching

thirteen-hundred bucks a pop, mining Snuggles’ ovaries became

his life’s mission. I, however, dreaded the arrival of the dog’s cycle.

For this glorious week, Snuggles wasn’t merely content to wipe

her eye boogers on my jeans. No -- she also felt the animalistic

calling to drag her butt across the store’s concrete floor.

Guess who cleaned up the crimson snail trails. Me.

The only good thing about these visits from Mother Nature was

the entertainment they provided at each failed attempt by Doyle to

produce a litter of grandpups. Doyle whored Snuggles out to every

male bulldog within a three county area. Too greedy to share in the

potential booty of a litter worth several grand, Doyle always opted

to pay upfront stud fees rather than give up a higher share should

she actually conceive by paying with pick of the litter.

For each arranged rendezvous, Snuggles would shack up with

the chosen doggy Don Juan. Three or four days later she’d return

from her tryst looking as happy and satisfied as a fat man leaving

a Vegas buffet. Given the price of bulldog pups, Doyle projected

Snuggles and her uterus to be good for an easy five grand per year

and by his calculations, she only needed to have two litters of two

pups to accomplish that goal.

Along with the dog, Doyle was also raising three boys. Three

mean little hoodlums that I wagered would make him a grandpa

long before Snuggles ever did. Never mind the fact that Austin,

the oldest, was only eleven. Their father’s genes were too strong

for them not to find trouble of some sort and given Doyle’s

track record, some of that trouble was bound to be of the female

variety.

To this day I still can’t fathom how Doyle sweet-talked so many

women into the sack. Women you would never expect a man who

lived in a double-wide on the outskirts of town to coerce into a

sleepover.

Women like Dr. Croft.

When pimping out Snuggles failed to work, Doyle turned to

artificial insemination. The procedure was pricey, but each time

Snuggles came into heat, he’d reach for his credit card, load the

pooch into his pickup, and head for the vet’s office. This went on

for better than a year, and I never suspected Snuggles wasn’t the

only one getting her jollies at the appointments.

Then came the day I was in the back, sacking up some hen

scratch for Mrs. Esparza. Doyle had taught me how to up-sell so I

was in the middle of trying to convince the woman a bit of oyster

shell and a bag of laying pellets would raise her egg production.

“As hens get older,” I said, “they really need the extra calcium

they gain from oyster shells.”

“No, no, no. No hay falta con mis gallinas.” Mrs. Esparza

wagged a finger in my face. She was a regular customer, so I

knew my chances of selling her anything extra were over once she

turned to responding in Spanish. Next she would pretend not to

understand anything I said.

“Yo, Travis!” Doyle’s voice came over the intercom, saving me

from continuing what would have been a futile effort.

“Yeah,” I yelled back.

“Hurry up and get Mrs. Esparza loaded. I have an important

mission for you.”

I carried the hen scratch out, loaded it in Mrs. Esparza’s Buick,

and headed back inside to see what Doyle had in mind.

“John’s bringing some papers by for me to sign, so I need you to

take Snuggles in for her AI appointment.”

John was Doyle’s lawyer. Between the divorces, the subpoena

when Doyle’s bookie got popped, and other brushes with the

justice system, they had a close working relationship, so I didn’t

think anything of his explanation.

“Okay,” I said, “But I’m taking your truck. I don’t want your

dog wiping eye snot on my seats.” My pickup had been a recent

gift from my grandfather, and despite the ‘76 Ford’s battered

appearance and age, I was still quite proud of the vehicle. Grabbing

the keys for the store’s flatbed Ford off the pegboard, I snapped a

leash on Snuggles and drug her fat butt out the door.

To read how it all went wrong for Snuggle and me, along with the rest of my comedic coming-of-age tale click here to purchase a paperback copy of THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES.

Name That Flake

Upon the release of my book, the twistedly talented, Avery Debow asked if I was going to change the name of my blog to One Word, One Rung, Right Effing Now and while that moniker does carry a confident straightforward tone I think I'll keep the name the same. Though I have tweaked the description with the title as I now have a new set of primary goals.

It's been a fantastic, but busy week and luckily my schedule looks to stay that way. I know few of you live in or even near Amarillo but nonetheless I want to invite each and every one of you to Bar Z Winery on November 12th for the official release part for THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES.

For direction or more details drop me a line in the comments or via email.

On November 17th, I will be the guest speaker for the Amarillo Rotary Clubs luncheon located at Amarillo Country Club and I'm putting together details for a possible trip to several Colorado bookstores as well as a spring feed store tour through Texas and Oklahoma.

Tomorrow, November 4th my publisher, TAG Publishing, launches a best selling campaign on Amazon. The aim of which is to maximize sales within a certain window (6 PM Eastern-11 PM Eastern  on November 4th) so as to achieve as high an Amazon rank as possible which can be a huge help in other promotional endeavors. So if you are planning to buy a book sometime soon and are near a computer during that window I'd be much obliged if you visited Amazon during that time frame. Of course the higher my rank going into that window the better so you don't be shy about clicking over right now as well.

I have several contests coming up as well as a full out blog tour but I'll share those details in the near future.

Now before this post feels entirely like a commercial let me share a shot a took on my way back home from Guymon, Oklahoma yesterday.

That is the sign at the border welcoming me back to the great state of Texas. This is the second snowfall we've had this year as we got 5 inches a week or so back. We desperately need the moisture so we'll take it in any form but at least one friend in Michigan tells me they have yet to get a single snowfall. I blame Rick Perry's disbelief in global warming for this early season snow. Either that or years of hairspray abuse has created an avalanche of dandruff on our Guv'nuh's scalp and each time he flies over to attend another debate turbulence shakes a few inches off only to fall on we commoners up here in the panhandle.

The Feedstore Chronicles is now available in paperback. Order your copy here.

One Day Has Arrived

THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES

Thanks to all of y'all for helping me get to this point.