Bull Sheet one
15/08/06 22:23
Well, I haven't made it into the Guinness Book of Records yet, but we did make Ripley's Believe It Or Not. The Sunday, July 24th, 1983 installment of the Sunday Comics version says:
"The Armadillo, an armor-plated animal, was given a birthday party by the residents of Fredericksburg, Texas in 1982 to celebrate its 300,000,000 years on earth."
That was our little party last year. This years party will be October 8th at Pat's Hall and in addition to the armadillos our special guests wil include Tex Schofield, Sam Lewis, and noted author James A. Michener who is writing a book about Texas (and armadillios of course).
Some of our northern friends stopped by this spring for a visit. Actually they would commonly be called Yankees by most folks around here but I have to be careful how I use the term since I was born and raised in Ohio. The Term Yankee is often applied in the hill Country of Texas to residents of Dallas. Billy Jenschke, who lives over the other side of Luckenbach, once defined a Yankee as being any one from north Mason. Now, Mason is a small town about 50 miles north of Fredericksburg and although his statement got a lot of agreement around the store, I think he might have gotten the town of Mason confused with Mason-Dixon Line. As I recall that line ran just north of my old home town of Londonderry, Ohio. I reckon it's all relative. But, so far, none of this has been relative to what I started out to tell you about.
These folks from up north had stopped by for a visit and we had a real good time teachin' them how to eat jalapeno peppers and chicken fried steak and how to catch armadillos. They took it all right well. I expect to have to explain such things as that to visitors from other parts of the country. However, there are some things I guess I've gotten so used to that it never occured to me that I'd have to explain them.
Take for instance the day I walked out of my bedroom and was greeted by a roar of laughter. People were all slappin' their knees and pointing at me. It took me by surprise. "What are you goin' to do?," one of them asked, "rob a train?"
"rob a train? What are you talking about?," I said as I mentally scolded myself for not warning them about staying out in the Texas sun too long.
"Well, you sure look like you're ready to rob a train. You've got that big cowboy hat, big red bandana up over your face, six-gun strapped on your hip. You've even got them big boots on. where's your horse, Tex? You don't want to miss the Wells-Fargo."
"Well, I can see right now that I have sorely neglected some very important aspects of your education in Texas living," I intoned in my most authoritative mode. "Listen carefully while I explain."
"I am preparing to undertake one of the more dangerous and daring adventures of modern man. Please follow me while I gather the rest of my equipment."
"What's that awful smell?," querried one of the female guests.
"That," I replied, "is the mixture of sulphur and number 2 diesel oil. The cuffs of my pants and my boots are coated with it. It's purpose is to discourage attacks by ticks, chiggers, scorions and a myriad of assorted arachnids and insects. The gun is merely a small caliber revolver which I carry in the event that I should encounter any of the numerous varieties of poisonous snakes which inhabit the regions into which I am about to venture. The bandana is to prevent suffocation and lung pollution from the thick dust clouds and these goggles are to keep dust and flying debris from damaging my eyes. The hat is simply to shade my head."
I stopped abruptly and turned to face the wide-eyed wonder of my listeners.
"Any more questions?," I asked.
"Yeah," one of my puzzled guests said. "Where are you going?"
"To mow the lawn," I said as I picked up my machete and walked out my door. "Save me some Gatorade."
B.S.
"The Armadillo, an armor-plated animal, was given a birthday party by the residents of Fredericksburg, Texas in 1982 to celebrate its 300,000,000 years on earth."
That was our little party last year. This years party will be October 8th at Pat's Hall and in addition to the armadillos our special guests wil include Tex Schofield, Sam Lewis, and noted author James A. Michener who is writing a book about Texas (and armadillios of course).
Some of our northern friends stopped by this spring for a visit. Actually they would commonly be called Yankees by most folks around here but I have to be careful how I use the term since I was born and raised in Ohio. The Term Yankee is often applied in the hill Country of Texas to residents of Dallas. Billy Jenschke, who lives over the other side of Luckenbach, once defined a Yankee as being any one from north Mason. Now, Mason is a small town about 50 miles north of Fredericksburg and although his statement got a lot of agreement around the store, I think he might have gotten the town of Mason confused with Mason-Dixon Line. As I recall that line ran just north of my old home town of Londonderry, Ohio. I reckon it's all relative. But, so far, none of this has been relative to what I started out to tell you about.
These folks from up north had stopped by for a visit and we had a real good time teachin' them how to eat jalapeno peppers and chicken fried steak and how to catch armadillos. They took it all right well. I expect to have to explain such things as that to visitors from other parts of the country. However, there are some things I guess I've gotten so used to that it never occured to me that I'd have to explain them.
Take for instance the day I walked out of my bedroom and was greeted by a roar of laughter. People were all slappin' their knees and pointing at me. It took me by surprise. "What are you goin' to do?," one of them asked, "rob a train?"
"rob a train? What are you talking about?," I said as I mentally scolded myself for not warning them about staying out in the Texas sun too long.
"Well, you sure look like you're ready to rob a train. You've got that big cowboy hat, big red bandana up over your face, six-gun strapped on your hip. You've even got them big boots on. where's your horse, Tex? You don't want to miss the Wells-Fargo."
"Well, I can see right now that I have sorely neglected some very important aspects of your education in Texas living," I intoned in my most authoritative mode. "Listen carefully while I explain."
"I am preparing to undertake one of the more dangerous and daring adventures of modern man. Please follow me while I gather the rest of my equipment."
"What's that awful smell?," querried one of the female guests.
"That," I replied, "is the mixture of sulphur and number 2 diesel oil. The cuffs of my pants and my boots are coated with it. It's purpose is to discourage attacks by ticks, chiggers, scorions and a myriad of assorted arachnids and insects. The gun is merely a small caliber revolver which I carry in the event that I should encounter any of the numerous varieties of poisonous snakes which inhabit the regions into which I am about to venture. The bandana is to prevent suffocation and lung pollution from the thick dust clouds and these goggles are to keep dust and flying debris from damaging my eyes. The hat is simply to shade my head."
I stopped abruptly and turned to face the wide-eyed wonder of my listeners.
"Any more questions?," I asked.
"Yeah," one of my puzzled guests said. "Where are you going?"
"To mow the lawn," I said as I picked up my machete and walked out my door. "Save me some Gatorade."
B.S.
Bull Sheet two
15/08/06 22:19
We have just returned from another triumphal tour of the Great Southwest. The Old Greyhound Bus glides to a gentle landing at the downtown Banker Smith, Texas Bus Depot. The door swings open and the cargo of bedraggled, road weary musicians stumble down the steps.
As I turn off the switch and look back through the aisle, I find it rather difficult to remember that just five short days ago this same group of zombie-like beings had boarded the bus all freshly scrubbed and beaming with excitement. I am amazed to see that in less than a week this sparkling interior of the pride of B.S. Bus Lines has been transformed from ship shape bunks and neatly stowed baggage to wrinkled, smelly piles of dirty, dusty clothes, half empty potatoe chip bags, and approximately forty dollars worth of aluminum cans. The contents of suitcases have mysteriously swollen to the point that what came on board in one bag must go out in the and a bundle under the arm from which at least one sock must invariably escape.
I reach across the seats to retrieve my hat. My arm becomes bonded to the arm rest due to a liberal coating of Peanut Butter and jelly. My hat, of course, is full of peanut shells, cigarette butts, and beer cans. While sleepily shuffling throgh the assortment of broken microphone cords, tire gauges, and sunglasses on the dash in search of my house keys, I inadvertently knock over a seemingly empty can. Bad mistake. The drummer dips snuff.
I finally manage to make it to the front door. The place is a mess. The office desk is piled high with work that should have been done a week ago.
"What's going on around here? I go away for a week and absolutely nothing gets done." I shouted in dismay. (Actually I am in Banker Smith. I was in Dismay once in 1959. It's about 47 miles south of Cognito.) "Is this any way to run a business?"
"Maybe not dear," Sandie says in her sweet concilliatory tone, "but it's a liitle hard for us to get anything done here when you take everyone on the road with you."
"Oh, I forgot."
"Good night dear."
"But it's only eight o'clock in the morning," I protested.
"That's true. But you've been driving all night and you really should get some sleep. We all put in a hard week's work and it was lots of fun, but you really need your........."
"Z z z z z z z z z z z z z z"
B.S.
As I turn off the switch and look back through the aisle, I find it rather difficult to remember that just five short days ago this same group of zombie-like beings had boarded the bus all freshly scrubbed and beaming with excitement. I am amazed to see that in less than a week this sparkling interior of the pride of B.S. Bus Lines has been transformed from ship shape bunks and neatly stowed baggage to wrinkled, smelly piles of dirty, dusty clothes, half empty potatoe chip bags, and approximately forty dollars worth of aluminum cans. The contents of suitcases have mysteriously swollen to the point that what came on board in one bag must go out in the and a bundle under the arm from which at least one sock must invariably escape.
I reach across the seats to retrieve my hat. My arm becomes bonded to the arm rest due to a liberal coating of Peanut Butter and jelly. My hat, of course, is full of peanut shells, cigarette butts, and beer cans. While sleepily shuffling throgh the assortment of broken microphone cords, tire gauges, and sunglasses on the dash in search of my house keys, I inadvertently knock over a seemingly empty can. Bad mistake. The drummer dips snuff.
I finally manage to make it to the front door. The place is a mess. The office desk is piled high with work that should have been done a week ago.
"What's going on around here? I go away for a week and absolutely nothing gets done." I shouted in dismay. (Actually I am in Banker Smith. I was in Dismay once in 1959. It's about 47 miles south of Cognito.) "Is this any way to run a business?"
"Maybe not dear," Sandie says in her sweet concilliatory tone, "but it's a liitle hard for us to get anything done here when you take everyone on the road with you."
"Oh, I forgot."
"Good night dear."
"But it's only eight o'clock in the morning," I protested.
"That's true. But you've been driving all night and you really should get some sleep. We all put in a hard week's work and it was lots of fun, but you really need your........."
"Z z z z z z z z z z z z z z"
B.S.
Bull Sheet three
15/08/06 22:17
Due to technical difficulties good ol' B.S. will not be printed this time. We have a treat for you in this issue. No Muzak in this city paper. Instead, this is the writing debut of Willy. No, not Willy Herbort, Willy Smallwood. Read as Willy attempts to juggle words, sentences and phrases, while trying to make sense. Here is a person who needs no introduction, but we gave him one anyway.
Well, enough of that. I suppose you've all figured out that Iam the guest host for this publication. The reason that Dad is not writing in the Bull Sheet is because he is snowed under again. Bill Smallwood is now in the other room buried under receipts, tax forms, and all that jazz. By the way folks, I am writing this on the 15th of April. Anyway, I have some time while Dad doesn't. I thought somebody ought to get the B.S. flying again.
NOW ON TO THE LATEST BANKER SMITH CITY NEWS
Tuesday, dust storm smothers B.S., Texas.
A 10:00 Monday night San Antonio news broadcast said," A little dust is headed our way." Well we live on a hill top and we are 70 miles from San Antonio. Around 12:00 noon Dad shouted from outside, "hey, come out here and look at this." He then added another one of his profound statements, " I see that Midland has arrived." Midland is mostly a little over 200 miles from here, but every spring they ship us several acres by air. We spent about 15 minutes standing outside with our mouths open, saying "wow" and trying to find the sun. Then we finally noticed that we had a good amount of Midland real estate in our respiratory systems.
Later that evening, the residents of urban Banker Smith, dug their way out of the sand dune that was once B.S., TX.
This June, Bill and I are going to the Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico. What we will be doing there will be hiking and camping in the mountains for 12 days. On June 13th we leave for Philmont in our wonder bus (it's a wonder that it's still running) with 16 Boy Scouts and 4 adult leaders. By the way the 4 adult leaders will have their way paid by us poor over-taxed scouts. Oh well, anything could happen on this trip. Who knows? We scouts might just kick the adults off the bus and head for Las Vegas, Nevada. I can see it now on a book cover, "Mutiny on the Bus", by William D. Smallwood.
See you at the Rocky Mountain Oyster Fry.
W.D.S.
Well, enough of that. I suppose you've all figured out that Iam the guest host for this publication. The reason that Dad is not writing in the Bull Sheet is because he is snowed under again. Bill Smallwood is now in the other room buried under receipts, tax forms, and all that jazz. By the way folks, I am writing this on the 15th of April. Anyway, I have some time while Dad doesn't. I thought somebody ought to get the B.S. flying again.
NOW ON TO THE LATEST BANKER SMITH CITY NEWS
Tuesday, dust storm smothers B.S., Texas.
A 10:00 Monday night San Antonio news broadcast said," A little dust is headed our way." Well we live on a hill top and we are 70 miles from San Antonio. Around 12:00 noon Dad shouted from outside, "hey, come out here and look at this." He then added another one of his profound statements, " I see that Midland has arrived." Midland is mostly a little over 200 miles from here, but every spring they ship us several acres by air. We spent about 15 minutes standing outside with our mouths open, saying "wow" and trying to find the sun. Then we finally noticed that we had a good amount of Midland real estate in our respiratory systems.
Later that evening, the residents of urban Banker Smith, dug their way out of the sand dune that was once B.S., TX.
This June, Bill and I are going to the Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico. What we will be doing there will be hiking and camping in the mountains for 12 days. On June 13th we leave for Philmont in our wonder bus (it's a wonder that it's still running) with 16 Boy Scouts and 4 adult leaders. By the way the 4 adult leaders will have their way paid by us poor over-taxed scouts. Oh well, anything could happen on this trip. Who knows? We scouts might just kick the adults off the bus and head for Las Vegas, Nevada. I can see it now on a book cover, "Mutiny on the Bus", by William D. Smallwood.
See you at the Rocky Mountain Oyster Fry.
W.D.S.