Color My Cow

Oh, you knew I was a farmer when you married me;

You said you liked hard-workin country ways.

You got goose bumps cannin peaches for the County Fair

And orgasmic satisfaction smellin hay.

When the sun came up, the birds would sing your favorite song;

The mornin breeze would whisper your name.

But since you ran off with Buck Wheeler, the John Deere tractor dealer,

Things around here just ain’t been the same.

So, you take this cow and color it brown;

She’s lost her moo; she just mopes around.

Take this pig and color it pink;

It used to be cute, but now it stinks.

The hens won’t lay, and the truck won’t start.

You made the mule cry; you broke my heart.

Our humble barnyard once was such a happy place;

The mules would hum “There’s no Place like Home.”

Now you ought to hear ‘em croon “Love Letters in the Sand,”

And “Am I Blue?” would chill you to the bone.

The beanstalk turned to vicious gossip overnight;

The once well bucket looks a little pale.

The tater crop is russeting below the ground.

Yeah, the dog’s been dirty since you hit the trail.

So, you take this cow and color it brown;

She’s lost her moo; she just mopes around.

Take this pig and color it pink;

It used to be cute, but now it stinks.

The hens won’t lay, and the truck won’t start.

You made the mule cry; you broke my heart.

We made the most of what we had and had a ball;

Lord knows the best things in life are free.

You swore an oath that you could live on love alone;

But “love alone” meant livin without me.

Hand-in-hand, we skipped and flipped and skinny-dipped;

You crusted pies; I busted up the sod.

We took a leak off Lovers’ Leap and took the plunge;

We jumped the broom, but then you hopped the clod.

So, you take this cow and color it brown;

She’s lost her moo; she just mopes around.

Take this pig and color it pink;

It used to be cute, but now it stinks.

The hens won’t lay, and the truck won’t start.

You made the mule cry; you broke my heart.

Out West with Doc

Doc Arnett always has something positive to say, and he says it very, very well. He likes to write and talk about the things and people for which and for whom he is grateful. I want to take a paragraph or two and let you know how much I appreciate Doc. I’ve been acquainted with him for over a decade. I know him to be a guileless guy with no hidden agendas. Doc Arnett is the Real Deal.

I remember in particular the time Doc and I attended a conference in Las Vegas. At breakfast on the first morning, I was moaning and bellyaching because I was sore and scuffed up from riding the mechanical bull in the hotel bar. I explained that I had no choice about riding the mechanical bull because I was the only person present from the Lone Star State and it was my patriotic duty to show them how it’s done.

I’ll never forget what Doc told me. He said, “Tom, they don’t have a mechanical bull in the bar.” He went on to further inform me that we were at a conference in Los Angeles, not Las Vegas.

Coming from anyone else, I would have interpreted this as impertinence or base sarcasm.

“Okay,” sez I, “If we’re not in Las Vegas, what’s that machine I’ve been poking all those quarters in?”

Doc said, “Hmmm…” His eyes looked up and to the right. (See, that’s why he has a Ph.D. while I only have a Certificate of Attendance: He thinks before he speaks.) “Was your bed by any chance vibrating all night?”

“Sure, but I just thought it was an earthquake or something.”

Doc, ever the gentleman, did not press me for what I meant by “or something.”

After the conference, when checking out of the hotel, I saw a man and a woman carrying battered and obviously heavy bags. The suitcases had, no doubt, rolled at one time—one of them still had part of a wheel, bent at an odd angle, hanging from it.

I understood. These conferences are often held at hotels we could not afford if we had to pay for it from our own pockets. Not all of us can afford fancy clothes or portmanteaus. It is not at all uncommon to be standing behind someone at the ATM who must first check his or her balance before withdrawing five bucks to tip the doorman. Some even try to make excuses, pretending they like those cattle-class flights that arrive at midnight because you get to rub elbows—and knees and shoulders—with real people or that they prefer the taste of their own canned chili to that of a $12.00 room service hotdog.

I was not exactly eavesdropping, but I did hear the man with the tatty bags explaining to a colleague: “Our room wasn’t quite ready when we arrived, so we had to wait in the bar. Some maniac from Texas wrecked our luggage!”

I hid behind Doc and eased on out to the bus stop.   

Whinin 'Till I Lose My Mind

I liked Conway Twitty for several reasons. For one, we come from the same hometown in Arkansas. For another, he chose his last name after a town in Texas, my adopted home state. But what I liked most about him was that he saw his songs as ways for suitors to express their feelings. If a guy wanted to say something romantic (or even a tad risqué), but could not quite find the words, all he had to do was let Conway do the talking—buy her the record, or even better, have some deejay dedicate it to her.

That’s something else CT and I have in common. I too speak for a group that has something to say, but has the devil’s own time trying to articulate it. Conway spoke for the lovers; the Lorax speaks for the trees; but these, these bellyaching blamers have come to rely on me as their spokes-moaner.

You know the ones: they have it all figured out in their heads that their sorry situation cannot possibly be due to anything that they have done or left undone. They try to pin their pathetic plight on the politicians, big business, the fates, the flukes, the flakes, or the phantom. But they can’t quite string the words together in any coherent fashion. These folks stand ready, willing, and able to throw their hands up in resignation and have another beer.

My mission is to help these people give voice to their frustrations, so I have offered my services, free of charge, to write a country song especially for them. Now when a fellow is feelin frustrated and needs to lament his lack of character, all he has to do—if you’ll loan him a quarter—is press a few buttons on the jukebox. And it comes out somethin like this here (reach on down to about the key of C sharp, boys): 2-3-4

Honey, have I told you lately

How horribly I’ve been screwed?

Everyone I run into

Is low-down, mean, and rude.

I cain’t get a break to save

My worthless, rotten life.

That’s how come I lost my job,

My address, and my wife.

When I was only five years old,

I fell and skinned my knee.

But the government won’t let me

Draw my disability.

All my luck and bright ideas

Came to a screechin halt;

I’m just amazed how it’s always

Somebody else’s fault. 

Whinin ‘till I lose my mind,

Complainin just to keep from cryin,

Draggin my sad behind

Across the credibility line.

Belly full of cheap moonshine,

Misery’s my Valentine.

Honey, that’s the reason I’m

Whinin ‘till I lose my mind.

Everybody else has got a

Big, new house and car;

They prob’ly lied and cheated

To git to where they are.

They’re all out to gitcha,

It’s a gross conspiracy.

If you don’t won’t to miss the boat,

You’d best listen to me.

Everybody hates me,

That’s why I cain’t git ahead.

I’ve been singled out to lose;

They all wish I was dead.

All that I can think about

Is gittin my revenge.

I’ll teach them fools a lesson:

I’ll go on a drunken binge.

Whinin ‘till I lose my mind,

Complain just to keep from cryin,

Draggin my sad behind

Across the credibility line.

I’ll keep drinkin ‘till I’m blind.

Fodder for the daily grind.

How can life be so unkind?

Whinin ‘till I lose my mind.

Them educated idjits

Think that they is such big shots.

I may not have nothin,

But I worked for what I got.

You’d understand real good

If you’d of had the life I had.

You’ve heard of poor but honest?

Well, one out of two ain’t bad.

I cain’t concentrate good

‘Cause I worry about stuff.

When’s the gittin gonna git good?

I cain’t git enough.

Got collectors and the IRS

And lawyers after me,

And lots of them diseases

Like they show on the TV.

(Poor me, I’m)

Whinin ‘till I lose my mind

Complainin just to keep from cryin

Draggin my sad behind

Across the credibility line.

So mistreated and maligned!

Dwellin where the sun don’t shine.

Wish I could afford strychnine.

Whinin ‘till I lose my mind.

(Yodel the big finish):

Whi-EE-inin ‘till I loo-OO-ose my mi-Hind.

Just Say Gnaw

Listening to NPR yesterday morning, I heard a story about farmers in Colorado considering hemp as a cash crop. 

One of the comments in the story got my attention:

“…hemp can be used to make just about anything: rope, paper, plastic, clothing, shoe polish, car parts and even dog chew toys…”

Some possible product names for the dog chew toys:

Malamute Munchies

Mutt Stash

Lassie Grassy

Bowser Wowser

Kibbles ‘n Blitz

Scooby Doobies

McGruff Stuff (help take a bite…)

Old Meller Yeller

Coo-Coo Cur Chew (Iams the walrus)

SeesPotRun

Pongo Bongo

Buzz MacKenzie

Wal-Mart will want to get in on it: Ol’ Roy Oh Boy!

Bullet Bites

Chuckleberry Hound

Snoopy Whoopee

This one already exists: Jolly Joints (From our friends at Blue Buffalo).

Clifford’s Big Red Eyes.

Something to please even the finickiest Fido—you know how picky they are about what goes in their mouths. Your dog will dig ‘em.

“And Toto, too?” Yes, Toto, too!

Now, to sing us on outta here, Perry Como with "Hot Diggity (Dog Ziggity Boom)."