The wolf at our doorstep (Please read the entire article)

This may not be the most politically correct thing to say, but I believe it’s time we secure our border. I am proud to say that I am a native Texan. I was born in this great state in a time when our country was divided over many political and social landscapes. I was born in Dallas in 1968. This was a era in history when the very term “American” was called into question. We began to change the perception of what, or more importantly who, an American citizen was. Our social climate was forever changed. Certain human rights sanctioned by the founding fathers of this great nation were endowed upon all free men. We changed for the better. We became more accepting, more tolerant and quite simply more civil. Texas was cast into the tumultuous and unpopular center of this political upheaval. The state and it's people were asked to abandon 140 years of tradition and cultural complacency. Texas was called upon to redefine itself as a sovereignty. Then we discovered ourselves adjunct to a national agenda; this merely 100 years after a civil war. Yes, mistakes were made. Yes, intolerance and fear were rampant. One can clearly see the lasting effects even in this new century. Texas, with it's long standing heritage of isolation and independence, was reluctant. No other state suffers as much cultural mystification as Texas. No other state in the Union has pledged it’s allegiance to six different nations. No other state has reigned as a nation unto itself. One would think that a collection of people living under constant flux would welcome defectors of any breed. No single person can claim Texas as their own. They can only lay claim to being born here, such as I do.
Today, there is a certain type of foreigner that presses at our doorstep. There is a stranger just across the border that once again threatens our independence, our hard fought culture and our content way of life. A meager rivers stand between Texas and her cultural integrity, her decency and her pastoral innocence. I am confident that we all know who this threat is. We have all looked beyond our state's borders to see the tide of belligerence, ignorance and moral decay that bears down on us. Make no mistake my fellow Texans. The wolf is on our doorstep and she lies in want. That’s why I am all for building a fence. We need to build a twenty foot high fence and block these vagrants from coming into our beloved homeland and taking menial labor from us. We need to stop their children from over running our schools and corrupting our institutions. They can barely speak English much less understand our laws and public affairs. Desperate times call for desperate measures. This is why I implore our government to build a fence. Build a fence twenty feet high. Build a wall spanning the entire length of the Red River. Help us stop the people of Oklahoma from destroying our beloved state. The land rush is over Oklahoma. Carry your hic bums back across that state line.The eyes of Texas are upon you.

Preparing for Nascar

I woke up this morning and shaved off what was left of my vacation beard. Unfortunately, my birthday/ midsummer/ July 4th extended weekend had come to a sobering end. As I shaved the shaggy Al Qaeda-esque undergrowth off my throat, I made a rash decision, or should I say “stache” decision, to keep the moustache for a few more weeks. Let me explain.
Last week, I turned 40. This rite of passage brings with it some implied tolerances to my manhood. First, I am a grown man by default. Once I reach the age 40, I am unmistakably a grown man by sheer number of years being alive. I oblige the expectation, hopes, wishes and desires of those around me to finally grow up. I believe this is truly what men dread so much about this age. Second, the allowances that I speak of signal that my body has reached its prime, thus succumbing to a half ass attempt to impress with my male stamina; the proverbial plateau for my mojo. People no longer expect to see my guns. They just expect not to see the crack of my ass or the bottom of my gut pop out when I reach up. People expect to see a little more flab around the midsection, a little more loss of hair at the top, a tight fitting world’s greatest dad tee and maybe little more huff and puff when I tie my shoes. A thousand years ago, people would be surprised to see me walking around. They would call me a wise old sage or an elder.
My wife bought me a ticket to drive an official NASCAR race car on a real race track. It’s a driving school built on fufilling the dreams of middle aged contibutors to mulletsgalore.com. It's like a Make a Wish foundation for aging rednecks. This is a chance to see if I would have really ever qualified to be something as sexy as a race car driver. Jet pilot was ruled out by my inability to complete Fundamentals of Math 101 in community college. There was no way I could be a secret agent or government spy. That was ruled out by my complete lack of composure under stressful situations. Plus, I probably would have flunked the urine test. I could have been a professional athlete but the only sport I physically measured up to was professional bowling. That’s about the only training regiment I could manage as well. Rodeo bull rider, perhaps, but that’s not sexy. That’s just stupid. So for one glorious day I get to pretend I’m Dale Earnhardt Sr., hence the moustache.
A moustache is an emblem of the by gone era of my parents. My father had a moustache. I have seen pictures of him holding me when I was about my son’s age. It was 1971. He weighed approximately 270 lbs and smoked cigarettes. He wore shirt sleeve dress shirts with ties. He sold industrial rubber hose for BF Goodrich in places like Memphis, Little Rock and Oklahoma City. I can only imagine the kitsch that surrounded his day and time. He probably stopped at the Howard Johnson or Sizzler somewhere on I-35, had a smoke as he waited for his flap jacks and hash browns. He wore English Leather or Old Spice cologne and read the paper. He packed his blue and white checkered polyester suits in Samsonite luggage that could survive any Braniff DC-10 crash. His stache probably smelled of pancake syrup, Crown Royal and Viceroy’s. Then he’d relax by the pool at the Holiday Inn in someplace like Omaha,Salina or Branson.
This nostalgia is partially responsible for my desire to grow an over the lip flavors savor. This coupled with a desire to augment my appearance to pathetically garner attention. People notice moustaches because you just don’t see them anymore except on cops, foreigners and FOG’s like my dad. He has long since shaved his off. Even porn stars have abandoned the wild wooly lipmark of manhood. I’m not sure if the stache will ever make a respectable comeback. Men these days want to look like they’re 24, not like Jim Croce.They frost their tips, go wakeboarding with their kids and dawn ball caps to cover their receding timeline. Men no longer want to look like men (secular third world extremists not withstanding). The American dad can hardly be spotted anymore. He wears Hollister board shorts and Keene’s and drinks Mojitos. He can be seen hanging out at the Starbucks ordering a Green Tea Frappacino and eating a salad.
I’m not oblivious to reality of change. Maybe the reduction of heart disease and lung cancer in men over 40 is a good thing. Mmmmh, ya think? But I would like to salute all those old farts that still sport the lip spider, the nose broom and the Italian caterpillar. I will grow my stache with pride. And when my checkered past reaches the checkered flag on my last lap of grand delusion, I’ll be looking a bit like Hal Linden,Freddie Prinze or Dennis Weaver still clutching to yesteryear. Carry on my wayward son, carry on.