Cheer Up Kids!

 

All hail #2A, right?

And your kid's first fish, a bass. Well done!

But Libs really hate this. A Lot. Truck. Rod. Gun.

And they triple hate this, a kitchen counter Glock, .45 obvs. Hey, you never know when the ingredients will rise up and fight you. So.

So there you have it. Cheer up kids, all's not lost, yet. And all hail the Texas Free State and the North Central Exclusion Zone. (NCEZ)

Sayn,

LSP

This - That & Cooking With LSP

 

So what's it like in LSPland? all three of you ask with bated breath. Well I'll tell you. It used to be all about horses, guns and fishing but now it's mostly about driving between the Compound and Fort Hood Cavasos on account of an indigent soldier's broken truck.

This, bizarrely, ended up  in a guerrilla shop in between Millford and Italy where cash was king. And, to be fair, they did the work for a good price and the kid's Chevy is back on the road. Right on. Millford, readers, used to look like this:

Now it looks like this:

Well done, asset strippers, you've created a wasteland where we should have flourishing small country towns. Still, there's a Tesla Tower nearby so who knows what tomorrow brings. Good question, for us today's brought venison sausage pasta.

It's an incredibly complex recipe. Shoot a deer or get someone to shoot it for you. Turn the meat into sausage. Slice the sausages up into 1" chunks, brown them with onion, garlic and olive oil. Add diced tomato, I use Roma because cheap. Behold your culinary expertise and have a glass of cold wine, it's hot as Hades and you deserve it.

Then season your cheerfully simmering sauce with ground black pepper, iodized salt, basil, chili powder and a couple of bay leaves. I use Mex come-in-a-plastic-bag variety because, again, cheap and just as good. No rule, feel free to pay more for your bay leaves, your call.

Then, after an hour or so, when the hearty sauce has simmered down and its oil's begun to separate, fire up a large pan of salted water and cook up a pack of spaghetti. Serve the venison over the pasta with freshly grated parmesan and fall upon your scoff...

Like Warriors,

LSP

Just Get Outside And Fish

 

Will last night's apocalyptic storm make the fish bite? Piscine science says wait a bit, it can take up to 72 hours for storm shocked fish to return from deeper waters and go full feeding frenzy. I chose to ignore the science and went fishing anyway.

Guess what, the science seemed to be lacking because there they were, Bass on their ambush ledge at the dam, just like they were before the storm. Huh, and lo and behold, up came a decent fish on the first cast. It got slower after that but sure enough, as per last week, a very decent Black Drum took the bait, fish on and up he came, plenty of fight to boot. Nice.

Everything else in the pool signified Gar action and I wasn't set up for that, so it was over to what used to be called "Uncle Gus' Marina," which used to offer great fishing off bank, cleaning station and pier. Then it didn't because it was bought out and shut for a refurb. 

It's open now and this was my first time back since new management. The pier and cleaning station had gone, sadly, please bring them back, and so had the old marina/boat slips, which are being replaced. Is this good or bad? Time will tell.

what a fight that was, big fish, light rod

In the meanwhile, I wasted no time casting off from the bank with topwater torpedoes because a few fish were jumping and a topwater catch is an awesome catch. But no luck, perhaps these perverse and annoying fish "followed the science" and were locked down in the depths, keeping an antisocial distance from enticing lures.

Regardless, their time will come and it was good to be back at the place again after an absence of a few years. Let's hope new management rebuilds the pier and cleaning station. I tell you, that gave superlative fishing, from perch to cats to bass and beyond, what a lot of fun.

Recce over, it was time to head back to the Compound under the big sky of Texas, a morning well spent.

Cheers,

LSP

New Flags

 

There I was and there was the laptop. "Look here, silvery malfeasant, I've had enough of you." So I did an about turn and strode out to the Front Office, aka "Porch," and there was a great F 250 truck off the side of HQ. And two new flags, gleaming brightly.

I recognize that rig, I thought to myself, and walked off the storied porch to meet its owner. "Fr. LSP, I'd hoped you wouldn't catch me," said the flag benefactor beneath straw hat and mirror shades.Well hey, caught you out.

That in mind, why move into some hideous neo-lib suburb? Keen-eyed readers will note I haven't. "You know," I remarked to our flag friend, "Sometimes I fly the Bonny Blue instead of that." He looked at me and smiled, we were at one.

The Cause,

LSP

Rivers of Texas

 

We had a ranch on the Red River, no more alas, but I get to fish the mighty Brazos and I love that.

All hail Texas,

LSP

Boxing Day

 

It's Boxing Day and the sun shines with balmy light as dogs bark, roosters crow and sparrows and squirrels fight with animal intensity, a feathered, furred apocalypse. All the while Navidad fills the air. I like that and so does Eduardo, who tips up massively felix, asking for a blessing.

"Padre! Bendición!" which is exactly what he gets, miraculously failing to fall off the porch. Brandy?, perhaps, and I ask myself, "What is this, some kind of comedy Tijuana problem farm?" But I can't complain.

Christmas day was easy, fun and came complete with a delicious prime rib. Man that was tasty and cooked just right, to medium rare awesomeness. Beef for Christmas? Yes please, and what great leftovers for a Boxing Day feast.

That in mind,  why aren't unmasked revelers dropping dead here? Is this bucolic fraction of Texan country  immune from the killer Bat Bug? Maybe so, but the Diocese of Quebec clearly isn't, which is why they shut down Christmas worship, along with the ACoC Diocese of Niagara and many more. 

 

Why, we have to ask, is the deadly virus so much much deadly in these places than it is in Texas or Florida or, for that matter, in our migrating guests. They, you understand, can enter the country without mask, vax or anything else, unlike us. It's the same with postal workers, they're immune and don't have to get vaxxed, but soldiers do, because they're so much more clearly at risk than posties.

In the spirit of Boxing Day, I call BS on this freakish, pugnacious medico-mengele, tyranno-fest of lies chicanery, corruption, greed, smuggery, deceit, vote-dogging skulduggery and malfeasance. Enough, when you think on it, to confuse the very elect.

Stand Fast,

LSP

Uncle LSP's Country Sale Barn - #1

 

Whoever said life'd be easy? Do you remember anyone telling you this? If so, they lied. That in mind, the last few months have been all about putting VCC's (Veteran Crew Chief) estate in order. No small thing, and part of the process is getting the big metal barn ready for a country sale.

No. Easy. Task. Why? Because of the sheer magnitude of it all, so much stuff, and that's with the vehicles gone. I know, there's a moral here but I'll leave you to draw it. In the meanwhile, we pulled everything and laid it all out. Now it's ready to go.

As is the trash, and there's a lot, no kidding. To help with that I ordered a 20 yard dumpster only to find out today that the falsely named "Republic" wanted a $1000 for the privilege. What utter thieves. A morning of phoning around later and the same thing was secured for a third of the price. 

Yet another moral. Do not submit to monopoly/cartel, asset-stripping price gouging, go local instead. Remember the slogan, solidarity and subsidiarity? That in mind, let's see how Farmers' Local #100 snaps up these deals, cash is king, obviously.

Cheers,

LSP

Well Shoot - Another Foray Into The Heart of Southern Darkness

 

Birds sang and the sun shone in the big Texan sky. Yes, it was time to head out to the countryside yet again as part of our ongoing investigation into the scourge of rural systemic racism. And before you could whistle Dixie there I was, in a ranch shop, talking guns.

You know how it is, one thing led to another, a couple of Polaris quads revved up and there we were, slinging skeet and shooting plates. Racist? Well, the guns were black and brown, the plates white and the skeet orange. The quads were green. Hmmm. 

It was hard to stop myself admiring a WWII trophy Luger as I reflected on this knotty indigenous peoples justice conundrum, to say nothing of a canned Enhanced Remington 1911. The latter shot well, scoring hits on a plate at around 75 yards, big fun.

Then it was time to visit the Confederate Air Force at an aerodrome not too far from my friend's ranch, DD has a hanger there where he builds and restores airplanes. 

There was a CAF trainer on the tarmac about to get ready for take off. Some of you'll know the make/model but I forget the details.

Regardless, DD was working on a Cessna and the wings of another plane, which he showed us after a delicious snack of poppers, smoked sausage and ice cold beer. What a gentleman, I do not say that lightly. And he still flies, though in his '80s. He'd been in the US Aerobatics team. 

Then it was time to head back to the bucolic haven that is this small farming community in North Central Texas to hear someone's confession. Was this whole experience irredeemably, incurably, insufferably racist?

I can't answer that but I do say this, it was big fun.

Your Pal,

LSP

Walkabout

You know what it's like. There you are in the midst of a pandemic threatening to shut down Western Civ, what's left of it anyway, so whaddya do? 

Go for an armed stroll 'round town at 11 pm to see what's up. Load up and off you go, born to have adventure, sort of thing.

But what was up? Not very much. Flags were flying but the streets were empty. Had a neutron bomb gone off? Would you hit anyone if you fired a canon down the middle of the street? No.

So I strolled about and went to the downtown filling station for Marlboro Lights, then stood in the middle of the road and took photos. There wasn't any traffic, it's all shut down because of China, you see. Not that it's especially very busy ever.

Heading home, First Methodee was all lit up but no one was home and the Meth Shack was getting it on with a "domestic." I sensibly ignored the furor and strolled by, round in the chamber. And that was that, mission accomplished.

Message? If you're going walkabout, take a gun.

Best,

LSP

Fishing The Pandemic

So what's it like to fish in the scyfy dystopia that is our new normal? Good question, and rather than rely on some kind of "news" channel I went to the lake to find out for myself.

First up, Soldiers Bluff wasn't an option, "Park Closed," said the sign. Undaunted, I made my way to the other side of the dam. Another fail, you could get there but the pier was shut, blocked off by police tape. 

You Can't Fish Here. Thanks, China.

Thanks a lot, China, I was looking forward to fishing the pool, but no. I stared out at the mighty Brazos, streaming its way towards Waco, Houston and the sea under a big Texan sky. Would the ChiCom Plague, this Pandemic, defeat the expedition? 

Wytche Way?

No, it would not, so I drove to the marina, which wasn't blocked off by police tape and threatening signs. Boating's still allowed you see, at least here, and I set up on the pier and fished away. It was slow going and then, just as I was getting ready to pack it in for a bad game of soldiers something took the hook.

Get A Haircut Hippy. Oh, You Can't. Good Work, China

Bam! Rod double, line out action as a monster, maybe a shark, took the bait and ran with it, and run it did, right around the cleaning station. Diving, pulling, thrashing action and I was hoping for a big cat but up came a Leviathan Carp Buffalo. 

China Eats Carp  Buffalo. I Don't. Back You Go

A passing fish head helped me pull the beast out. "Well lookit that," exclaimed my gap-toothed new pal as we looked in wonder at the Carp Buffalo, "They'd be all over that in Russia. On a light little rod too. I reckon I'll just fish this here pier for a few minutes."

The Compound

The prehistorically scaled Carp Buffalo went back to fight again another day and I went back to the Compound in the sun, mission accomplished. So what's it like to fish the Pandemic? Not bad at all.

Tight Lines,

LSP

Fish Fry

"Hey, Padre, good news and bad news," went the early morning text. You see, these days churchpeople tend to text instead of call and in fairness it takes ring-tone beastliness out of your morning coffee, so I'm not complaining. 

The bad news? Someone had to stay in hospital an extra day or two, she's eager to be out, and the good news was a ticket for the FFA (Future Farmers of America) fish fry. Would it be welcome relief from the National Menstrual Equality Day or a trial?

So, after a hard day's sweating over a hot computer I drove off to find out. Turns out it was good, it felt great to be in the countryside and see my friend's place, it's been awhile. I asked him, "How's it been?" and he replied, "Busy, busy, and busy." 

I told him I was "busy learning to walk again," which he seemed to like, "You're doing pretty dang good at that. Could've been doing pretty dang bad." We parted ways, he had work to do, organizing the operation.

And I tell you, what a good crew of straight-up people having fun in the clean country air of a Texan evening, everyone getting convivial and taking it easy, the food was delicious too. But then it was time to leave JM's not inconsiderable Compound and head back to mine in the light of the setting sun. I won't say it wasn't beautiful because it was.

There was a time when I'd have laughed and accused you of being a deluded fool if you'd said I'd end up in rural Texas. God, it seems, is full of surprises.

Your Friend,

LSP