You Chicken

People often ask me, they say, "What's country life actually like, in Texas?" And I tell them, "It's like a game of chicken." No fooling, the birds are everywhere.

Blue Eschaton loves this. For him, there's nothing better than running full tilt at a terrified, squawking chicken, cornering it and then killing it. He doesn't eat them, he just stands there attempting to look innocent, with feathers in his mouth.

He tried it the other day and I managed to save the bird, much to the dog's annoyance and a bit of running around on my part.

Sometimes you'll see the poultry roaming around the center of town and I'm surprised resourceful live off the land, DIY, off-grid preppers don't eat them. I've done that myself, after Blue Marauder's done his work.

"Dad, how did you learn to do that?" asked my sons as I breasted an unfortunate fowl with a handy razor sharp folder, "It just happened, kids."

All this flashed through my mind this morning outside the town's food bank, where I'd gone to fly the flag, make a bereavement visit and do my bit for the needy. There it was, a random chicken by the dumpster. And I thought this.

We're devolving into something third world because the globalist NWO, transnational, Illuminati elite and their bi-coastal puppets have sold us down the river to make themselves even more stratospherically wealthy than they already are. Hence Mexico moves to Tejas, along with all their chickens.

After a moment of bitterness I consoled myself. When the center cannot hold, imploding perhaps under burgeoning debt, the rural parts of this country which have been gutted by our MillSoc (Millionaire Socialist) overlords will be OK. 

We'll have eggs and meat and feathers. And guns, lots of them, and horses. Expect a lot of irregular cavalry units.

God bless,

LSP

PS. Beer Can Chicken is simple and tasty. Heap coals to side of grill, rub butter/olive oil over bird, salt and pepper then put small beer can (with beer) up the chicken. Don't think Freddy Mercury. Place on indirect heat, drip pan underneath for gravy. Cover and cook for an hour and fifteen minutes, turning half way through. It'll be moist and delicious.

Paint Your House

I like older houses. They tend to have better proportions, higher ceilings, more space and sturdier construction. To me at least, they look better and are better than their modern equivalents but in Texas, an older house often means a wooden house. 

That means a painted house which has to repainted when the old paint's had its day. If you don't, the place is going to fall apart. To avoid this fate, we contracted a painting crew.

This needs painting

They started off boldly, painting the interior of one of the mission churches and even got so far as the main door to the templo. It looked good, well done, Lupe and the Gang. Then they stopped. "What's happened to the painters?" I asked. No one knew, they weren't on the job and fortunately hadn't been paid. They mysteriously returned, after a month or so, and did a bit more work. And then disappeared, no one knew where.

Look! A Can of Paint!

This went on for months, with vague promises of a return to work while I gazed at the peeling paint of the house. Perhaps they'd come back and finish the job when the house had fallen down. "Sorry, Lupe, the house is no mas."

Then, as if by magic, they came back and they're working on the church now. In fact, they've been on the job for two whole days. Remarkable, call me a dreamer but the house may get its of coat paint yet; I look forward to the day.

A typical Front Office in need of paint

This fascinating tale is filed under Country Life in Texas, or would that be Tejas?

Remember the Alamo,

LSP