Addicted to dependency



I haven’t played poker on the internet in a while, so I pulled out the ol’ plastic the other day and tried to send some money in. The sight that I usually play on stopped taking credit cards however, so I couldn’t play. And it’s all because our government made internet gambling illegal.

They (our government) say that the reason they want it outlawed is that too many people are getting themselves in debt, because they are addicted.

Call me skeptical, but I don’t buy that one.

Oh, I can believe that some folks are addicted to internet gambling. People can and do get addicted to just about anything these days.

What I’m having trouble believing is that the good old boys in congress have our best interest at heart.

Think about it. There are millions of people addicted to casinos and lottery tickets, but does the government outlaw casinos and the lottery. Of course not, that would cost them billions and billions of tax dollars every year.

If our government was so worried about our welfare, they would outlaw vehicles. I know that sounds crazy, but hear me out.

An average of 15.5 fatalities occur for every one billion miles driven in Texas alone. That’s way worse than being addicted in my book. But it’s too lucrative to outlaw, no matter the danger.

The government gets a cut when any vehicle is sold, as well as any parts that you may buy for it, and oil, gas window stickers, etc.

Everybody and their brother drives, therefore everybody and their brother pay these taxes. It’s easy money.

I suspect that the real reason our government is against internet gambling is because they can’t get their slice of the internet pie.

Most- if not all- of these gambling sights are based overseas, so they don’t have to pay U.S. taxes.

Now, let’s just say that I did believe their reasoning for outlawing internet gambling was to protect us- it would still be the wrong thing to do.

I’m a grown ass man who has worked hard for my money since the age of 16. I’m not wealthy by any means, or even what you would call comfortable. But I don’t ask the government for one red cent, either.

So the last thing I need or want is for some pencil pushing nerd behind a desk up in D.C. telling me what I can or cannot do with the money that I’ve earned.

At some point, people in this country are going to have to learn what it’s like to take responsibility for their own actions. Sometimes, with all of the seat belt laws, the helmet laws, and every other law that is supposed to protect us, it seems as though our government has taken over where our parents have left off.

And just like we depended on our parents to get us out of a jam, a lot of people are now depending on our government to bail them out every time they need help.

Don’t feel like growing up and getting a job? No problem, the government will send you a big fat check every month to feed you. They will even get your rent lowered for years at a time. So low that in many cases, your payment on your 52” flat screen is higher than your rent.

We have company bail outs, mortgage bail outs, credit card bail outs, etc. You can go climb a mountain in the winter, get lost or caught up in an avalanche, and our government will spend a few thousand dollars to come and find you. Or you can sit on your butt as a Category 5 hurricane comes at you, ignore every warning for a solid week to get out, then complain loudly when the government doesn’t get there fast enough to help you.

All of these things are a product of people depending too much on their government, much like a child whose parents never kicked him all the way out of the nest.

But as long as our government treats it’s citizens like children, the dependency is never going to stop.

Something’s fishy



We’ve had a three-week run of amazing weather here in south central Texas. It’s been a little too cool in the mornings for my taste, but by 10 a.m. it has been just beautiful. So when I found out that I had last Friday off from work, and my kids were off as well, I decided to take them fishing.

Now, I’ve said in this column before that I’m not much of a fisherman. I like it okay, it’s just not one of my favorite things in the world to do. I think I like the idea of going fishing on a beautiful day way more than I like the fishing itself.

My kids, however, love it. So like any good father, that’s what I decided to do with my day off.

So it was me, my three kids, my daughter’s friend and my dog all loaded up in the ol’ Jeep. When we added a case of water, the tackle box, a couple of fishing poles, a box of worms and a bucket, we were packed in there like sardines. And yes, I do see the irony.

My son and I threw a hook in the water as soon as we got there. Our plan was to use a couple of the worms to catch a few small perch, then use those perch or the rest of the worms to catch us a big catfish or maybe even a bass.

Right from the start, we were having trouble. We were both looking at dozens of perch right there in front of us, but the sneaky little rascals somehow kept taking our worms without getting hooked. Meanwhile, the girls kept bugging us about wanting to fish, too. I didn’t have enough fishing poles, so I just tied some hooks to some old string I found and let them have at it.

“Dad, those girls are taking our spot,” my son said.

“That’s okay buddy,” I told him. “If we aren’t catching anything, they won’t either. They’ll get bored in a couple of minutes and be gone before you know it.”

So I baited one of the hooks, then another one, and when I was putting a piece of worm on the third girl’s hook the first girl yelled out “I’ve got one!” I looked up, and sure enough one of my daughters had a little perch on her hook.

“Okay, just give me a second and I’ll..”

“I’ve got one too!” hollered my daughter’s friend. And while I unhooked those two fish- you guessed it- my youngest daughter pulls one out of the water.

After that, my son and I spent most of our time either baiting their hooks or pulling fish off of them.

“Number five!” my oldest daughter yelled.

“Number eight for me!” said her friend. And on, and on, and on.

And when I did get to fish, you wanna know what I caught? Two stinkin’ turtles. The first one was embarrassing, because it was in front of all the kids and it fooled me. I thought I had a big old lazy fish on the line, and I was talking trash to the girls the whole time I reeled it in.

“Whew hoo,” I laughed. “I’m gonna be eating good tonight girls, while y’all are eating fish sticks.” Then they all saw the turtle and laughed so hard they almost fell off the pier.

And of course, you know how the rest of the day went…

“Number thirteen!”

“Number fourteen!”

Chicken it is, I guess



I took a couple of weeks off from my column, and that means that I’ve got plenty to talk about this week.

First of all, let me burst a few bubbles out there. No matter where I go, for the past 12 years, people always say to me “Your wife is such a sweet person”, or “You sure are lucky to have such a sweet wife like that”. Well now, folks. Let’s all pump our brakes and slow down just a bit.

All year long, for as long as I can remember, I look forward to the St. Mary’s Fall Festival. It’s a local church bizarre, and for the last couple of years my wife has been very involved in it. There are games for the kids, plenty of socializing, and all the money raised goes to a great cause.

But the thing I enjoy most about it is the food. That’s what keeps me dreaming about it all year long. What I do is wait ‘till about noon or so, and I go get me a couple of fajita tacos and a, um, cold beverage (It’s a Catholic church, don’t panic.). Then I mill about for a while, talking a little football with a few buddies and trying to hide from my kids so they don’t ask me for more money. After an hour or two I mosey on over and get a plate of the best spaghetti that you’ve ever tasted. (And ladies, please don’t tell me your spaghetti is the best. Unless you are Italian, you aren’t even in the conversation. Sorry.)

Anyway, I had to work all day this past Sunday and couldn’t make it to the bizarre. First time in years that I’ve missed it. I kept thinking that somehow, someway, my wife would find a way to get me a couple of fajita tacos.

“She loves me,” I told myself. “And she knows how much I love those tacos. There’s no way she won’t take care of me.” And I’d wait another hour or so, and look up again. “Surely someone she knows was coming this way at least. I’ll bet she sends me something with them.” An hour or two later, and still nothing.

I finally gave up on the tacos about 2:00 p.m. or so, but still held out hope that she would bring me a plate of spaghetti home. My sister even sent me a picture on my phone of my son, knee deep in a plate of it. He was using a pitchfork to shovel it in, and he had sauce all over his face. Surely my wife paid for me a plate at the same time that she bought my son a plate, right?

“That’s the ticket,” I said to myself. “A good ol’ pile of spaghetti, with homemade meatballs, and maybe a few pieces of bread. Perfect.”

So I finally get through mowing and weed eating at 5:00, and on my way home I give her a call.

“Do y’all have any tacos or spaghetti left?”

“I don’t think so,” she told me. “I think they have a few hamburgers left over.”

Hamburgers? What the? I don’t want a hamburger. You can get a hamburger at Sonic (Although they put the vegetables and the meat upside down. Another topic for another column.) You can get a hamburger at Dairy Queen. Hell, you can get a hamburger anywhere.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s been really busy, and I haven’t even eaten myself.” I had to settle for a greasy box of chicken and a jalapeno.

I can hear a lot of you readers saying “Shannon, she was working for the church. Give her a break.” But like most stories in life, this one has two sides. A darker side. A sinister side.

As it turns out, the investigation revealed that indeed, her mother brought her a fajita taco at 11:36 a.m. It had meat, guacamole, pico de gallo and a touch of sour cream. She just didn’t think about me as she inhaled it.

Let the record also show that at 6:42 p.m., minutes after she arrived home, I walked into the kitchen and witnessed her spinning her fork in the last bit of spaghetti on a plastic plate. I never even got a bite.

There, folks, is your “sweet little wife”. A woman that would let her husband shrivel up and blow away into the wind from hunger, were it not for his own survival skills… and the chicken place.