 - Last login: 32 hours agoTextuous
- Textuous is a 51 year old guy from Near-N-Yondered, Texas, USA.
- Likes 6 pages • 79 fans • Received 48 reviews
- Member since Mar 30, 2006
Antique Cowboy with tarnished six-shooter, rusty spurs, and swaybacked steed. Garage kept, housebroken, and mannerful. Grammatically textuous, with traces of chivalry and dance-floor etiquette. If you read the blog...the least you can do is leave me a smile.
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(someone suggested that since it looked like I was in the midst of a spell of writer's block, I should bump this to the top of the blog)
I SAW THE LIGHT
I've been...away. I had to ride up to the north ridge...I've got a friend up there. She's an "older" woman, she lives alone, and I go up and check on her a few times each month.
After a really good home-cooked supper, and a good long set on the porch, I, as usual, offered to sleep in her barn. She, as usual, told me I certainly would NOT sleep in her barn. She put me on the sofa, got me an extra blanket to ward off the chill, tucked me in, and kissed my cheek...as usual.
Now...a few peculiars about one Antique Texas cowboy...
I simply cannot sleep in a pair of jeans, preferring, instead, to strip down to my long-handle underwear (which pair I happened to have on were stretched nearly twice their original size in the waist...hey, it's a guy thing).
Since Texas is hot during the day, and steamy at night, I tend to drink a lot of water. As a result, somewhere along about 2:30 or 3:00 in the morning, I wake up with a most powerful "urge".
And being born and raised "out-of-doors", when such an urge happens along, I much prefer to amble outside, under the stars, where I can just relax and let her fly, without worrying about trivial things like rememberin' to put the seat down. Besides, my aim is not so good any more.
Therefore, when I awoke on her sofa, in my long-handles, about 3 am, with one of those urges, I decided to leave the jeans where they lay, and ease outside in just my skivvies, hat, and boots.
And so it was, under a dark moon, that I found myself in the side yard, doing my business, whistling softly under my breath, when Honey, the old hound that sleeps endlessly under the porch, decided I was some alien creature come to drown the world. And as I was unsuccessfully trying to shush the baying, I heard the unmistakable click of twin hammers on a double barrel shotgun being eased back into the "you're in a heap of trouble, boy", position.
"Get your hands up, Mister"
Instinctively, I raised my right hand high over my head, at the same time realizing that in my left, I held about half of the stretched-out waistband of my underwear.
"BOTH hands...get `em up...or I'll fill your backside with buckshot. And turn around so I can see you."
A lot of things happened in the next few seconds. The dog stopped howling. I started to turn. I raised my left hand. The skivvies slid down to my ankles. I croaked out something about it being me, dear. I completed my turn. And she flipped on one of those huge flashlights, the kind that holds at least seventeen of those big batteries that just keep going and going and going.
Needless to say, I just stood there...fully illuminated.
I ended up staying two extra days, and what seemed like eight or nine extra nights. As I told you, she's an "older" woman, but only by a few years, and she's handsome as a thoroughbred mare.
I'm gonna be laid up a day or two...I got some tenderness in my...um...joints. Which reminds me...if anyone out there has some ointment or something that works good on sore cowboy parts, please let me know.
Meyer
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