DONALD "DICK" TRUMP

DONALD "DICK" TRUMP: "When the looting starts, the shooting starts."

(EDITOR'S NOTE: The glorious reign of King Donald continues as he consolidates his racist base by promising to rain bullets down on African-Americans who escape being lynched by KKK cops. (Is there any difference between a rope around your neck and a white pig's knee buried in your throat?) What's a few more corpses when you are responsible for the deaths of more than 100,000 Americans as a result of blatant incompetence and ignorance!!! Let's make America great again, which it may have been until Trump limped into office--He allegedly still suffers from the same bone spurs that allowed him to skip Vietnam where he could have done some real shooting and fashioned himself a collar of "gook" ears, a fashionable look that Melania could have promoted with the proper cleavage in the background--and proved that he was bully with the gonads of a filly. Since the Republicans have lost their way with Trump more out of control than a teenage drunk behind the wheel, we can welcome the ghost of Neo-Democrat Ronald Reagan to the fold and repeat the question--in a Joe Biden ad--that won him eight years of free rent in the White House: "Are you better off today than you were four years ago?" Except for a batch of billionaires and the Trump brats, "No" is the resounding response. How many more people will die under Trump's watch although we know that the perverted president with the petite prick won't be watching? He will be blasting Fox for not showering him with 100% loyalty; he will be threatening Twitter, his life line to the world, for flagging him for telling lies and touting violence; and he will be charging a popular TV personality with murder because the former Republican wouldn't stagger behind the blind Pied Piper into the darkness. How bad will Trump lose it over the next five months? Nobody will be surprised if at one of his COVID-19 infected rallies he boasts, "I could shoot Mike Pence in the Rose Garden and grab his wife by her private parts and nobody would do nothing." (He is such an ass that a double negative doesn't do him justice.) Will he win reelection? He took Wisconsin, Michigan and Pennsylvania by 80,000 votes. Here he is the most vulnerable, but there are a number of other states where the citizenry desires nothing more than toppling this monarch from his throne in a peaceful replay of the French Revolution that excludes the guillotine in a final act of political and poetic justice. The king is dead! Long live Joe Biden! Trump and his traitors can unload on Biden mercilessly, but the former VP just has to keep his folksy smile and take a page from George W. Bush's book in which he is the kind of guy with whom you would want to share a beer in a country bar with a lovely señorita sitting on a stool between the both of you. Hell, the Bushes and thousands of other Republicans are voting for Biden who will not lose any Democratic support. For all you Trump haters (The true Trump toadies are haters like their satanic megalomaniac whose list of  individuals and institutions he abhors slithers after him like a rat's tail.) and the rest of the Religious Right hypocrites whose daughters they would offer to their sultan as concubines, there is no light at the end of the tunnel. People will continue to die; the economy will continue to decline; and Trump will continue to prove that stupidity is a virtue if you solely surround yourself with stupid people.)

DON PEDRO DINES AT PALM LOUNGE

Don Pedro doesn't usually drink at the Palm Lounge. Too many lawyers who want to live the cantina life for a few hours ruin the atmosphere. He prefers the more authentic locales like the Sportsman and La Carta Brava.

"They are Brownsville's spiritual centers," said Don Pedro. "I want to be close to the source."

When I told him the Palm still had the best hamburgers in town, he accepted an invitation to meet me at the bar and hoist a few in memory of Freddy Fender and Rigo Tovar. After toasting the proud sons of Matamoros and San Benito, cocaine became the subject of the conversation.

"How often do you do coke?" asked Don Pedro.

"I did some recently, but I bet it had been several years since the previous time. I've never gotten the nose for it. I have too much nervous energy. I like coke's initial rush, but it unravels me after a while. I prefer downers."

Don Pedro nodded his head.

"It's not good for you," he said. "It's a form of madness. You become delusional. You're also pushing the limits of your body. Give me marijuana and alcohol any day of the week."

I nodded in response.

"But sometimes you need a quick rush," I said.

"I have the best quick rush in the world," he counseled. "Whenever I'm feeling uninspired, but I want to be a part of the action, I throw back a couple of tequilas. Nothing changes my perspective for the better quicker. I know when to stop that shit. Coke won't let you stop."

The hamburgers arrived and Don Pedro gave me the thumbs up.

"These are good," he said.

HANGING OUT AT COBBLEHEADS

If hanging out downtown Friday or Saturday night is de rigueur (I only do one night because I can't do two nights in a row!), then gathering with the Baby Boomers on the deck late Sunday afternoons at Cobbleheads is always in vogue.

I skipped mass yesterday. The money I would have dropped in the collection basket I deposited in Joe Kenney's pocket. I've been depositing money in his pocket for the last 35 years since he first opened Checker's Café downtown and I would sing The Three-Legged Rooster with The Connectors backing me. I'm still waiting for that first cold beer on the house from the Irish Prick. He may be good to musicians, but he has never shown me any of that love. But that's cool. I've had more than my share of freebies.

Emilio Crixell, Albert Besteiro, Charlie Harrison and the regulars were on stage. Brownsville's own Sonny & Cher, Joe and Rosa Perez, grabbed the microphone during one sat and harmonized to the groove of the swaying palms.

It was another miraculous day weather-wise. If these cool and overcast days are the price that we are going to pay for climate change, then let the polar caps melt. Hell, Brownsville could be occupying beachfront property in a few decades.

Since I don't celebrate Christmas, Easter, Cinco de Mayor, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, birthdays and anniversaries, I didn't celebrate Mother's Day. My three sons have followed in my tradition by not celebrating Father's Day. I celebrate every day or I lie in bed recovering from celebrating the previous day. For me there is no such thing as days of the week. There are only days.

During a music break, Albert approached me and asked me if I still smoked dope. I told him that I did but only on spontaneous occasions. Since I haven't been playing any music lately, I haven't been puffing on any weed. When I'm high, I want to strum my guitar and sing my RGV delta blues.

One of life's sad realities is that we aren't doing the artistic and physical things we should be doing. As a result we become mentally stagnant and physically flaccid. Fortunately, enough guilt can be inspirational as one finally decides to escape the doldrums.

I don't consider myself an artist. Artists can be arrogant characters who convince themselves that God has given them an insight into this existence that others don't possess. Art for many is a secular religion and I am not a religious person.

I am as stupid as the next guy and as ugly as the next gal. But I do have a creative side. I am finishing my 16th book and I have produced four children. Most of my books haven't been read and one child died, but I still keep writing and fucking. I hope to pen a few more books, but I have no intention of bringing another child into this world.

I spent most of my time at the bar watching the basketball game between Toronto and Philadelphia. It was an exciting NBA weekend. Born and raised in Sacramento, I have been a Warriors fan since the days of Rick Berry.

Another Rick, Rick Lepre, the legendary coach, joined me at the bar. He told me he hated the NBA. Retired from the BISD, he is rediscovering his lost youth with his blond hair and a diamond stud in his ear. It's his way of letting his freak flag fly.

"Do you need a ride home?" he asked after we had conversed a few hours. Wednesday night I got so drunk that I fell flat on my face walking from Cobbleheads to my hotel room. The tequila snuck up on me. I could have hurt myself. If I'm not careful, I might tumble down a flight of stairs one of these days and break my neck.

"Sure."

As Rick dropped me off at my place, he said, "Give me a call during the week and we'll throw back a few."

"Sure."

If I didn't know better, I might think I was an existentialist anti-hero in one of Camus's novels. Much like my fall, you keep moving forward until you smack into a wall and it's over.

WHAT IS BLOGGING?

A person once confronted Estanislao Contreras, the controversial author of Chicano Fuck Songs, and said in regards to one of his verses: "That's not poetry!"

"Yes, it is!"

"How can you say that those lines are poetry?"

"Because I say it's poetry!"

The same perspective holds true for blogging. Blogging is anything you want it to be. Some bloggers like to showcase only their writings. Some bloggers feel that their sites have to adhere to journalistic standards. Some bloggers only want to post nude photos of men and women and call it art.

At The McHale Report we say that everyone should grow their hair long and let their freak flags fly. Of course, we engage in our own works, but we also, when we are at our responsible best working on behalf of the community we have loved for 45 years, like to present a package that moves from genre to genre with no limitations but provides an insight into the city's most important issues of the day.

We go about our calling for a variety of reasons, but we don't want to depart this world without the comfort of having given our vision, artistically and politically, our best shot. We don't want to be like the two 80-year-old virgins when one turns to the other and says, "We got fucked!"

ONE SENTENCE SAYS IT ALL

And so I continue down my wayward path with the Coronavirus cloud hanging over me fat with dark drops of death, I take a few steps forward, a few steps back, most times staggering side to side, often times falling flat on my face, awakening, alone, covered in mud, but the sky takes pity (Or is it mocking me?) (Or is it God weeping over another failed experiment?) and it starts to rain and, slowly struggling to my feet, I stumble onward, but I ask myself if I've become disoriented and if I'm retracing my steps, unsure if I'm headed to where I began although I know enough about the absurdity and futility of my existence that there is no difference between the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning when blackness engulfs everything and there is no light, only the incomprehensible urge to keep moving because the Grim Reaper is waiting patiently to embrace me in his cold arms, warmth a pipe dream to keep me putting one foot in front of the other, the only option unless I want to die before my time, so the journey resumes with brief thoughts of salvation flitting through my mind that in the infinite emptiness there has to be one truth that is worth this blind travail but with the little intelligence with which I have been cursed I instinctively comprehend that I have been condemned to a sentence that I must serve and when my tracks disappear into the mire, billions (trillions?) will be following me just like I have followed billions (trillions?) in this confused trip through timelessness...

DEATH MAKES ONE HUNGRY AND THIRSTY

After the viewing we went to La Pampa. It is our favorite restaurant. We always order la parrillada--fajitas, beef ribs, chicken, sausages and mollejas. I always start with a cold beer to clear my throat. Before the evening was over, we had finished two bottles of Malbec.

"How old was he?" she asked.

"He wasn't twenty. He was a great kid."

"But he died so fast."

"From the time the doctors diagnosed him with pancreatic cancer, he was dead in less than a month."

"I've never seen such a heart-broken family. He was their hero."

"I don't want to even think about it. I may get a little bit tipsy tonight. I would be a basket case for the rest of my life if anything happened to David or Sara."

"Where is the funeral mass?"

"At the Cathedral," I answered.

"At what time?"

"It's at two."

"And the burial?"

"It's right after, but we're not going. It's going to be too hot and windy."

"I haven't been downtown in ages. Let's go to Dodici's. I've heard the food is excellent and the interior patio is gorgeous."

"It doesn't open until five."

"We enjoyed The Library the last time we were there except you drank too many tequilas and almost ruined the night on account of that near fight with Cesar De Leon."

"Es un pendejo."

"I love the hot dogs. Shall we go there?"

"Daisy doesn't open her place until five either."

"What about Terras? One of my colleagues told me they had changed the menu."

"All these places are closed until the late afternoon, honey."

"We're going downtown and we're not going to eat?"

"There's the Palm. You haven't been there since the joint reopened, have you? You wouldn't recognize it. A cantina has metamorphosed into a fern bar."

"Do they still serve their historic hamburgers?"

"No. Only Rutledge's has remained true to the greasy tradition, but there's nothing wrong with their upgraded version. We'll go there. I'll be in the mood for a bucket of beers although I expect you to drink at least one. By the way: Did you send the flowers?"

"I did. They were to the left of the casket. They were beautiful."

The moral of this anecdote: Life is for the living.

CBD

Based on the mounting evidence and faced with that diurnal struggle of having to fill space with no ideas in my CBD sedated mind, I will decree that summer officially arrived in Brownsville on May 20, 2019.

The temperatures this week will rise to the mid-nineties before dropping into the low-nineties for Memorial Day weekend. The daily lows will average in the eighties. This is good news for those who relish the sun and surf at the Island.

And there will be no politicians knocking at your doors until the early evening, which means you can enjoy your siesta undisturbed or hook up with your movida for some afternoon delight.

I'm not a fan of the heat. Fortunately, I pay a flat rate at my long-term hotel and I keep the air-conditioner at 68 24/7. As I near my eighth decade, I refuse to suffer if I have any influence in the matter.

This accounts for my recent infatuation with CBD. Always a big fan of marijuana because it inspires me musically and takes the boredom out of the day, everyone has been talking about CBD's wondrous effects both physically and mentally. I'm a sucker for snake oil any day of the week.

I have been taking Xanax for 15 years. I actually take Alprazolam, the generic. I swallow one milligram before going to sleep and I awake the next morning rested and tranquil. If I'm fighting a particularly bad hangover or I'm nervous about dating someone for the first time, I'll pop another. Up to this point the drug hasn't numbed my brain.

Through my insurance, I receive a three-month supply for free. If I'm running short because my sons or friends have been skimming a tab or two, I'll go to Matamoros and purchase 30 two-milligram bars for $70. Customs never asks the elderly about the contents in the Garcia's bag. The shits just too good to live without it.

I have a friend who is taking three milligrams a day. Before he started on the meds, he was a mess, but since he has commenced his new regimen, he has saved his marriage and loves teaching when he once despised the job.

"You better be careful," his doctor told him. "You might become addicted."

"I'm 69 years old," he replied. "I don't give a shit if I'm addicted. My insurance keeps my medicine cabinet full and I'm strictly living day to day."

Last week I decided to visit DuReal Lief Wellness Bar. Gus Villarreal, one of the owners, educated me. I'm always mesmerized when a person has a product that could lead to world peace. I listened attentively as he introduced me to the benefits of CBD.

"THC is just one of at least 85 cannabinoids found in marijuana and is the most talked about because of its ability to give a 'high' and its medicinal properties. CBD is not psychoactive, meaning it can not give you a 'high' as associated with THC.

"CBD has anti-anxiety and muscle relaxing effects," he continued. "Studies have shown that it works as an anti-inflammatory."

I told him about my infatuation with Xanax and marijuana, which prompted this interesting insight from my new guru who fixed me a cup of Willie Nelson's CBD coffee with zero caffeine, served me a CBD water soluble potion and offered me a CBD mint, which I immediately savored.

"CBD provides one more benefit for those who choose to use marijuana recreationally," he offered. "The compound actually acts as a counterweight to the psychoactive properties of THC, helping to reduce negative THC side-effects. For this reason, many cannabis users look for marijuana strains with a one-to-one THC/CBC ratio."

Saturday night the new establishment held its grand opening and the business, located on Pablo Kisel in the same strip mall as the Italian restaurant Geko, the taqueria El Fogon and The Shot Bar, was packed wall to wall. Everybody was hugging everybody else in a celebration of life.

Half drunk and energized by fresh sativa that had only arrived that afternoon, I felt like shouting "Jesus has risen!" but I refrained from making a fool out of myself. Gene Districh, none other than the Austin American Shaman whose hemp oil is the most powerful in the nation, confided to me, "You don't have to get high to get help."

He also recommended that I begin with the Natural 300 water soluble CBD and the CBD body balm for my bum knee. I took his advice. I mix the drops with water in the morning. I have noticed a positive effect. Though I haven't reduced my Xanax intake, I feel calmer and I have fallen into deep, dream-free slumbers. I would like to wean myself off the Xanax and solely use when I desire an ultimate mellow state.

The balm for my knee hasn't been as successful although I have noticed a small reduction in pain, but I fear I may have a tear from playing basketball with guys 40 years younger than me at Gold's Gym. It is ironic that in our endeavor to help ourselves to have a better quality of life, we hurt ourselves instead.

Some customers prefer the oils to the water soluble that they place under their tongues. The measurements for both vary from 300 to 450 to 900. (My 300 registers 30 milligrams, so I don't know if that ratio is reflected in the stronger doses.)

I am looking at my water soluble vial and my instructions advise me to ingest it twice a day, but the Shaman recommended only once in the morning. I'm sure I'll start taking it twice a day because I never like to deprive myself of the total effects. He counseled that everyone reacts differently to CBD. He was preaching to the choir. I've known all the effects of pot from the giggles to paranoia.

The products are not cheap, but I don't recall the price I paid for the two items while in a drunken and stoned state. "Put it on the card!" Since I have a month's worth of the tincture that will save me the trouble of reading the Bible in order to save my soul, I will report back to my three readers in a month if I am a changed man or if I'm still the same piece of shit as depicted by my three ex-wives.

BUDDIES CHEW THE FAT...

"Teachers have less credibility than the mayor," said Max Maxwell, the dean of the RGV sportswriters, as he took a break from another hot day with a cold beer at The Kraken Lounge. "They are constantly complaining. They could rule Brownsville, but they are so damn apathetic that they don't bother to vote. I consider them the most pathetic group of professionals I have had the misfortune to know. They suffer from inferiority complexes. They aren't happy being teachers. They think they should have been doctors or lawyers. That's why so many become administrators after only a few years in the classroom in order to fulfill their delusional need to be somebodies. You actually enjoyed the job. I never heard you complaining."

"Teaching was a pleasant experience," Dr. G.F. McHale-Scully commenced with a long burp following his pizza and beer. "The kids keep you on your toes, but they're fun. You have to live within your economic limitations. If you suffer from keeping up with the Joneses, you will have to find a second income. We may have the intelligence of doctors and lawyers, but we will never command their salaries. For those who aren't pleased with their current pay, a reality check in the merciless business world might improve their appreciation for their present occupations. Things could be worse. I could be without a steady check and insurance, but the BISD provided me with a substantial retirement. As long as I have these two, there's hope."

Maxwell was short. McHale-Scully, eternally grateful that his buddy had improved his backhand, paid the bill.

ADAM & EVE

If I seem pessimistic, I'm dealing with a hangover: In joy, there is suffering. I have no second thoughts about last night's excesses. I've done my best to reduce the suffering by calling in sick, drinking plenty of liquids, combining pain killers and tranquilizers, and sleeping. Like the anonymous artist that I am, I record my thoughts during my waking moments.

As I've repeated on countless occasions over innumerable glasses of beer, bottles of wine and shots of tequila, bad experiences inspire some of my best prose. I don't know if today will be one of those transcendent instances, but no writing is bad writing.

Not everyone would agree with this assertion. Sometimes it's better to stop while you're ahead. Man and woman were God's last two creations. Maybe he ran out of good material. Both have failed him. These pathetic creatures claim that God wouldn't exist if they didn't exist. Whatever. The little decent material he held in his hands, he fashioned into man.

The scriptures state that he had no intention of creating a woman until he caught Adam masturbating. God wasn't going to tolerate this from someone he had created in his own image and likeness. He had to do his best with the scraps, which explains a female's inferior construction--smaller and plagued with chronic plumbing problems.

ESTANISLAO CRIES IN HIS BEER

Estanislao Contreras took a seat on the deck at Cobbleheads with a long look on his face. He had thrown back four tequilas before he had taken a sip of his warm beer.

"What's the matter, compadre?" asked Jack O'Connell.

"My ex-wife, as part of the war she has declared, is turning my daughter against me. What does it say about a mother who turns a daughter against her father?"

"It shows that you were blind falling for her initially? Didn't you tell me that after the first time she fucked a new lover, he bored her. How long did you expect her to remain faithful to you? You put your trust in a woman who had fucked half of Brownsville. I told you from the beginning that you were a pendejo for falling for a recycled bitch, but you didn't listen."

"But she was so beautiful."

"Didn't her ex confront you at the Vermillion and tell you that on the long train that had stopped at her station, you were barely hanging on to the caboose? Didn't he tell you that you were feeding on the scraps after all the other dogs had feasted on her?

"I was a blind man who walked off the cliff into her bottomless pussy. She treated me like shit from the beginning, but I couldn't extract her from my system. My mother told me the first time she met her that she was no good, but I have accepted that God has decided that I should pay for my sins here rather than in purgatory."

"Everyone knows you're not perfect. That's why people love you. Everyone knows that you have been a stellar father. I know that dealing with angry children is painful, particularly when you're innocent, but now you know the truth about this woman. In the same manner she has never had any second thoughts about screwing others, she never had any second thoughts about screwing you. Unfortunately, the scores before you only thrust their weapon into her pussy. She has thrust her knife through your heart."

"Let me buy you a tequila, compadre."

"No, compadre. You have already paid too high a price. Let me buy you a tequila."

PLAYBOY DOESN'T COMPARE TO REAL THING

All I need these days is access to the internet. For one, and most importantly, it allows me to write. Since my identity is etched in my words, I wouldn't exist if I couldn't publish my thoughts.

Much has changed since my youth. As a boy, little compared to getting my hands on a Playboy and staring at the foldout. Only Greek goddesses could have tits like these.

The internet has banished that beauty forever. I can get to the internet and view every sexual act imaginable. I'm not a frequent visitor, but a brief view of creampies and a 100 mg. of Viagra and I can assure myself a pleasant fuck with a happy ending.

One day I was surfing the net and I encountered the image of a sicario holding a knife against a woman's neck. A caption described the video as a decapitation. As the killer pressed his weapon into the woman's throat, I stopped the footage and accessed YouTube.

Sperm flowing from a woman's pussy excites me, but blood gushing from a person's neck is too much for even a pervert like me. I sought refuge in the soothing serenity of classical music in order to recapture my breath.

During the night my 14-year-old son, who is addicted to the internet, messaged me that he had just seen a mass murderer gunning down scores of Muslims at a mosque. He wrote:

"Be grateful for life. Over 40 dead in New Zealand as of now. A crazy terrorist shooter walked into a mosque and started firing. What a world we live in. Saw the video. Truly disturbed. Be grateful for life. I love you."

He is a beautiful and loving little boy who dreams of being a great football player one day much like I dreamed of being a great baseball player when I was his age, the only significant difference between us is that he has been exposed to the internet his entire life while the internet didn't exist in my childhood.

I thought about suggesting a violin concerto or a piano sonata, but classical music holds no interest for him. Instead I wrote:

"Check out the latest compilation of creampies. They will clear those terrible images from your head."

I saw him a few nights later for dinner. Growing up in a devout Catholic family, we never even mentioned the word sex. The internet has changed everything.

"Did you take my advice?"

"Sure did, Dad."

"Did it help?"

"It did. Thanks." 

THE LIFE OF A BLOGGER

Hemingway allegedly said that after three years of journalism, get out if you intended to be a writer because formula writing would stultify your creativity. I dispute that. Journalism is another genre. Propaganda is a genre just like poetry, short stories and novels. I believe the situation determines the presentation. Whatever vehicle you choose, there is always a surprising amount of originality that evolves from the mere decision to pound the keys on your laptop. I think you lament too copiously because there is no such phenomenon as objective reporting. There is prose that disguises itself in a cloak of objectivity, but stripped of its raiment, it's a naked one-side version of an object that has as many perspectives as viewers. The life of this blogger is a rather enjoyable one. I've been writing since midnight after drinking too much beer and eating too many wings watching the Warriors sneak away with an exciting victory. I've written three stories about our municipal elections in an inebriated state. Of course, they are slanted. Just like FOX defends Trump and CNN rips Trump and there is no middle ground, I have to make decisions that I feel are in Brownsville's best interests. If you think the few bucks thrown my way influences my coverage, you are mistaken. I have been offered substantially more from individuals with whom I don't agree. But trying to convince people that you aren't bought-and-sold is a futile endeavor.and I don't lose any sleep over those critics who find this assessment conveniently fits their agenda. Always attack the messenger if you can't attack the message, not that the message isn't beyond criticism. I do appreciate your characterization of a blogger's existence. Dry humor always serves a writer well. I especially appreciate your comparison of the old crone pocketing her few bucks collecting the ballots from the disabled and elderly and delivering them to be marked by the candidates. The bloggers are a much wiser advertising investment. And there's nothing illegal in the transaction. The Sunday before the general election for the city, I bought The Brownsville Herald and not one of the fourteen candidates had bought an ad. The public wants meat and the bloggers butcher their sacrificial lambs on Market Square. Just like the bloggers, I think your prone to exaggeration, but hyperbole is an effective literary tool. But I congratulate you on your short essay. It inspired me to write an introduction defending the art of blogging and earned you a niche on the prestigious McHale Report and this blog's Facebook page. Bloggers have much space to fill and we are always indebted when someone emerges from the anonymous masses and submits an article that we know will entertain our three readers. I give the floor to the distinguished Senator from the State of Texas--John Christopher Tamayo:

TRUMP THREATENS TO SHUT DOWN THE MCHALE REPORT

"After I'm done with Twitter, I'm going after that damn Dr. G.F. McHale-Scully and closing down The McHale Report. He doesn't give me credit for receiving his doctorate from my university and, if I'm not mistaken, he still owes us for loans.

"I don't appreciate his mocking of me and my family. I'm not going to comment on personal matters, but he has no right to print that Melania has locked the door to her bedroom and will not allow me to enter unless I'm wearing a mask and maintaining six feet distance.

"And there is no scientific proof that if you voted for me, your I.Q. indicates that you are stupid, possibly retarded. I voted for me and I'm arguably one of the smartest persons who has ever walked this globe. Don't take my word for it. Ask Vice President Pence. He'll vouch for me although, off the record, I can't find any logical reason that he would remain faithful to his wife. She is homelier than Elizabeth Dierlam.

"Social media is controlled by left-wing radicals. In fact, Dr. Tony Zavaleta asserted that this Dr. Maniac-Scumbag was a communist. I'm trying to make American great again and he is calling his own home town the Third World Capital of the United States. There may be more than 100,000 dead from COVID-19, but I can still find something positive in these numbers while this Biden bitch can only speak negatively of those brave people who unfortunately died.

"He never stops mentioning that I am only one of three presidents to be impeached, but he never includes Fox's characterization of me as one of this nation's top three presidents historically along with Washington and Lincoln.

"Fortunately, there are good Republicans in Brownsville that this jerk refers to as the Harlingen Heathens because they are white and he wants to conquer and divide with his racist politics. Like Hitler--I'll concede he took it a little too far--I am the savior of White America. Since there is so much controversy about the Jefferson Davis Memorial--The Confederate president may have been a traitor, but he was our traitor--I have heard that Terry Ray, Jim Tipton, John Reed and Harry McNair are going to replace the rock and erect a statue of me riding Stormy Daniels, I mean a horse.

"I was very disappointed, but then our ranks are filled with Romneys, that the Cowen family is not going to take part in the undertaking. Very, very bad. You can express your disappointment too by not voting for Ralph Cowen at the por as a protest even though he doesn't have an opponent and you can vote his brother Phil and his nephew John off the BISD board and city commission. These are bad people and I mean very bad people.

"But the worst of the lot is McHale-Scully. Just like I took Hillary down, I'm going to take this 'hoax' down. Why are readers so easily convinced by his lies? He never stops lying. He wants to destroy my beautiful achievements and I've done some very beautiful, beautiful things for our country. And I'm not done. I'm going to bring beauty to Brownsville by flushing this ugly piece of shit down the toilet and my good friend John Bruciak at PUB will permanently take of this piece of crap.

"I am the Pied Piper of Prosperity. I am the Second Coming. The Jews were right. It wasn't Christ who was going to save them. It was Donald Trump. They asked me to ride into Jerusalem on a donkey one Palm Sunday a few years ago. I couldn't fulfill their wishes because I had committed to a round of golf with Tiger Woods--I wish more black people were like Tiger. I think he really likes me. He really, really does--but I can guarantee all my religious right, redneck, rich and racist followers that come this November I'm going to dig my spurs into the Democratic donkey and no amount of braying is going to realize the miracle for which these socialists are praying.

"I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the White House, or to God for that matter, except through me. We are going to turn our biggest arenas into Houses of Worship overflowing with my faithful. If a few are infected with Coronavirus and die, we know that every movement needs martyrs. But there will be many, many virgins waiting for them for their great sacrifice unless, of course, I get there first."

TRUMP'S GUTTER MOUTH REINFORCES FIRST AMENDMENT RIGHTS

Though he has failed miserably as president as the country hasn't been in such economic distress since the Great Depression because of his incompetent and irresponsible handling of the COVID-19 pandemic, I will give Trump credit for reducing political correctness to the final state of the Twin Towers. 

Once you're in the ring and you want to be champion of the world or just mayor of Brownsville, you have to prove that you can handle the shit fired at you as a result of our First Amendment rights or in your heart of hearts you are a closet dictator who wants power and wants to stay in power at all costs. 

Trump has succeeded because he has broken all the politically correct rules. The powerless love seeing the powerful mocked. We despise their superiority complexes. Politicians have a long track record of being the scum of the earth. They deserve to be the targets of the slings and arrows of our outrage as they have led us into unjust wars and personally benefitted from corruption. 

As a writer and an iconoclast myself, I cringe when my freedom of expression is threatened. As a gentleman and a class act, I believe we have to pick and choose carefully, but I would have no problems with Trump calling Pelosi "a worthless cunt" even though I'm a staunch supporter of the Speaker. 

That's the way we roll these days and with our children raised on rap and hip-hop, we are only going to become more creative. In all fairness to Miss Nancy, Trump is "a worthless cock."

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY

I wouldn't be who I am today 

if it weren't for my father. 

Never underestimate the impact 

of a word or a gesture 

showing that you care. 

Happy Father's Day 
to all the men and women 

who play that role to their children, 

grandchildren, nieces and nephews, 

siblings, stepchildren, dogs and cats!

"TIENE USTED ELOTE?"

It is an overcast afternoon. The sun has spared us. My son wants a raspa. He has finished his track session with his coach at the high school football field  and he's dying of thirst. He runs both the 100 and 200 and competes in the long jump. There is a stand in the strip mall near the facility.

"Quiero una raspa grande de uva."

"Muy bien."

"Tiene usted elote?"

"En vaso?"

"No. Entero."

"Si. Con todo?"

"Si. Con todo."

I give Michael his raspa and I return for my corn cob on a stick. I stand outside the car and eat it because the kernels would leave a mess if I sat in the front seat. How many elotes have I eaten? Quien sabe? But they sure have been one of the simple pleasures of life.

WIFE AGES GRACEFULLY

"I didn't appreciate your remark, bro?"

"What did I say?"

"You said my wife was aging gracefully."

"I was complimenting her."

"What would my wife think if I said to her that she was aging gracefully?"

"I'm sure she would appreciate your kind words."

"Since she is always looking for a fight, do you really think she would appreciate my kind words?"

"I don't know why she wouldn't."

"What does aging gracefully mean?"

"It means that a person, and in your wife's case, is taking care of herself."

"Bullshit! If I told her that she was aging gracefully, she would attack me for saying that she was looking old. There would be a general outburst that if I wanted a woman with no wrinkles around her neck, firm breasts and a flat stomach, then I should leave her while she had some remaining youth in order to find someone to replace me and I could try to find that young thing I desired."

"I'm sorry, but there were no bad intentions on my part. Your wife is very pretty."

"You've been single for more than a decade busy as a bee pollinating one flower after another. You don't remember the travails of marriage because your many romances have erased those troubled times from your mind, but when you have been mired in a marriage as long as I have, anything positive can be turned into a negative before you have punctuated your initial statement with a period."

"I understand. I recall those days when my wife no longer found amusement in my sense of humor when she would laugh uproariously during our courtship. My apologies."

"I hope you have learned your lesson because it may serve you well in the future. When you say to a woman that she is aging well, you are saying that she doesn't look too bad for her age."

I'VE GIVEN IT MY BEST SHOT

I'm sitting in the Austin home of my number two son Joaquin. I am speaking strictly in chronological order. Number one son Carlos is taking a shower and number three son Michael is finally stirring. We are eating lunch at Lucy's. It's fried chicken is a part of our Austin pilgrimage. Afterwards, we are clearing our fuzzy brains by diving into the bracing waters of Barton Springs. Besides another major meal in the evening copiously accompanied by alcohol, we are strictly in spontaneous mode. There's plenty of money to squeeze the most from the moments. It's not often that a father and his three son are united and you can never count on the future to assure other reunions. Life is too fragile. We have to mine the moment for all its golden memories.

I have to write. Since my blog and Facebook are economically beneficial to me, I must maintain a steady activity. With the publication of my new book Guatemala, I thought I would present a short resume of my past works in order to entertain my three readers who come to my sites every day demanding material. Fortunately, they are easy to satisfy.

As I have mentioned on previous occasions to the chagrin of my faithful trio who do have their limits when it comes to my desperate endeavor to fill the infinite screen on the internet, my writing began in 1977 as The Brownsville Herald sports editor. Covering spot news and penning columns, I learned to write that year I held the post. Whether it has been a typewriter or a computer, my fingers have continued to dance among the keys. I have never stopped contributing to publications since I commenced my career. I started my own periodical in 1990, the revolutionary El Rocinante, and since 2000 I have blogged. Blogging is like hitting the heavy bag: It keeps you in creative shape, so when the more substantial undertakings evolve, you haven't lost your flow. I have this wistful thought every time I sit down and blog that I may unexpectedly compose my most memorable piece of literature.

Following this introduction I am posting all the covers from my latest book to my earliest book although I'm going to delineate them in the opposite order. I self-published the inaugural seven and have twenty of each stored in a large plastic box. The rest I have distributed to anyone who would accept a copy. I've changed the name of the titles on a few of them, but I am not going into the history now to explain the reasons I altered them.

My initial three books were Punk Poetry, Quinceanera and Poems & Prose. The first was all poetry, the second was 15 poems and 15 short stories and the third was a combination of the two again, a format I have used on subsequent occasions.

The Bill Clinton Overture--Opus 69 was my first novel. It was followed by The World's Most Despicable Man, Aaahhhhh!!!!! and Diarrhea, compilations of poems and short stories, the three once again adhering to the poem/prose format.

Next arrived my most ambitious project--the Tommy Tamaulipas Trilogy. The three novels are entitled: The Temptations of Tommy Tamaulipas; The Transgressions of Tommy Tamaulipas; The Tribulations of Tommy Tamualipas.

In the next five I have once again combined poetry and prose with the exception of  Dad's Dead, which is a novelette. The other four are Mother Trumps Trump; Baudelaire, Bukowski & Brewskies; My Teeming Brain; Buried in Brownsville.

And last but not least, there is Guatemala. This is a series of 14 articles with a prologue and an epilogue that describe my experience in the Central American county in 1979.

My literary aspirations have culminated in 16 books. I have vague ideas for other endeavors, but I can't concentrate or dedicate myself to something concrete yet. I have deliberated on a fourth book to the Tommy Tamaulipas Triology; there is room for a sequel. I have this amorphous idea about an existentialistic anti-hero, but nothing has crystallized. There is the possibility of a memoir and there's the old faithful outlet of another poetry/prose concoction.

My only hope is that I live long enough to realize another substantial product. I'm lucky. I don't seek fame or fortune. The mentality reflects my anti-materialistic lifestyle. I really don't desire anything more than to suck the marrow out of each moment. I have been semi-successful in this quest. When my friends and family drop my ashes from the New Bridge into the swirling, filthy waters of the Rio Grande, they will all agree that I gave this brief period of consciousness my best shot.

"TU MADRE!"

"What?"

"Tu madre!"

"Are you insulting me?"

"Tu madre!"

"Nobody says 'Your mother!' in English. What are you talking about?"

"Tu madre!"

"Who are you? I came here to drink a beer and go home to my wife and kids. I'm not looking for any trouble."

"Tu madre!"

"I don't have to put up with your crap. Do you want a piece of me?"

"Tu madre!"

"Tu madre, too!"

The man of a few words pulled out his pistol and shot several times. His victim dropped to the floor dead. The murderer is at large. He is considered armed and dangerous.

/DP-M RETURNS

We were preoccupied about him because he has the heart of an adventurer. We worried that he might have followed the lead of the great California short story writer Ambrose Bierce and disappeared into Mexico in search of the truth about the cartels. Bierce never survived the Mexican Revolution and we feared the same fate might befall out audacious amigo.

He possesses the same bravado as the Texas Rangers John Ford and we have no doubts that he would have ventured into Llano Estacado in search of kidnapped white women captured and brutally and repeatedly raped by Comanches in those days when West Texas was a no-man's land.

Nor would we be surprised if his ancestors hadn't ridden under U.S. Major Samuel Heintzelman in pursuit of revolutionary Juan Cortina along the Rio Grande in the early 1860s and chased the iconic military figure back into Mexico but with scores of his patriots lying dead along the sandy river beds in his wake.

And we don't know if there is any truth to this rumor, but Estanislao Contreras related to us that our longtime journalist ally's grandfather was a part of General John Pershing's punitive expedition in pursuit of Pancho Villa after the latter raided the United States.

But he's back. /DP-M, never one to reveal details about his personal life except in brief episodes of his fiction, has returned to his native McAllen to write. Just like a rapist rapes, a writer writes by fucking his own mind. There is a brutal but beautiful reality that must be stalked via the labyrinths of the brain and ravished when ambushed.

The news of his return has brought joy to the likes El Rrun Rrun's Juan Montoya, The Brownsville Voice's Bobby Wightman-Cervantes and The Brownsville Observer's Jim Barton. They know that they can't do their job if /DP-M doesn't do his.

And, of course, we are giddy that /DP-M will be gracing our pages once again. We relish publishing his stories and he savors featuring us in his stories. That's the trade-off when one team acquires a proven veteran in exchange for next year's first-round draft pick. Each author must possess certain elements in order to put his best product on the field.

For those who have forgotten, /DP-M is available at brownsvillerepublic.wordpress.com. The dog days may be upon on us, but a fresh gust of wind just swept across the valley from the gulf.

TERRY RAY

Arrogant or fat,

Belligerent or skinny,

Pinche Terry "King' Ray

Ain't worth a penny!

EL CABAELLERO DE LOS CINCO MESQUITES

I don't know where this gentleman was born and I'm not sure of his name, but beside his small frame house in the country along Military Highway grew five mesquites, from which he took his nickname. He was of a tranquil and serene nature and seldom uttered a word. He had no aspirations of fame nor fortune.

He was fond of learning languages without worrying about the correct conjugations. When he came across an expression in Spanish or Portuguese or French or Italian that amused him, he would be so diverted that he would forget to eat.

By temperament he liked wine and marijuana, but he survived on a small pension that limited his extravagances. Cognizant of his limited resources, his friends would invite him to their homes for a bottle and a joint.

He never drank without finishing the last drop and he was always good for the final hit. He would return to his place drunk and high, but he had little concern about tomorrow. He had no responsibilities and could sleep all day should he so desire.

He lived alone in his wooden abode badly in need of multiple repairs, but he delighted in the sounds of the rain dripping through the roof. He dressed in faded shirts and khakis and wore no underwear nor socks. Slipping quickly into his two garments and sliding his feet into a pair of sandals, he never altered his attire regardless of the occasion.

He ate little, tortillas with beans, avocados and onions his daily meal. He would filled his one glass with tap water. There was not an ounce of fat on him. He walked everywhere and expressed little want for modern conveniences.

He wrote poems to wile away the hours. He never feared revealing his innermost thoughts and could care less if his few readers praised or criticized him. He wasn't seeking approval. He merely felt the need to create and the product rendered him sufficient pleasure.

Oblivious to the opinions of others and washing his hands of the events unfolding around him, he went about his days in this manner until one evening they found him dead in his chair with his notebook on his lap and his pen on the floor.

IF YOU EVER NEEDED A JOINT

On Joe's gravestone, these words will be etched:

"If you ever needed a joint,

you could always count on Joe."

On Rey's gravestone, these words will be etched:

"If you ever needed a joint and Joe didn't have one,

you could always count on Rey."

On Dave's gravestone, these words will be etched:

"If you ever needed a joint and neither Joe nor Rey had one,

you could always count on Dave."

Only in death will the truth come alive.

OFF TO PORTUGAL

I will not be posting for the next two weeks. Why?

I'm off to Portugal today. It is a last minute change. Annie Gunn, the girl of sun and song, invited me to accompany her on a two-week excursion through Serbia, Montenegro, Albania and Macedonia. She is not the traditional tourist who visits England, France, Italy and Spain. She wants to lose herself in a sea of Slavic faces.

I thought about going along for the ride because I need a break from Brownsville, but I'm almost seventy and she's in her late twenties. I enjoy taking her to La Pampa for dinner and drinks, but I don't have the energy to keep pace with her over a fourteen-day marathon. Her libido surpasses a man's. She imagines that she is a slab of concrete and she expects the performance of a jackhammer, oftentimes insisting on morning, afternoon and evening poundings.

I can't hit a fastball anymore. In fact, I can hardly swing a bat. She appreciates me enough that she will occasionally lob me a slow-pitch softball and I can drive a liner into the alley, but I'm simply not in her league. I find release in women who experience an orgasm with a peck on the cheek. Sex is a young person's game.

Instead, I'm flying to Lisbon to meet Estanislao Contreras, the infamous author of Chicano Fuck Songs. He is writing his Hispanic manifesto: The Tomato Picker. It's a satire about all the Mexican-American politicians who believe working in the fields during their youths qualifies them to be public figures.

"While my buddies were leaving school in the late spring and not returning until the autumn when classes had already started, I was playing my guitar and hanging out at the Island," remembered Estanislao.

"I was blacker than they were at the end of summer, but it didn't come at the expense of an aching back. My dad had a tendajo and my mother worked at a school cafeteria. We didn't have all the finer things in life, but besides mowing a few white people's lawns, I hardly broke a sweat.

"As a result, I never became a hypocrite. These politicians we have now have forgotten their roots. It was one thing working for gringo masters back then, but it's pretty sad when they continue to work for gringo masters today. Of course, they are well-compensated for selling their souls."

Be that as it may since my amigo is an iconoclast, some might say it's a sad statement when I would rather spend time with an old buddy instead of  a young thing. But if you have the money, there are many attractive and inexpensive Brazilian prostitutes whom Estanislao claims only charge $50 and they're never in a hurry. And my bro adds that it's a great way to practice Portuguese.

Estanislao is renting a small apartment off Avenida da Liberdade near Restauradores Square. He has been there a month and he claims that Lisbon is an easy city to learn and the public transportation is excellent.

The culture, the history, the architecture and the cuisine are second to none he insists. He says he has already become a regular at a couple of bars in the Alfama District where the best Fado singers perform.

I plan to spend four of five days with him, then I'm going to take a two-hour train ride to Coimbra, the country's ancient capital and most famous internationally for its university. Coimbra rises on the banks of the Mondego River that empties lazily twenty-five miles later, in the Atlantic at Figueira da Foz, a hot spot that is more locally oriented although it is quite popular with the English.

Estanislao counseled me that I can buy an inexpensive guitar over lugging one across the pond. He says that I won't have any problems finding a venue because the Portuguese love to listen to English. I expect to cruise between Coimbra and Figueira for three or four days.

I will finish my trip in Porto after another two-hour train trip, this time from Coimbra. Many foreigners who aren't attracted to the southern beaches of the Algarve argue vociferously that Porto is their favorite place in Portugal. Whether it's taking a cruise up the Douro River and visiting the wine country or enjoying the night life in one of those cities that never sleeps, it's a happening ambience.

I have studied Portuguese for years and have interesting conversations with myself by merely substituting a few Portuguese words for Spanish words. I listen to bossa nova all the time, so I have this delusion that with minimal effort I could defend myself in Portuguese.

I have thought that I might want to be an ex-pat in Portugal. But I have one unconquerable obstacle: I have a fourteen-year-old son who needs his daddy. And his daddy needs him. There are many who call me a "culero," but I'm also "culeco." As it is, I'm going to miss his first two football games as a freshman at Veterans, but I discovered a deal that I couldn't pass.

As I mentioned in the introduction, I will be off-line during my travels. I will take a notebook and a pen that glides across paper like a skater on ice and explore my own literary creativity. When I return after Labor Day, I should be ready to take my place in the vanguard of the powerless rising against the excesses of the powerful.

Bon voyage.

CANDY RUE

I briefly met the girl of my dreams in Porto. It was a dark bar and I had been drinking when this beautiful young lady suddenly came bounding into my presence.

"My name is Candy Rue," she said. "What is your name?"

"My name is Jerry. By your accent, I'm going to say that you are from Australia."

"Really? Is it that obvious?"

"Your accent instantly gives you away, but there is something unmistakable in your appearance that brands you an Aussie."

Unfortunately, the girl of my dreams quickly turned into a nightmare as most these relationships do when two persons' journeys intersect for a few days. Nevertheless, I'm glad we spent time together. Short trysts have less pernicious effects in the long run.

I'll soon be back on the border. The weather is changing as we enter our tropical season before the first norther arrives in October. The bloggers have continued to raise havoc during my absence and I will do my best to add to the white noise upon my return. The Brownsville Herald, as is its wont, remains comatose.

After spending time in Europe, nothing has changed that would lend me to think that we don't deserve the ignominious designation as the Third World Capital of the United States. The Portuguese don't think we're the greatest nation in the world and they consider most Americans ignorant and fanatical in their nationalistic and religious beliefs.

"Any country that has Donald Trump as President cannot be proud of itself," Candy told me one night as we hopped around Porto.

"How could anyone be proud of such a bad person? There is nothing good about him. He has the arrogance of a privileged person exacerbated by the stupidity of a redneck. The United States will never realize its potential until the white man becomes a minority. White is not right. White is humanity's blight."

I did not take it personally when she suddenly left me for an African hash vendor. By that time we had grown tired of thumping each other.