Texans to Rain Clouds: Don't Mess with Texas

esponding to a week of heavy rains and severe flooding that has destroyed more than 200 homes and forced the evacuation of thousands of residents, Texans statewide have banded together to take back their state from Mother Nature. Seeking to live out the meaning of their state creed, "Don't Mess with Texas," Texans have waged an all-out war on the storm systems that have pummeled their state in recent days.

"First, it started out with some hooting and hollering, just letting off some steam after my house got washed down the river with all my guns still inside," explained New Braunfels resident Stymie Rauch. "Then when my pickup got washed away too, that struck me as personal and enough was enough so I gave them rain clouds a good what-for. I'll admit, there was some blue language involved that you aren't likely to hear at a nun's funeral. But them rain clouds knew what, they had it comin."

Inspired by Rauch's example, other New Braunfels residents swore and threw rocks at the clouds from the roofs of their homes, which were each comfortably stocked with several cases of lite beer and battery-powered television sets in case of a longer-than-usual flood.

New Braunfelite John Richard Stubing elevated the protest to an armed conflict when he begin firing his shotgun into the sky, signaling that he was mad as hell and also out of Frito dip. Neighbors cheered from their rooftops and an unknown hillrod waved a Texas state flag in support from a rowboat he was piloting up Honeysuckle Lane.

Word of the New Braunfels resistance movement spread like Billy Ray Cyrus haircuts across the state and within hours groups of armed Texans were wading through the streets and brandishing firearms in several Central Texas towns. Clever commemorative tee-shirts were printed up in record time featuring the cloud-mocking catchphrase "G'on Now, Git" and by nightfall country singer Toby Keith had released a timely single entitled "Mother Nature Ain't No Mother of Mine (The Pissed-off Texan)."

By Saturday, calls had been made to former Texas governor and current U.S. president by default George W. Bush to dispatch the U.S. nuclear arsenal in response to the clouds' aggressions against the people of Texas. Current governor Rick Perry publicly supported the use of nuclear force and all other necessary holy hell to send a message to the storm front. Perry summed up the state government's position as "Be you a cloud or be you from Amarillo, you know that when you rattle the big dog's cage, that big dog just might give you a bite for your troubles. Look out, weather."

Some Texas activists, however, were not content to wait for the wheels of government to get around to turning. Saturday afternoon, Patrick Scott, the president of cable television's The Weather Channel, was kidnapped from his Atlanta home. A letter described as "sort of like a ransom note" was discovered at the scene, though only the phrase "We gotcha by the balls now!" has been released to the press.

Meanwhile, residents across the state waged war on Mother Nature into the evening on Saturday, pulling down trees with pickup trucks, stomping on flowers and spraying aerosol products straight into the sky. A man was arrested near San Antonio for feeding chili to penguins at the zoo and a grassroots movement took hold among Texans who defiantly refused to cut up their six-pack rings before discarding them.

However, by Sunday a soggy and hung-over Texas awoke feeling plum tuckered out and noticeably less defiant. Talk had turned to the wisdom of passive resistance in the struggle against Mother Nature. Sunday conversations were dominated by discussion of magazine-drying techniques and boasts of homes to be rebuilt bigger and better in the exact same spots, only with game rooms and hot tubs this time around. Other Texas discussed the feasibility of developing waterproof bubble-domes to cover houses or outfitting trailer homes with pontoons.

Meteorologists had previously predicted a few more days of heavy rain for Central Texas, followed by dry weather, but are now withholding their Texas forecasts until Patrick Scott is returned safely.

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Some people call me… the "space cowboy." Some call me the "gangster of love." Some people call me "Maurice"—wahnt wah—because I speak of the pompatus of love.

People talk about me, baby—say I'm doing you wrong. "Doing you wrong"! Well, don't you worry, baby, don't worry. 'Cause I'm right here; right here, right here at home.

'Cause I'm a picker. I'm a grinner. I'm a lover—and I'm a sinner. I play my music in the sun. I'm a joker, I'm a smoker; I'm a midnight-toker. I get my lovin' on the run.

You're the cutest thing I ever did see.

I really love your peaches; wanna shake your tree.

Lovey-dovey. Lovey-dovey. Lovey-dovey all the time. Ooo-wee, baby, I sure show you a good time.

'Cause I'm a picker. I'm a grinner. I'm a lover—and I'm a sinner. I play my music in the sun. I'm a joker, I'm a smoker; I'm a midnight-toker. I sure don't want to hurt no one.

People keep talking about me baby: Say I'm doing you wrong. But don't you worry, don't worry, no don't worry, momma. 'Cause I'm right here at home.

Editor's Note: As you may have guessed, Rok Finger had an embarrassing incident with a stage magician over the weekend and has assumed the new identity of Steve Miller of the Steve Miller Band; hopefully temporarily. With luck, Rok's regular identity and column will be restored next time.

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We're off to a big, booming new year, and by "we" I mean "me," who knows what you're up to. I have solved one of the great mysteries plaguing me since long ago in 2002: I have unmasked the Masked Dude, my stalker.

The challenge was issued, and last week the cage match was carried out, in an extremely small cage. The opponents were fierce—one, yours truly, the other, a hairless, burly fellow of muscular stock and carrying a one-foot advantage. Some might have foolishly bet on the Masked Dude, but I didn't gold-glitter these wrestling tights of mine with expensive gold shavings because I'm a loser—well, not always a loser. This time, I won.

From the corners we each heard the bell ding!, rung by my cat Makeshift, and we sprung into action. Oh, I was like a titan, in tights. Crash here! Boom there! Wudhustlethump in the middle! Then, I began wrestling.

It was a tough match, true; perhaps the toughest I ever had, even though it wasn't as tough as all the ones I lost. I managed to avoid his deadly, strong-armed pins. I bopped him with "the Ancient Elbow"! I flew through the air and pummeled him with "the Tiny Chesthammer"! And then, when I had him on the ropes, figuratively, I sprang off the ropes, literally, and gave him the ol' Rok Finger "Stamp of Approval"!

The Stamp of Approval is one move from which there is no recovery. Right into his right foot until it was flattened by pure Rok Finger power, and the Dude went down like brick balloons. Little could I have guessed, I had found his Achilles' heel, though it was strangely placed on his big toe rather than the back of the foot. Yes, the Dude suffered from an extremely ingrown toenail that frequently led to his defeat in other matches, especially those matches where he wasn't pinned before the bell's ding faded out.

I put the hurt on him, good people. It was quite a sight, and a beautiful sound as well, though I wouldn't recommend the smell. The crack! of that toe bone breaking, it was the sound of Rok Finger's wrestling dominance in a match for the ages. Ages 60 and up, maybe, but ages nonetheless. For years, both I and the Masked Dude wondered who would win when these titans tussled, and now that it's over I can admit I was more than a little scared. Scared, Rok? You? I'm not even going to dignify that with a response, asshole.

There was only one prize for this lonely match, and I'm not referring to the custom-made belt I purchased at the swap meet, although I guess technically that would make it two prizes; but the prize I refer to is the unmasking of the Masked Dude. And you can imagine my shock to find it was Camembert!

No, not my roommate Camembert, don't be an idiot. He's in a wheelchair. No, it was another Camembert, Camembert Hickson. I didn't know him at all and had never seen his face before that night, but still you can imagine the shock to find out he shared the same unlikely name as my roommate. Weird, isn't it?

It was one of the highlights of my life, beating that fool and putting him off my case forever. And no one was there to share it with me, except my cat, Makeshift. And, yeah, the Masked Dude. Where was Lee? Where was Camembert? The other one?

This has helped put everything in perspective for me. I offered to take Dude Camembert out for a victory beer, on me, but he was desperately in need of medical attention. No hard feelings between us remain—I hope he got that medical attention. But my cat and I went out for a beer.

Rok Finger is a man of motion, a lonely man, with only a cat as his real friend. I've remained in one place too long, as roommate Camembert has long suggested. It's time for me to move on with my life, if not physically, then at least spiritually. So even though I remain at home in the apartment, upstairs I've already left. Rok Finger is a loner, and one day I'll find someone to share that isolation with.

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