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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Hello persons holy shits. So much to tell of Boris story, no times for kidding words. So sorry, but Boris will put in funny jokes times two in next time column.

Story does start with Boris living wild life thing on road with Angels from Hell friends, so much fun like road trip and sleepover all rolled inside same burrito. So cool yes, but then Angels from Hell friends does funny thing, selling Boris to this bar as cigar-selling Indian person. Good joke, Hell Angels. Is boring job, to stand outside bar with Indian hat on and do nothings, but is okay. Does give Boris time to think of columns and why come sky is blue when air is white, but clouds is white when water is invisible color. So strange.

Boris does miss Angels from Hell friends sometimes, but now has important job. Because persons does only like to buy cigars from Indians, and Boris is this pretend Indian. No person does know truth of Boris in this thing, them thinking Boris is 100% Indian meat. Only bad thing is persons does always come up to ask Boris "How?" but Boris doesn't not know how. Only real life Indians does know this.

Boris does not see Hell Angels since they did trade him to bar for case of beef jerkys. Like friend Bitch Killer does say, them must ramble on like shark thing that does not want to die. If shark stops the swimming, him does die because then he is eaten by angry fish, and same thing for Angels from Hell. Now Boris does has bad dreams about angry eating fish, no good.

Bar place is owned by Mahowney, big person who does smell like pickles all times. Mahowney tells story that Angels from Hell trade Boris because Boris stuffed animal collection does become too big to fit on chopping motorcycle, and no person likes Boris singing Motown all times. So Mahowney takes in Boris to live in little basement closet room with vacuum sucking cleaner and ball for bowling. Is okay, but ball does make shit pillow.

This is good new life for Boris for while, but does get tired of childrens shooting arrows at Indian Boris and Mahowney yelling not to smoke all cigars. So mean sometimes, this boss person, when Boris only wants to show all persons how good is smoking. Also Boris does try to eat cigar like in cartoon but that is such a sick tummy for non-cartoon person, trust Boris.

Soon Boris decide to leave this bar place, to take show on road, when finds out him cannot leave because is like Pinocchio. This is story of boy with real wood, you know the thing. Mahowney will not let Boris go until paid for beef jerkys and so many cigars, such expensive things never to happen because Boris gets paid only coins that persons drop on accidentally and that money is for to buy Runyons and Red Hots for snacking.

But is okay, because badguy Mahowney boss does not know Boris is so smart to burn down bar and escape from basement Pinocchio prison thing. To tell truth, this is accident from Boris smoking cigar in dark closet, but does work also as such smart plan for Boris to run away from capture, so nice.

Now, for what is Boris? Good questioning. Until gets boring, Boris thinks he is railway hobo person for adventure. Yes, Louis and Similar to Skippy dog would be so proud like Mother of Boris. Persons in Homeland who does say Boris is big turd on floor of life cannot see railroad hobo Boris now! Goodbye column.

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I've got "hot property" written all over me at the moment, and I know what you're thinking, but I'm not talking about a drunken trip to the tattoo parlor this time. I mean, I've still got "hot property" from that, but this time I'm talking Hollywood talk, meaning that people suddenly remember my phone numbers. And it's all because of Ho's!

My new WB sitcom is getting hot buzz around it, thanks in part to all those phone calls where I pretended to be the TV Guide Couch Critic, and when your show's hot, you're hot, it's Hollywood science. Some people are calling this my big comeback, and not just me. I distinctly heard my agent Dusty say it, too, before he passed out and the 9-1-1 guys had to resuscitate him.

The real clue I was hot was when they called me to do a roast for my fellow actor and good friend Pockets O'Shannon. What a kick-ass child star. And Pockets was fortunate enough to have one of those weird health problems that kept him looking like a kid well after most of us grew facial hair or tits. The V.F.W. Hall was holding a roast for good ol' Pockets, turns out he's a Vietnam Vet, and guess who they picked for their keynote speaker? Guess again, asshole. Beloved child star Clarissa Coleman.

If you don't know, a roast is where you get up and just crack on people until they're pissed off enough to fight you in the parking lot. I've tried hosting a lot of them, but nobody really shows up unless the person's done something to make 'em famous. And Pockets barely qualifies, having starred as the precocious, wise-cracking kid in about two dozen movies between 1969 and 1996. I did two of them with him, Li'l Poachers and The U.F.O. Boy.

I spent weeks thinking up real digs that would totally devastate Pockets, make him turn bright red, even piss himself with fury. All in good fun, of course, except for a few things about his grandmother's diabetes that really cross the line. But Pockets is a good sport, just don't ever say we lost the 'Nam, that grinds his nads.

Now you've got the backstory, so I show up for the gig (I never do rehearsals, I told 'em) and find out, no joking, they only wanted me to introduce all his 'Nam buddies, they were supposed to be the only ones actually roasting him. Sure, I told them I would just stick to the scripted introduction, like I've told a ton of know-it-all directors, then I got up there and threw out my script—no way I was going to waste gold material because these dopes lacked vision.

So you can bet I stung him. I started off simple, just how he smells really bad and hasn't worked in years, since losing all his hair in that chemotherapy, but then I got to the really hard stuff. Making fun of his Members' Only jacket ("Does your calendar say 1986 at home?" I really said that) and how his two sons are clearly fathered by some black guy. Then, I got a little more cerebral and all—and this was hard, because by this time these two old guys were trying to walk me off the stage, but I overpowered them—and I did this whole skit about him buying this really awful pot off some Mexican guy (I brought a mustache from home) for us to smoke, and then talked about that time he tried to grab my just-starting-to-form breasts while we were doing that Poachers movie. The best part was I closed on stuff I just made up on the spot, when his wife was calling out his name as he left, covering his face—his name was Lindsey O'Shannon the whole time, not Pockets. For real. Lindsey's a total girl's name.

I know they taped it, but they may have stopped the tape after they told me to get off the stage for the fifth time. The show was just too hot for the V.F.W., I'm pretty sure. But if I can get a copy of that tape and get it to the right people in Vegas, I know I could get side gigs lined up for years to come. Just to cover me when Ho's! gets canceled. Always good to have a Plan B.

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