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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Well, bless this mess, Shorty! You ever see a toe done swole up 'at big? It's durn the size of Fran Hufnagel's bosom now. No, the left one, Shorty. Shyeeoot, ain't you never seen a infection of this cal'ber, Shorty? Well, sure 'nuff, look who I'm talking at.

There's a buddy of mine, you know 'im, Shorty, Jeff T. Silobottom, he says the only way to sure-fire cure a infection of gangrenous p'portions is to get on that thing and suck it full force 'n' get all the sick outta there. Jeff T. Silobottom, you remember 'im? He died a few years back now. Some mysterious mouth ailment, I do believe. Kind soul, but his advice is less useful than a Democrat at a gun club picnic.

All this talk of suckin' reminds me of a awful urge I gotten lately, Shorty. You know what I'm talkin' 'bout. Yessir, every once in a cycle I get me the hankerin' to lissen up to some bugle music. Which reminds me here of a story I do believe you ain't heard none yet. It's about a ol' army boy, bugle player, Donny Calhoun.

Donny was a good ol' boy, one o' the better of the good ol' boys. He went and signed up to fight in the double-double-U two, can't get more r'spectful of the country than to sign up for the service, you know. Sure 'nuff I would have were it not for my trick knee and flat foot on the right side, you know to which I'm referring, Shorty. And you needn't explain again about your fear of gettin' killed, I perfectly unnerstand. But despite our failin's, Donny Calhoun got in the service fine and was defending our right to avoid painful humiliation on the battlefield over in that far away German place, I forget the name of it now.

Donny's job was to blow on the bugle when this fancy red light come flashin'. The red light warned of air raids an' business comin', and the bugle horn sound was demanded to warn the sleepin' army men of a air raid, in which case they could get up and get to the bombin' shelter to keep from getting' bombed up by the enemy. You're right, Shorty, a more important job there'n never was in the army, at least for the purposes of this here story.

Well, Donny settled in and got all soft and easy-goin' what with the enemy on the run. Last thing anyone expected was a attack at this point. The Nazis was runnin' for the hills, and the good guys were in hot pursuit. So nobody was more'n surprised but poor Donny when a attack did come. To beat all, Donny had been dippin' into a mess o' radishes since no one else in camp wanted 'em, and he also dug deep into some bean pudding mailed from home. This here combination was not a wise idea, as you can 'magine.

So Donny's in camp holdin' his achin' belly when the red light starts flashin'. He's done panicked right, he ain't seen a red light in months and almost plum forgot what to do. But he sucks it up in good fashion and darts out the tent and up the highest tower in the camp.

As you know, Shorty, climbin' high ladders and sick stomachs don't rightly mix, and Donny's only human. He gets to the top o' the tower and he can't summon the breath to blow the bugle. And his belly's about to blow out from the inside with all the vittles fightin' up a storm in there. Donny's so upset he's about cryin', he can even see Hitler's planes comin' in low in the weak sunlight o' the mornin'. This is the time for heroes, Shorty.

Well, what Donny Calhoun did won't be in any learnin' books, Shorty. Ol' boy Donny won't be getting' any purple hearts or green clovers for his effort in the great war. But he saved lives and that's all 'at matters. The men scrambled out of the beds to the sound of the most awful chokin' horn and the flattest note in history, but it woke 'em up. Kinda sounded like a dead beagle's last howl of pain 'fore he meets his maker, spoken into a high quality micr'phone.

Them boys rush out of the tent and see the red light flashin', the German horseflies closin' in, and Donny Calhoun in the highest tower with a bugle stickin' out his backside. That tol' them all they needed to know. They got to the shelter and avoided a awful German decapitatin'.

Poor ol' Donny didn't make it. He missed gettin' all bombed, but died later o' complications from removin' of a bugle from one's personals. His s'periors listed his death as unnatural causes. Now all that's left o' Donny is the stories, passed down from one good ol' boy to the next.

And his horn, which I happen to have right here. You can play a bugle, can't ya, Shorty?

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A Note From Emil: For all you true commune addicts out there like me, I discovered something fantastic! As you probably know, columnist Rok Finger has had a long and storied career in publishing even before he became a commune staple—so I was delighted to find a stack of old Fingers in a collection of my neighbor’s old Wah Wah Adult Men’s Magazines. Apparently he wrote there for quite some time. So sit back and satisfy yourself with old Finger. I can’t wait to read it myself… it looked surprisingly current, but I’m saving it to read once it’s in print.

Good gentlemen and ladies who read Wah Wah, I’d like you to take a break from your intense visual arousal long enough to talk politics, specifically, the Middle East. You may think everything in the Middle East is terrorists and jihads at this point, but I’d like to assure you we’re in good hands: The hands of a young man named Osama Ben Laden.

Who? You may not know that name, but you certainly should. While other young Muslims are running around strapping bombs to themselves and charging as much as $10 a barrel for oil, Osama Ben Laden and men like him are making the Middle East safe for democracy.

For ten years, Ben, as I like to call him, and other faithful Muslims have been fighting against the deadliest threat ever known to America: the communist Soviet Union. Their good soldiering and guerilla tactics have made Afghanistan a most unwelcome home for the Russkies, and finally, in February 1989, week-kneed smilin’ Red Mikhail Gorbachev pulled the last one of this commies from Afghanistan. Lesson learned: It may take you a long time, but the most earnest and well-trained army can bring down the biggest enemy!
We Americans should be extra proud, because thanks to Presidents Reagan and Carter, Operation: Cyclone helped train these proud sons of the Arab world. That’s our tax dollars bringing us safety in the Middle East for generations to come. It would have been easy to finance the less extremist groups, or even send our own troops in to stand up for our interests, but as the old adage goes, do you want it done right or do you want it done quickly? As Americans know, there’s only one answer to that.

I met up with Ben and some of his buddies after a late-night meeting of their elite gentlemen’s club, and I found him quite a surprise, even for a Middle Eastern commie-killer. For one thing, he’s not like any Joe Muhammad off the street—he’s not even from Afghanistan, but from Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. That makes no never mind to Ben: "You can’t sit back and watch an infidel disgrace a fellow Islamic stronghold. Do you mind getting your feet off my Quran?"

He’s right, and I did. More than that, ol’ Ben is the son of a billionaire! That’s right, he comes from big oil money, and there’s few bigger than Mohammed Ben Laden where Ben comes from, the U.S.-friendly country of Saudi Arabia. His dad was worth $5 billion, at least before he died in 1967 in a plane piloted by an American. Just think about that: Here’s a guy who has every reason to hate Americans, but he’s fighting for our side. You gotta admire that.

Instead of wasting away his multi-million dollar inheritance on fast cars and publishing adult magazines, Ben put his talents to learning the art of justified war, and his money to training fellow soldiers. But never forget a lot more money comes from us, champs!

When I sat down to talk with Ben, he was a very imposing figure, standing at 6’4" (almost twice my height) and weighing in at a solid 102 lbs. You wouldn’t want to see that coming at you across a battlefield. He expressed his fondness for having several wives and Wah Wah magazine, particularly articles like "What Do You Get With Too Much Tit?" and their annual Vintage Anal issue.

Asked what he thinks of America, he smiled coyly. "How could you not like a country where everything is owned by the Jew and women in bikinis are made CEOs?" I couldn’t agree more. I’m not sure which Jew he’s talking about, I’ll have to ask my contact Saul Bergoweitz if he knows anything. I also wouldn’t mind finding out more about this bikini CEO.

So hear that, Saddam Hussein: Your invasion of Kuwait has no friend in Osama Ben Laden. Better watch your step, or you’ll find yourself on the wrong end of that Russian-made assault rifle.

I had to leave Ben, and thanked him for our interview with some backissues of Wah Wah and other dirty magazines I used purely for research purposes. I also helped feed his interest in American architecture by supplying the pictures he requested of the World Trade Center buildings. I was anxious to get back home to my longstanding wife, Arvelyn, and see what she looked like in a burqa.

But for those of you terrified of a war with Saddam Hussein’s boys, let me ease your minds: We have nothing to fear from Iraq as long as boys like Osama Ben Laden are in the Middle East.

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