I pretty much abide by laws, but I also pretty much make up some of the laws I abide by. For example, one of my laws is I own the air space, to a height of 300 feet, above my little overgrown plot of earth here. I ain't a nut about it. I let birds use my air space all the time unmolested. But, like any nation, when my air space is invaded by man made flying objects, I swing into action.

Last Friday I heard my sorry old dog, Buckshot, throwing a fit; caused by one of them little remote controlled helicopters. Some loon, about 25 years old, was standing down there in the road, buzzing Buckshot with his toy. Buckshot gets unnreved when a bluejay dives on him; an eighteen inch long helicopter snapped his mind upside down.

I went down there and spoke to the loon. "KNOCK THAT SHIT OFF," I said to the loon. He went away mumbling.

Saturday Buckshot sounded the alarm again, and sure as hell there was the loon, with a sidekick loon, flying his little chopper around over my sorry old dog. The two loons were enjoying watching Buckshot go berserk. In probably ten seconds flat, I was out the door with my 10 ga. and about 33 pieces of the loon's toy was fluttering to the sod; lot easier than hitting a darting quail.

The antiaircraft fire surprised the loons. They jumped way up in the air and took off at full gallop. I broke my hot gun down and laid the three parts on the truck hood...and waited.

Didn't have to wait long; in maybe four minutes three partrol cars were sliding to a stop in my lane, and three cops were shouting a varity of stuff at me; stuff like: "GET ON THE GROUND."/ "HANDS UP."/ "TURN AROUND."/ "FACE THIS WAY."/ "FACE THAT WAY." and maybe even "DO JUMPING JACKS." I just stood real still showing them the palms of my hands. After a bit the cops got the flow of their juices under control, and one asked me a question: "What the hell happened here?" he wanted to know.

I told him. "Did you shoot at somebody?" he asked. I told him if I had shot at anybody, there'd be a body lying around here somewhere. One of the cop hopped in his car, went down the road, and was back with the loon in a few minutes. That's when we all found out that the loon had told 911 a fib, namely that I had fired a shot at his sorry ass.

I took the cops over and showed them the wreakage of the loon's toy. That when they started to laugh.

One the cops sort of chewed my ass out for discharging a firearm in a residential area, and told the loon to quit flying his little airplanes over my place. The loon gathered up the pieces of his downed heilcopter and away he went.

The last cop to leave told me to behave.

I told him I'd give it my best shot...He got a kick out of that.

I did too.

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I have a semi-friend. His name is Gene. Gene writes poetry. Worse yet, Gene writes bad poetry...really bad poetry. "ODE TO NOSE HAIR." Stuff like that.

Gene called me last night. He was all excited. "I got a 'Once In A Lifetime Opportunity' for you," he said.

"WOW," I said.

"No, I mean it," he said. "I got us tickets for the debate Thursday in Charleston."

"Us?" I said. "Debate?"

"CNN's GOP," Gene said. "Joe's gonna go with us." Joe is another semi-friend. Joe don't write poetry. Joe has other ways of showing he's an idiot; like marrying a chippie a third his age and giving her a handful of credit cards. Joe spends a lot of time nowadays sitting quietly with his head in hands.

"I take back my 'WOW' ", I told him.

"You don't want to go?" Gene guessed. He guessed right. Now and again I get stupid and allow myself get trapped in the company of Gene or Joe, but I never get stupid enough to let myself suffer both of them at the same time.

I told Gene I really appreciated him thinking of me that way, but if he ever done it again I was gonna hunt him down and break one of his arms, maybe two of them.

Truth is, even without Gene and Joe, I wouldn't go from here to my mailbox to see any kind of a debate, let along one that has Ron Paul in it. If I got in that situation I ain't got no doubt at some point I'd lose control, run up on the stage and grab Paul by his skinny neck while he was emitting those squeaks about "Leave the poor muslims to just live their lives in peace."

I went crazy the other night and actually watched a few minutes of the last GOP debate.

Made my head hurt.

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I was just sitting here minding my own business when my little radio said something that caused me to hiccup.

It said: "If you have 5 to 7 drinks per week you are a 'binge drinker'.

WHAT?

On almost any given day I might have 5 to 7 drinks PER HOUR. My little radio didn't say what that made me.

There ain't no brag here...just  facts. On average I drink a quart of Wild Turkey whiskey each day. I don't get drunk. I ain't been drunk in over forty years. I can't, and won't, tolerate anyone that allows alcohol to alter their mind. If whiskey made me any more goofier than I am in a natural state, I'd quit drinking it.

Back there some time ago I did get loop-legged a few time, always with bad results. That one time in the NCO club at Kadena Air Base on Okinawa is a fine example. That NCO club had the best steak to be found west of Kansas City, and as I remember, for 75 cents. The Air Force, showing a rip in their judgment, allowed Marines to frequent their club.

That night, three or four of us got pretty well oiled up at the White Beach Marine NCO club and decided to run down to Kadena and cap our load with a steak.

Some misguided soul had left a golf bag full of clubs in the lobby of that fine Air Force place. I really don't remember who thought up what turned out to be a really bad idea, but three of us took a club each, and a ball each; putting the balls on the floor, at the count of three, we hit the balls out through the dining room.

Well, you wouldn't believe that just three little bitty golf balls whizzing around a crowded dining room would cause such an uproar. Before the balls had stopped bouncing off walls and heads, the Marine Detachment was buried under a pile of highly pissed off Air Force personel. I see no need to tell you we didn't get any steak that night, not even to doctor our eyes.

I got a bunch more I could tell you, but it is time for a snort.

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When I was 11, in the span of about 11 seconds, I learned all anyone needs to know about mules, and that is: STAY ABOUT A HALF MILE AWAY FROM MULES AND YOU MIGHT SURVIVE.

When the Old Folks took me in, Grandpa had two mules; Old John, who looked as if he had just stepped off one of Bonnie Shields' paintings, and Kit, who looked as if she had just been run out of Hell with a Bad Conduct Discharge.

Story was The Old Man had bought Kit because he thought Old John was lonesome and needed another of his kind around for company. While the idea was noble, it misfired. Old John took one look at Kit and decided she'd look a lot better with some holes kicked in her head. Kit thought of the same thing about the same time. The Old Man had to run a fence across the center of the pasture to keep his mules from killing each other.

Old John had one ambition, and that was to stand in one spot his whole life, except in late August and early September. For a couple of weeks during that time period Old John went to work snaking logs from the woods to the woodyard for winter fuel. Old John did his job willingly and with precision. The Old Man would hook him to a log and say, "Go on, John", and the big mule would tug the logs to the woodyard, and take a nap until he was unhooked. But trying to get him to do anything that didn't involve pulling a tree was a waste of time. He simply refused to move unless he could look back and see a log.

Kit also had only ambition; never let a human hand touch her, better yet, never let a human get within a 100 yards of her. She was good at it, too.

After I sort of got my feet on the ground there at the farm, I asked The Old Man if I could ride Old John? "Well, you can sit on him," he said, "but I  suspect there won't be much riding got done."

I tried for over a week. I'd climb up on Old John and use all the cowboy tricks I knew...which was limited to "GIT UP...to get that mule to move. Old John would just yawn, fart, and go back to sleep.

I asked if I could ride Kit. That was the first time The Old Man looked as if he had doubts about me being his kin. "Well," he said, " if you can catch her, tame her down, and she don't kill you...I reckon so."

I could have went to Montana, roped a wild buffalo, broke it, and rode it in the Kentucky Derby with less trouble than I had with catching Kit. I bet I chased that little mule 159 miles around the pasture and never even come close. It was during a break from all the running I got the absolute dumbest idea I've ever had in my whole life; happened when I watched Kit get a drink from the water trough.

I rigged a rope so that the next time Kit got thirsty she'd have to stick her head through a loop to get it. It worked like a charm, sort of.

I was hid around the corner of the barn with the other end of the rope. Kit strolled up, poked her head in the noose and started sipping. I gave a mighty yank on the rope...and Kit was caught, sort of.

I've been shot, been in car wrecks, and had women throw pies at me, but I ain't ever spent ten or so seconds that even is close to what happened right then. The very first thing I found out is if you rope a wild mule it is not a good idea to have one end of the rope tied around your waist.

In a heartbeat Kit was at full gallop and I was bouncing along behind her on my head. Another thing I found out is it takes some doing to untie a granny knot while ricocheting off rocks, stumps and going that fast.

It took right at a year, but Kit and I finally sorted it all out. I may be wrong, but I believe she wound up enjoying the rides as much as I did; splashing through the creek, going up to a hill top and just looking around for a while; sharing ginger snap cookies.

I was on the other side of the world when I got the letter telling me Kit had died. I went off by myself for a bit...

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Sarah McKinley, of Oklahoma City, is my newest hero. Sarah is 18, has a 3 month old baby. Her husband died on Christmas.

A day or so ago a mutt tried breaking into Sarah's home, where she was alone with her child. Sarah got her gun and put one in the mutt's ten round. He fell dead, which is a great condition for all mutts to be in.

I wish I knew Sarah. I wish I could hold her hand, hug her...and tell her how proud I am of her; that I know you never really get beyond taking another human's life, but knowing you took it defending what you hold dear and love will ease the pain...

...As times goes by.

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When I was young and foolish, back in my mid 60s, I'd make all kinds of dumb resolutions every New Year; knowing damm well I'd not keep them til noon on Jan. 2nd. More than half never saw dawn on New Year's day.

This Year I'm gonna try a new wrinkle and make only resolutions I know I can keep. So here, in no particular, are my resolves for 2012.

1--I'm gonna stop calling Obama 'Obozo'. From here on out, He's gonna be "That Jug-Eared Sorry Sum'bitch."

2--I'm gonna stop calling Ron Paul a gerbil. From now on, Ron is gonna be a "Chigger."

3--In 2012 I ain't gonna get any meaner or nastier. I've about hit the ceiling in them two areas anyway, and trying to improve on them would just be wasted effort.

4--This coming Year I ain't gonna start snorting before 7am.; except on Saturdays. Maybe Tuesdays and Thursdays, too.

5--Sometime in the next Year I'm gonna clean the inside of my microwave oven. I almost done it this year, but every time I got the urge, I'd have a snort to calm my nerves, and what with one snort leading to another, I'd soon forget all about that damm microwave.

6--Sometime, maybe this summer, I'm gonna tell Ms. Graham, the retired school marm down the road, there ain't a chance in hell of me dusting off her muffin...so she just might as well quit trying to bribe me with cups of fruit flavored tea.

7--This one is a bit iffy, but I'm gonna try to go the whole Year without telling my friend Joe just how goddamm stupid he is. I'll probably blow it the first time I go to his house and watch him work at being the perfect host; like shaking the crumbs off cookies before he serves them.

8--I know I can do this one with one hand tied behind my back. For the 61st. Year in a row I ain't gonna eat no beets.

9--I'm gonna try, for at least 10% of the time, not to laugh when some mutt running from the law gets run over by a dump truck.

10--I ain't gonna spend no time messing with fools this Year. Instead of waiting the usual 30 seconds to tell them to get the hell away from me, I'm gonna tell them almost immediately.

Have sort of a HAPPY NEW YEAR, you all...

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One of the best selling tobacco products at Freds' is a little cigar called Black and Mild, 99% of which is purchased by young black men. I've heard they sort of hollow out the cigar, stuff some left-handed tobacco in it, light up and float off to Never- Never Land.

I don't give a rat's ass if they put a monkey turd in them cigars and smoke it, I'm just thankful I got to see what I got to see this morning.

He was 15 tops, and one hell of a classy dude; if your idea of a classy dude wears his ball cap sidewise on his pointed head and his pants mid-thigh. He told Helen he wanted a 4 pack of Black and Milds. She kept them in her hand and asked to see his ID. (21 here to buy'em.) He said he "left it home." Helen told him "Sorry."

He snatched the cigars from Helen and, in three steps, was running at full speed toward the door. On his 5th. or 6th. step a huge black hand, attached to a huger black arm, shot out from behind a display of Little Debbie snack cakes. The big hand grabbed a good sized wad of the classy dude's sweat shirt. His upper body came to a rapid halt, but his feet kept running, til he was about 4 feet up in the air in the prone position. The big hand turned him loose. Gravity took over. The "PLOP" was of a nature to inspire poets.

Mr. Holmes, the owner of the huge hand, and a retired Army Sergeant, works part-time at Freds', usually stocking shelves. He ain't the sort that any sane person would want to piss off.

The old Sergeant squatted down and had a quiet talk with the classy dude. THe part of the talk I believe that really impressed the mutt was:

"If I ever see you in here again, I'm gonna pull your arms and legs off."

With them hands, and them arms, it would be sort of like plucking the wings off a fly.

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"I bet there weren't three rounds left in the whole company, so we rolled rocks down on the bastards. Always find yourselves a hill top with a bunch of big rocks." Master Sergeant Davey Moore, talking about Christmas Eve, 1950..near the Frozen Chosin,Korea.

That was 61 years ago, but this Christmas Eve there's still some tough wonderful young men out there On A Hill Top...somewhere. I hope with all my soul their ammo holds out, but if not, let there be a good supply of big rolling rocks.

That's about all I want for Christmas.

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Christmas, 1952, stands out in my mind for the simple reason it was the first, and last, time I heard Santa call a kid "Shithead."

To be fair to Santa, I have to tell you he didn't lay that moniker on the kid until just immediately after the kid had bounced a fist-sized rock off old St. Nick's noggin.

To be more fair, I have to tell you that the kid was Round Ray Roberts. At 13, Round Ray was big enough and strong enough to pick up the average mule and run off with it. Anybody that knew Round Ray, knew enough not to mess with him. Round Ray's head was all skull; unburdened by a brain. It was just Santa's bad luck he didn't know Round Ray.

A few days before Christmas, back there in 1952, Miss Catherine, the teacher of the one room Pine Branch school, arranged to have Santa Claus pop in on the 12 or so semi-tame students in her charge. Even the most 'slow' among us knew it was not the normal routine that Santa show up driving a 1947 Dodge four door sedan.

Anyway, Santa, some loon from the county school board in town, came skipping, hopping, and "HO, HO-ING" into the little school spreading good cheer by passing out...oranges and bananas. He didn't ask anyone what they wanted, what he pulled out of his sack when he got to you was what you got. I got an orange. So did Round Ray. Round Ray wanted a banana.

"Ain't got none left," Santa informed Round Ray. Knots started popping out on Round Ray's head, which was always real bad news for whoever had caused the knots.

The whole show had took maybe 90 seconds. Santa cut loose with a few more "HO-HOs" and shot out the door, with Round Ray about six steps behind him. Santa had just opened the door of his 1947 Dodge sled when the rock ricocheted off the back of his dome, Santa hit the sod with a thud.

It took Santa a little bit to wake up and get his wits back. When he did, was when he made history by being the first Santa to point his finger at a kid and holler:

"YOU SHITHEAD!", which is what that Santa did to Round Ray.

I don't know if that particular loon ever played Santa again, but I'd bet that if he did, he kept him a banana hid back...just in case.

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