who the hell am I?

I'm Texino and I write stories. Sometimes people request my friendship on social networking sites and when I accept, they act like it's a pretty good deal.
I must have made them feel a certain way through my writing. If that is true then I'm doing my job. Other times I write stupid and obvious lies about Bluegrass Players who I consider Grand Falloons. A Grand Falloon is a type of person made up by the humorist Kurt Vonnegut Jr. and it means just what it sounds like. I break a lot of laws and spend more time on the hill that out to sea. It's for the better because I am getting old. Still I want to make another tour. They have taken my major priviledge to drive, but I have a 49 cc motor scooter and if I should pack it wisely and take back roads, I might see some things left to see which will teach me some lessons I have not learned. Like the importance of corn to the economy and if there is any new love to fall into or if I am just a fool for thinking I'm still worth a fuck.

The Poor House

I am aware that I have shown signs of moral bankruptcy in the past but I always managed to pay the dues associated with that itchy plight. Now, I'm faced with a full financial collapse. They simply do not pay Texinos the way they did when we schooled like big tuna with manuscripts fresher than the best grade fish flesh. Oh the price of fuel and the invention of automated long liners. Then you make the mistake of fishing for what would eat your own carcass should you bunk with D. Jones on a perfect stormy night. Once you take that bug money, it is better to go to the hill and buy a house with the wind at your back. And I did that and 30 years of near perfect citizenship brought me in touch with a different breed. Then: Lord did the heavy past en bay me with casual duties and one day I looked up to find 30 thousand squid full and fine and demanding their share of the voyage of my life. What kind of captain doesn't pay off? Well no kind of Captain at all. And then this steady procession of old mates walked off the plank into the fog where, unlike the snowy churchyard not one can answer your whispered question and your loudest calls are swallowed and beaten senseless beneath the billowed blankets.

Ah, what a war!

She make look clean, but she's also forty feet tall! If I was that woman, I'd teach those men to make assumptions about my character. Take that sailor. Swallow him whole and when he tries to climb back up my throat, slug down a double scotch and see how he handles that. Anchors Aweigh Swabby! Hey Mr. Businessman, how's about I check your lungs with a big deep kiss? Heck, he folded up like a piece of cellophane! Say there soldier, let me give you a little love bite on the neck! Oops! his head came right off. So you see while the Armed Services tried to scare men out of having healthy sexual intercourse and catching easily treated diseases, giant Frauliens cruised the east coast killing service men by the score not only in the ways mentoned here but casual use of Zippo Lighters or mistaking the little men for match sticks or ciggarette butts. While the defeat of the giant Axis Alices has been a closely guarded secreat since the second war, great creedence has been given to rumours involving submerine warfare and midnight swims.