Parrothead Ramblings

Who says I have an abnormal sense of humor?

My Grandpa was a helluva guy. Born in 1896, he was a lifelong cowhand, a WWI veteran who saw his own son off to WWII and his grandson to Vietnam. He had almost no education and was unable to read and write much beyond his own name, but never in my life have I known anyone who commanded more respect. That said, I have to point out that his nickname was "Bozo." Mind you, you better know him well before using that nickname. Until such time, he was "Mr. Mack" to you. I have no idea how he became "Bozo," but I'm guessing it was because he had a devious sense of humor down deep in his soul that could jump out and bite you on the ass at any moment. He was truly a Parrothead kinda guy, and didn't even know it. Take for instance his marksmanship: The man could take a .22 rifle and drop a jackrabbit at a dead run with one shot. That skill also translated to his penchant for plug chewing tobacco. Grandpa was a master of using windspeed, direction, elevation, and tobacco spit to pick off a grandkid riding in the back of his pickup truck. Us kids would all shove and crowd our way over to the passenger side of the truck bed in an effort to escape the flying goo, but it didn't matter. Grandpa could go to his right like Brooks Robinson.


There's no question that Grandpa passed that streak of humor right on down to his grandsons. Now, I don't think any of us would try to paint our grandkids with tobacco juice, but we have always found ways to express our devious sides in a humorous way. My brothers picked up on it at an early age. My oldest brother, Gene, my cousin Mike, and I often spent our summer vacations out at the ranch, helping Grandpa work the cattle and mend fences. I was the junior member of this motley crew, having not yet reached my 11th birthday. One hot summer day in 1966, Grandpa ordered us all into the pickup to go off on some job. None of us wanted to be the "target of the day," so we all just piled into the cab with Grandpa. Of course, Grandpa made the most of the situation by breaking out with a string of "air biscuits" that could peel paint, laughing his ass off the whole time. Pick your poison, I guess. It was widely known by those under Grandpa's command that turnabout was absolutely not fair play. Fart in his truck, walk home. Simple. So it was surprising to me that day when, with Grandpa out of the truck momentarily to check on a water trough, Gene let loose with a particularly nasty trouser cough of his own. Before I could even bail out, Grandpa appeared from behind a mesquite, headed back to the truck. In a panic, Gene begged me, as family, as flesh and blood,"Pleeeeease! If Grandpa smells this, he'll kick me out and make me walk home! Pleeeeease! You gotta help me!" I immediately sympathized, having made the walk of shame once myself. "What can I do? I ain't taking the blame for it!" I told him. "No, no, no, you don't have to do that," Gene told me, "just help me sniff it all up before Grandpa gets back." Of course, in an effort to rescue my endangered (and obviously smarter) brother, I started sucking it up like a Hoover Deluxe. Now, I've been hit with tear gas on more than one occasion, and it paled in comparison to this vile experience. Fortunately for me, a little breeze came along and blew the offending cloud out of the truck just I was beginning to feel the early effects of hyperventilation. Gene and Mike were hyperventilating, too. But from laughter. Grandpa got back in the truck, surveyed the scene, and immediately said "Got him to sniff it up, didn't you?" Seems I wasn't that gag's first victim. And thus, as they say, the torch was passed. Literally.

And I don't intend to be that gag's last victim, either. Anybody for a road trip with the ol' Crime Dog? Hmmmm?


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