Sunday, March 25, 2012

These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Johnny Texaco Speaks

Hobart (Bart) quietly closed the door to the sacred chamber and sat down. It wasn't a large place, no more than five by seven feet. Contractors thought it gonna be a toilet. Family did not want 'em to know. So it ain't got no commode or nothin. Just a plain, old polished concrete floor, grey, flecked, granite walls and  a white ceiling that radiates a soft white light. Only furnishings are one square, black leather, tufted ottoman and a three foot high, rectangular polished concrete plant stand. But it ain't got no plant on it. That's where the little titanium box what got Bart's daddy in it sets. Miss Sissie say it look like a cheap, bargain basement, above ground mausoleum. 'Cept instead of a titanium box there'd be like a little bronze urn with a dull, brushed finish. But seein' as she don't spend much time in there, her opinion ain't worth chicken shit. That what Bart think. He don't say it, but he think it. 


So he set hisself down on the black, squishy seat, scootch it forward to face the box, clear his throat and prepare to talk. Whole thing work on voice recognition. It really is a very ingenious, sublime contraption. 


Bart say - Daddy, I wanna talk to you........ Voice-in-the-box say - That you, boy?.......... Bart say - Yep, it me....... Then a little electronic hum commences vibrating out from that Rubik's Cube sized sanctuary. And next thing you know we got a itty-bitty, six inch tall, ever-so-slightly potbellied, but still trim, silver haired rodeo dude stompin' around and smokin' a ceegar. But nobody gotta worry 'bout no smoke none, 'cause he jus' a hologram. Ever once in a while he flicker. That how you know. 


Bart say - Daddy, we got problems............. Daddy say - No, shit, Sherlock. Don't you think I know!? I waft through thirty two on-line, hinky-dink, newspaper crappiolas every day.............. Bart say - Then you know 'bout Alec?.............Daddy jus' swallow and nod.......... Bart don't dwell on that subject, 'cause he can tell it pain his holographic daddy jus' as much as it do him......... So Bart say - You still tradin' sparks wit' that little Arianna Huffington hologram?............ And Johnny (that his daddy's name) say - Ain't no business a yours, boy. My Loretta up in Heaven, but I  down here, so I gotta do sumpin' a keep 'busy,' don't I? Now shet up and spit it all out. What you done wrong now?


So Bart snort back a bit a snot, square his shoulders and start talking. Worse the story get, more that little 'lectronic goomer start grinnin'. That jus' how Johnny be. He gotta be the big rooster, don't you know. He gotta be the top dog. But still, you do gotta give him credit. I mean since he been 'dead' (technically) that goomer learn a lot. Finally did learn hisself a little Tuva-Tuva, how to play pinochle, how to cook a mean batch a bahklava. (them semi-immortal holograms claim they eats stuff. can't figure what it taste like to 'em, but I don't know.) He can wriggle his digital ass into and out of all kinda programs. Life jus' one big holodeck (if you remembers Star Trek) to John Paul Texaco.  An' he wanna get this meetin' over real fas', 'cause he got The Calgary Stampede waitin'. Y'all gotta see them smart little boots Arianna Huffington got on.


Tells his sonny-boy to come back tomorrow (he don't know it night). Then he jus' give out a not so itty-bitty rebel yell and BAM, he disappears. 


Bart do try to call him back, but all he get is a little, old lady eatin' a hot-dog..... an' she jus' tell him a go to hell and drop dead.....'cause like, I guess, she really do like that hot-dog.........


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