Bias Opinion

When PMS means “Pack Your Stuff.”


My Third Ex-Wife

If you want to get a totally biased opinion of a man, just ask his ex-wife. Stumbled upon a YouTube video last night, which I’m putting up here for your edification, where some guy was “interviewing” Alex Jones’ ex. Oh, side note: For all the Millennials out there, you will notice I used the word “ask” instead of “axe” and when a name ends with an “s” you put the apostrophe BEHIND the “s” and let it stand on its own. Just a little something for the products of our public school system which has given us this wonderful generation of Tide Pod crunchers. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Alex Jones’ ex-wife.

Now, I’m not going to slander her. I will say that she’s not exactly a trophy wife, but that’s just my biased opinion. What I will do is point out some things in her dialogue that are perfectly consistent with a bitter divorce combined with a boatload of money, which is what this is all really about, don’t fool yourself.

All ex-wives are awarded an honorary doctorate in psychology upon leaving divorce court, and the now ex Mrs Jones is no exception to the rule. She solidly pronounced Alex to be a narcissistic drunk many times during the interview, also the obligatory charge of some kind of violence, ending with the heart pulling recitation about her poor children. Having never drank too much, and said anything stupid to any of my ex-wives I totally understand.

From what I do understand, there was lengthy discussion in court as to Alex’s public persona as opposed to his private one. She maintained that he actually believed what he put out to his listeners, even bringing it home. Oh, ok, what you’re saying, honey, is Alex Jones actually BELIEVES what he is saying, right? As for dramatic content, I hate to be the first one to tell you, but Clint Eastwood never shot anyone either.

Wanna uncover the skinny in a divorce hearing? Follow the money! It all of her dialogue about this drunken psychotic monster, Alex Jones, she lamented that after his lawyers had carved her up like a Christmas turkey, she was only left with about ten percent of the InfoWars empire, an empire she took credit for, but, of course, didn’t subscribe to any of the opinions or positions therein. Everything Alex did was FINE so long as she got paid!

Bottom line is if you listen to, and like Alex Jones, keep on keeping on. He puts out a particular product for a particular audience, and if that floats your boat, keep on sailing! He’s doing it from Austin, and as a Texas Nationalist, I’m very cool with that. Always remember that his ex is just that, his EX! Alex has carved out a notch in the highly competitive world of social media journalism. He rides that bull every day, and usually makes it to the “eight!” He is a bastion of freedom of speech. You are supposed to have sense enough to critique what you see, hear, and read. Critique the former Mrs Jones. Biased opinion, folks. Biased OPINION!


Here’s an Easter Egg for you. A chapter from my next book, “The Last Picture Show” recounting my experiences with the fairer sex. I wonder if in a gay marriage one partner is the fairer sex. I digress.

Wives, Ex-Wives, and a few Bits I’d like to forget

I ain’t even gonna lie to you, I’ve been married six times with divorces between them . . . mostly. I never did figure women out, that’s why I quit getting married. I hate winter divorces. The days are longer in the summer, and them nights don’t close in on you near as bad. Only married one Texas girl, Charsha. She was half Apache, half black, and all bitch. I was in love. Like a told you, she was my first. Had to try twice before I got it right, but after doing the deed I considered that if I could pull this off everything was gonna be alright.

Charsha was a cheat. She had affairs everybody but the milkman, and the only reason she missed him is because we didn’t have one. She was tough as a boot, thin as a rail, and she could step to the Cotton Eyed Joe. I think she still had her baby teeth because they were still falling out. She let me have sex with her on Tuesdays and Fridays because those were her bowling nights, and that meant something, I guess. I think she had an orgasm with me, but she may have been faking that night. I was snake amazed when she left me, and she really packed it in my butt. I came home, and she calmly told me, “I’m leaving you in twenty days.” That was on December 5th, 1973. She timed it so as to leave me on Christmas.
I took it well. I cried like a little girl. Oh, I mean I cried! Got a nose bleed over it. Of course she zipped the panties up. I didn’t expect that. So each day I’d get an update. She tell me she was leaving me in nineteen, eighteen, seventeen days, and so on, I’d bawl like a baby, and she’d laugh in my face. Millions of gay men can’t be WRONG! Finally I snapped, and pitched her out the front door, regretting it almost immediately as she laughed at me through my own teeth, the ones I’d bought her, stripped my house of everything including the Christmas Tree, took the dog and left.

So, there I was single. I was totally lost. I was never cool, but even less cool without any balls, yeah, she took those too. I moped around the house for about two months. Considered suicide, but Charsha took my gun. She left the pet chicken, Henrietta for some morbid reason, and I’d cry on the bird’s shoulder every night. I’d talk to Henrietta, she’d say, “Buck buck,” and crap on the floor. Hey, it’s Texas, ok?

As luck would have it I met Sandra. Sandra was from the same neighborhood, and by that I mean literally born a block away. She had her own teeth, and could cook. We hooked up. Unfortunately I was seeing Brenda at the same time. Well, Brenda ran away from home, and came over, hence Sandra and I were a thing of the past, but she DID leave her blue jeans as a reminder.

Like I said, Brenda was street legal, and it was Texas, with Mexico was just around the corner so . . . We took off to Mexico and got married. I think I’d divorced Charsha by this time, no, I’m sure of it because she married one of the guys she was seeing at the bowling alley when we were married. I called Joe Barron, my lawyer and told him what I’d done, and he said he could cut me a deal. With taking a sergeant major’s daughter across an international border, changing my citizenship, and getting married, if I’d turn myself in he could probably fix it to where I’d could be buried somewhere that they wouldn’t desecrate my grave. I took the deal.

I didn’t understand why Brenda’s father didn’t kill me, indeed fronted a Texas marriage, but seven years later I saw it clearly. Now, I’m not going to run Brenda down because she died, leaving me two sons, but I will say that during this time I partnered up with Ted, we went in with his grandfather on a trailer park (hey, it’s Texas) and after brief instructions from Ted on various ways to collect rent in a white trash trailer park we entertained everything that didn’t have a husband on top of it. To say my marriage was strained would be putting it lightly. Enter Mary!

Mary was a whore. What’s more, she was a New York whore, and that’s about the whoriest whore you can get. Still, she had her ways. I was in love! God! was I in love. I was plumb stupid I was so in love. Plane trip to New York, eight hundred dollar phone bills, you name it. I decided to go see her in New York. Brenda waited, packed my bags, saw me off at the airport, and then left me! Bye bye wife, bye bye kids, bye bye dog.

Now I was upset, but not at losing Brenda. Upon returning to Texas, Mary hooked up with some guy from Long Island and put the wood to me too. I drove my truck as far into the woods as I could, walked about a mile, and sat down to die. I might need to see a doctor about that part of my personality, but anyway, after an hour or so, I went back to town, moved into a double wide (hey, it’s Texas,) and shacked up with three dancers, or rather, three dancers and a short fat dyke who was madly in love with all three. It was then I began to believe in polygamy.

I must say we had a beautiful relationship(s). They weren’t the least bit jealous so long as the rent was paid, there was food in the fridge and the air conditioner was forever on. My only problem was that Brenda slammed me with child support, and Judge Black didn’t see eye to eye with my lifestyle. When I told him I could barely afford a place to live he assured me that the following Monday I’d have three hundred dollars or he would find me a place to live. I really didn’t like his tone so I split for Mexico.

Eventually I had Joe strike me a deal so I could pay support weekly. As luck would have it my ex, Brenda, fell on hard times and my sons came to live with me. I was allowed to gain custody, BUT I had to be married, so, I married Barbara, an old barfly, (hey, it’s Texas.) Barbara wasn’t too bad. She took care of the boys, and cooked quite well. She had this jailhouse tattoo of an octopus with its tentacles extending up her inner arms and down her inner thighs. I decided to become celibate. This was also the time I picked up my drinking habit that I nourish to this day.

After two years I met Pam. We were roughly the same age, had two boys each, she liked to cook, and we became friends. Oh, I ran Barbara down the road. I was getting schooled at this by now and we both took it well. She was happy to be rid of my boys, and I was happy for her to move on.

Pam was my last. We raised our boys, had careers, bought houses, wrote books, lived on a golf course, two actually, and she left me in 2010. Hey, it’s Texas!

The Butcher Shop