The pre-dawn darkness last Saturday morn was an enveloping blanket of sensory softness as the ranch hand stumbled around preparing the pit smoker for an obligatory sacrificial offering of brisket.
Not asleep, but not quite awake, the would be pit-master bent to the task carefully placing each stick of seasoned Tin Star Ranch oak in the steel firepit in a manner that might best caress the beef to its maximum potential of lip lickin' goodness.
Attention to detail and deftness of touch was essential (since ole dum butt forgot to bring a flashlight). Would not the fam's tongues soon be dancing a jig with their tonsils at the culinary delight therein?
The neophyte meat-burner assumed a rather delicate position by bending over, reaching into the firebox enclosure, and using tactile means to position the fuel (while hoping no stinging/biting varmit had assumed residence).
Meanwhile, the ever faithful ranch dawg, Fido, decided to sneak (injun style) between the legs of his beloved master and SNEEZE!
History should denote the world record leap that resulted when one old fat man jumped a pit that is 7 feet long, clearing the smoke stack that is at least 6 1/2 feet high, landing bragging distance beyond with but a smidgen of urine dribbling down his leg??
Anybody want to give a "free" dawg a new home?????
Plain and simple ramblin' from an ole country boy concerning personal history, current family events, the Tin Star Ranch, and philosophical BS with no redeeming social value implied or intended.
Tin Star Ranch Hand
The Ole Fat Boy
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About Me
- TSRH
- I take country pride in being my parent's son, a grandpa, dad, husband, brother, uncle, nephew, christian, professor, patriot, special texas ranger, tractor jockey, woodworker, welder,shootist, bird house architect, low relief wood carver, counted cross stitcher, UT fan, meat burner, humorist, video poker devotee, raconteur, 8mm film star and all around BS artist.
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