Roots

This here’s Stretch Coyote talkin’ at ya.

I was born in the little bitty town of Paint Rock, Texas, and later moved to Waco where I was trained for a promising career at the local asbestos factory. But then a bunch of guys in iron lungs got together with some government researchers and lowered the ceiling on asbestos (The Fiber Of The Future) so I decided to hightail it to Southern California.

You might just be wonderin’ about my high-tone moniker and how I come by it. It ain’t exactly my real name and I suppose you figured that out pretty near the end of the second paragraph. It’s my stage name. I use it when I perform with my band, Stretch Coyote and the Palaverin’ Polecats. Our particular style of music is my own personal invention, the world’s first country-western rap group. The Polecats and I sound kinda like inner-city square dance callers.

In-between gigs, I am mostly involved in lawn care — a great source of gigs for the Polecats. We play mostly weddings and bar mitzvahs for people who share a keen respect for the way I can handle an edger. You ain’t really explored the outer dimensions of your thought processes ‘til you’ve heard the Polecats play “Hava Nagila,” the “Beer Barrel Polka” and “Turkey In The Straw,” all mixed up together. It’s kind of like my girlfriend Petuda’s meat loaf surprise: It don’t go down too easy, but it satisfies somethin’ mysterious in the pit of my soul.



~ Stretch Illustration by John Sherffius
~ © All Rights Reserved

Goin' To Extremes

This here’s Stretch Coyote talkin’ at ya.

Seems like the whole wide world is at war with them extreme suicide bomber-type folks, or should I say it seems like they’re at war with the whole wide world.

I kinda understand religious fanaticism, seein’ as how I grew up with a few Holy Rollers in the neighborhood. Some of these Type A Christians would have prayer meetin's in this old barn on the edge of town what no one could remember who it belonged to.

(Note to my English teacher, Miss Templeton: Yes, I remember what you said about endin’ a sentence with a preposition, but dang it, you’re dead and grammar has moved on!)

Anyway, these here Holy Roller folk would get so worked up over the Bible and the Holy Spirit and whatever else was in the air that some of them would roll around on the floor like gravity was suddenly too dang strong for them to resist, while others started makin’ weird sounds like a raccoon caught in a trap. More than once did I peek through a knothole in back of the barn, tryin’ to determine if these highly animated parishioners were possessed by the Holy Spirit or the devil.

But then my folks explained to me how plain, ordinary folks just have to go nuts once in a while. At least they were goin’ nuts for the Lord. Now as scary as these folks were to my eight-year-old brain, I knew on Monday they would go back to their regular lives at the tire plant and other employments.

So I kinda understand religious fervor. But just cause you’ve been filled with the Holy Spirit doesn’t mean you gotta kill those folks who have a little different point of view. How about tryin' a good old-fashioned argument? We don’t need any kind of religion to turn us into killers. We can do that pretty well on our own. Mabye we should use religion to teach folks not to kill. How about killin' your enemies with kindness?

I just can’t figure how being a murderer qualifies you for heaven. It sure as hell ain’t the kind of heaven I wanna go to.

(Sorry again Miss Templeton, wherever you are.)



~ Stretch Illustration by John Sherffius
~ © All Rights Reserved