Good Morning America, I’m Your Native Son. I’m not a Fortunate Son. It Ain’t Me!

I. The Horizon at Seventy-Two

The g air in the Brazos Valley carries that distinct October bite—the kind that whispers of a shifting season, of fields lying fallow under a vast Texas sky, and of the unyielding passage of years. At seventy-two, a man doesn’t look at the calendar with the frantic rush of youth. He looks at it with the steady, measured gaze of someone who has stood watch inside M60 turrets in the early morning mist of Korea, walked the cell tiers of the state’s toughest units, and spent decades observing the grand, noisy theater of American life.

We live in a strange and fractured hour. Our Voting is now more important than at any hour in American History. The daily noise blaring from the screens insists that we are tearing at the seams, divided into warring camps by design, governed by a political class that treats the public trust like a high-stakes poker game played with someone else’s chips. Every news cycle brings a fresh spectacle—the grand pronouncements, the manufactured panics, the cynical cash grabs disguised as populism, and the endless parade of corruption marching across the airwaves.

Like Jim Johnson giving his flock poison Koolaid, Trump too offers his own Brand of Poisoned Kool aid but you can’t drink it because it is no liquid no, it is his words coming out of his mouth. That is the poison.

Yet, out here where the asphalt meets the country road, the heartbeat of this country is measured by something far more enduring. It’s found in the quiet fortitude of ordinary working people who wake up before dawn, do an honest day’s labor, take care of their own, and refuse to let the cynicism of Washington poison their neighbors.

II. The Outlaw Spirit and the Road Ahead

If you want to understand how a country survives its own worst impulses, you don’t look to the podiums in the capital; you listen to the music that rises from the soul of the working class. Think of the old Highwaymen—Johnny, Willie, Kris, and Waylon. They didn’t sing sanitized pop tunes designed to offend no one and inspire nothing. They sang about the drifters, the soldiers, the broken roads, and the defiant dignity of the common man who refuses to bow to false idols. They had grit. They had scars. And above all, they had an unshakeable sense of right and wrong.

That same outlaw spirit is what we need right now—not in the sense of breaking laws, but in the refusal to surrender our common sense to the mob or the machine. Fortitude in 2026 isn’t about shouting the loudest on social media. It’s about standing firm against the tides of cruelty, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with our neighbors regardless of where they came from, and rejecting the poisonous politics of exclusion and deportation that seek to tear families apart. A nation that turns on its own working people is a nation that has lost its compass. True strength is welcoming, protective, and rooted in human decency.

III. Clearing the Table

We’ve watched the spectacle of power reach absurd new lows—where grand affairs of state, military posturing, and global flashpoints are seemingly driven by little more than the bloated vanities and grease-stained appetites of men playing emperor while hiding behind gold-plated lecterns. It’s enough to make a satirist throw down his pen in sheer exhaustion before picking it right back up, because if you don’t laugh at the absurdity of modern governance, you’ll drown in it.

But satire only goes so far. When the laughter fades, the work remains.

The task before us as we navigate these years is clear: keep our integrity intact, protect our families, tend our own patch of earth, and call out corruption wherever it rears its head. We’ve seen politicians come and go, empires rise and stumble, and the endless cycle of greed try to swallow the American promise whole. But the native sons and daughters of this land—the ones who built the roads, worked the rigs, tended the farms, and carry the memory of what this country could be—are still here.

As the sun climbs higher over Texas this morning, the message to the noise-makers in Washington and the corporate hucksters selling out our future is simple: We see right through you. We’re still standing. And we aren’t going anywhere.

Good morning, America. Let’s get to work.

At every Trump Rally, Trump offers more words to scare the He’ll out of Americans like San Diego and LA and Texas all being hit by an Iranian Nuclear Weapon. No, if they hit America, it will be Mar A Largo or Trump Tower. Or his Ballroom.

I fear that after Trump leaves Office, Iran will assassinate Trump. I Pray not.