San Marcos — Hope everyone had a Merry Christmas.

Mine was pretty normal up until the moment I got that one gift that you really don’t want to get.

Of course there were a number of gifts I received that I didn’t really ask for, or really want for that matter.

I didn’t need another tie, nor did I want the Texas Longhorn T-shirt. I also can’t recall putting a gym membership at the top of my list wish, but it wife took care of that for me a few weeks ago. I have visited once, but intend on procrastinating another week so I can make it one of my numerous New year’s resolutions.

The worst gift also wasn’t the gift certificate I received from Bath and Body Works —which, the more I think about it, is probably was more like a hint than a present. Think I smell bad now? Just wait until I start working out.

Nor was the worst gift the squeaky stuffed mallard duck toy for my dog BoBo. The wrapper said the toy made a quacking noise when squeezed. Instead, it sounds like more like flatulence, and, much to the displeasure of my wife’s ears, BoBo just adores it, almost as much as I like laughing at it every time he sinks his teeth into it. I’m pretty sure my wife will be hiding that toy from him pretty soon.

Then there was the hair-brush set my aunt, who obviously hasn’t seen me in quite a while, gave me. It came along with samples of some sort of fancy shampoo. And no, it wasn’t Rogaine.

But the iniquitous “gift” came right before I went to bed. That’s when my buddy Billy ‘Badass’ Fort called me with Yuletide greetings.

It’s always good to hear from Billy, as long as I know he’s eight hours away in the deep thickets of the piney woods of East Texas. And knowing this was Christmas, I figured it was safe to pick up the phone.

Sometimes Billy likes to pull in for a surprise visit after making one of gambling/debauchery journeys to Eagle Pass. Sometimes he’s when he’s too tired, or tipsy, to make it all the way by up to Northeast Texas and gives me a call.

Sure, it would make more sense make the 60-mile trip to Shreveport, but that’s not the Billy “Badass” style.

“You never hear ZZ Top singing about Shreveport, or Lake Charles, but Acuña… that’s in one of their songs,” I recall Billy explaining to me his logic for constantly crossing the state to gamble in Eagle Pass.

How can you even begin to argue with logic like this?

But I was safe on this holy night. He was home in his cabin, with his family.

He asked if I liked the gift that he sent me.

“Did you get that deer back-strap I sent you?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. “When did you send it?”

“About a week ago. You should have gotten it by now,” he said.

“Well, I wonder what happened?” I asked.

“Oh crap! I think forgot to pack it in dry ice,” he replied.

My stomach churned for the poor postmaster that had to discard that bloody package.

“Anyway,” Billy continued. “You won’t believe this. I am moving to Hays County!”

I dropped the phone and suddenly felt the need for a drink, or even better, a baseball bat to knock myself out with. I love Billy as a friend, but the thought of him infiltrating my quiet and peaceful life here is one of the scariest proportions. Let me put it to you this way, if they were ever to remake the classic movie Deliverance, Billy could be on the cast and not have to act one bit. Cue the banjo music.

“That’s, um, great!” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “Why are you moving over here? East Texas is where all your family and everything you love is.”

“Well, my older brother Bobby Joe are starting cedar-chopping business near Dripping Springs, and we just bought about 100 acres out near Driftwood where we shoot guns can eat barb-e-cue at the Salt Like every day. It’s all you can eat, you know.”

“Wow,” I replied, wondering if this was just the Ghost of Redneck Christmas Past paying me a visit.

“That’s a tough business to get into. The work’s not always consistent,” I told him. “What are you going to do if it doesn’t pan out?”

“That’s where you come in,” Billy said. “I’ve been reading your stuff in the paper ever since my son bought one of those blueberry doohickeys.”

“You mean Blackberry,” I interrupted.

“Yeah, whatever,” he said. “You need help with your sports opinions. You need someone with a real, redneck point of view.”

“Well, Billy, I still consider myself a a bit of redneck,” I said. “After all, I did grow up in East Texas, learned how to hunt, fish, chew tobacco, drink cheap beer and how to lock in the hubs of your jeep when off-roading.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been too close to Austin for too long. You’re not as redneck as you used to be. And besides, my opinions will help you sell papers,” he said. “I’ll be straight to the point. If a coach deserves to be canned, I’ll say it. If a player needs to be benched, I’ll tell it like it is.”

“And what about the repercussions? What if you make someone really angry?,” I asked. “Believe me, I know first hand that saying what you feel isn’t always popular with others. I mean, I have had people want to start fights because of some of the opinions I have printed throughout the years.”

“Nothing a gold ol’-fashioned butt-kicking won’t take care of,” quipped Billy, who is a strong believer of redneck justice.

“Well, I really hope you find your fortune in the cedar-chopping business, because I don’t think I will ever let you write your own sports column,” I said. “But we’ll get together from time to time and you can tell me your feelings or certain subjects and I might use it in my column.”

“You mean you’re going to steal my ideas, and call them your own,” he said.

Guess Billy is a little bit smarter than I thought.

Randy Stevens is Sports Editor of the San Marcos Daily Record. Contact him at rstevens@sanmarcosrecord.com.