Lola Jones new 100% humor book!

Confessions of a Cowgirl Guru

Laugh yourself lighter!

Riotous, irreverent humor and fun about the spiritual and metaphysical life, enlightenment, and personal growth. It is hilarious, but Lola can't help expanding you, even when she's making you laugh. It's just who she is.


“Cowgirl Guru rules! There were so many favorite parts. I love the Magic Chicken Bone, and I adore the funny conversations with God! (move over Neale Donald Walsch.) It’s rollicking good fun and, yes, I laughed out loud.”  
~ Suzanne Eder, Wilmington, Delaware

“A fun and original journey. Loved her conversations with God, and rolled on the floor at her mangled Sanskrit chants.” 
~ Victoria Behrends, Encinitas, California

"Ah thank you so much. I really do appreciate it.  My friend has let me borrow Lola's Confessions of a cowgirl book and I just wanted to say how fantastic it is. I have had a rough few months, I lost my old dog who I still miss like crazy, my dad has heart failure and my cat was run over in January which devastated me and the book has really lifted my spirits it had me laughing on every page.  I just wanted to let you know" Gail

“Confessions of a Cowgirl Guru is delightful, charming, eye-opening. I laughed out loud. Enjoyed every bit of it, especially the conversations between Lola and God. So edgy. Lola Jones just can’t help expanding people, even when she’s not even trying to.” 
~ Donna Wetterstrand, Lethbridge, Canada

cowgirl guru spiritual humorHere's a story from the book for you: 

Lonely Socks
I have to address a serious subject because no one else seems to be handling it, and this is important.

You know, we hear a lot about co-dependency, unhealthy relationships, and he’s-just-not-that-into-you.

So when is it time for a single sock in the drawer to just get it—that her long lost mate is just never going to come back? When is it time for her to just move on and find another sock?

And in this enlightened era why can’t more single white socks just pair up with perfectly compatible single black socks without raising eyebrows?

And, what I’m most concerned about: why doesn’t someone start a for all those poor single socks?

Confessions of a Cowgirl Guru runs amok with the foibles of relationships, family, technology, aging, the media, stereotypes, and spiritual over-seriousness. Nothing is sacred–even the sacred itself–and Lola Jones pokes fun at herself most of all.

Our unconditional guarantee: you’ll laugh out loud at least three times, or we’ll give you back the crappy attitude you had when you started reading.

Order Yours--Start Laughing NOW!

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Paperback  $20

REMOTE SHIPPING NOTE: If you are outside of US, Canada, Europe, and Australia, shipping actually costs us from $17 to $27 for one (or two) books, so please add this remote shipping fee to your cart. The cart will add it to our low standard shipping and we'll cover the rest.  Add Remote Shipping Fee $11

Makes a great gift due to the nice quality cover and feel-good-vibes. Add a couple to your cart and see other books by Lola Jones.

Fun Cowgirl Guru Bonuses - On the Cowgirl Guru Bonus page Lola shares humorous and creative extras with you from time to time. See a video of Lola performing live as the Cowgirl Guru in the UK, get funny webcards to post to social media.

About Lola

Lola Jones couldn’t be confined only to her serious role as an internationally known spiritual teacher. Her alter ego the Cowgirl Guru comes out to play in this book, and her halo slips down jauntily over one ear as she turns her boundless creativity loose.

The result is a collection of only slightly exaggerated–okay wildly exaggerated–observations and tales from her eccentric and unique life.

Lola was having such a good time writing this book it was hard to let it go to the printer, and it kept getting bigger and bigger... and bigger.

166 pages
6x9 format
67 photographs and illustrations

Read samples below
Browse the table of contents

Browse the Table of Contents

Appreciation ~ 1
Let the Halo Slip ~ 2
Why Write a Humor Book When I’m Known Worldwide for Serious Spiritual Books? ~ 3
Just Shoot Me Now ~ 6
Guns ~ 6
When You Care Enough to Worry Yourself Sick ~ 8
Lola, Are You In a Cult? ~ 10
Are You Saved? ~ 14
Lick Here ~ 15
Bliss, Thy Name Is John Deere, Or: What Cowgirls Do Between Cowboys ~ 17
My Inner Voice ~ 20
Helping Your Family Spiritually ~ 22
The Hamster Wheel ~ 23
Life After the Hamster Wheel ~ 31
You Might Be a Modality Junkie If . . . ~ 32
Diversify Your Business ~ 33
More Disclaimers ~ 36
Just Add Sex ~ 37
Dieting ~ 38
Other Medical Emergencies ~ 38
What IS Writer’s Block, Anyway? ~ 39
Vor, Texas ~ 41
It’s My Rodeo ~ 45
Patsy’s Pearls ~ 46
Let Me Share My Truth with You ~ 47
The Squirrel in the Tailpipe ~ 49
I Did Write Some Serious Books—Really, I Did ~ 49
They’re Everywhere ~ 51
Earthquakes ~ 51
This Ain’t My First Rodeo ~ 52
Cereal Monogamy ~ 52
Must Be From Same Galaxy ~ 53
Online Dating Glossary, With Translations ~ 55
Lonely Socks ~ 58
Man/Woman ~ 59
Co-creating with Your Partner ~ 61
Your Opinion of Me Is None of My Business ~ 63
She Manifests Her Perfect Relationship ~ 64
Letting Go of Resentments ~66
A Man and His Beard ~ 69
Baptism—the End Of Humor? ~ 70
Lovers Disclaimer ~ 72
Two T-Shirts I Own and Proudly Wear ~ 72
Cowgirl Guru AND Domestic Goddess? ~ 73
Honey, What the...? ~ 74
Putting Testosterone Back into the New Age ~ 75
Sticky Stories ~ 76
Adolescent Fantasies ~ 77
Making a Budget with You ~ 80
Advice from the Locals ~ 86
Children ~ 88
Virtual Baby Shower ~ 88
My Boy in Uniform ~ 89
The Entanglements of Each Age ~ 90
God Told Me to Divorce You ~ 90
Full Circle ~ 91
My Weak [sic] at the Gym ~ 92
This Humor Channel Is Not a TV Network ~ 95
Conversations with Dave ~ 103
The Cowgirl Guru ~ 104
Rapid Evolution or Else ~ 107
How to Still Your Thoughts ~ 108
Kamut, Quinoa, and Amaranth ~ 110
Hi, I’m a Shark—I Mean a Friendly Little Dolphin. ~ 112
He LOVES My Seminars ~ 113
Couldn’t Find It with Both Hands ~ 114
Advanced Communication Techniques Or: How to Listen if You Absolutely Have To ~ 117
Expansive Food ~ 118
Crafty Creativity ~ 120
Yuri, the Artist ~ 121
The Magic Chicken Bone ~122
I Oughta Be in Pictures—I Oughta Be a Star ~ 124
Fan Mail ~ 139
Oh God, Who Art Thou? ~141
Toward a Cleaner Earth ~ 148
It’s a Small World, Richard Branson ~ 149
Guarantee ~ 153
Epilogue ~ 154
Bonus Video ~ 156
Bibliography ~ 156
Contact ~ 156
Much, Much More from Lola Jones ~ 156


Read a few samples of Confessions of a Cowgirl Guru

Why Write a Humor Book When I’m Known Worldwide for Serious Spiritual Books?

Because God told me to, Silly.

Even told me to call it Confessions of a Cowgirl Guru.

God said: “Lola, you’ve got more energy than a 1950s housewife on diet pills. Here’s another project for you: please, please help bring some levity to the way, way, WAY too serious spiritual world.

“The only people who will talk to me are the spiritual people, and they are so freakin’ serious. The sinners would be way more fun to talk to, but they don’t speak to me at all.

“Oh, yeah, they holler when they’re in trouble, but how much fun is that for me?

“At that point I’m like, ‘Uh huh, now you wanna talk. Why didn’t you call me when all the fun was going on?’

“That over-seriousness is a giant speed bump on the path to enlightenment. Please, tell them it’s called        en-lighten-ment, not en-heavy-ment. Tell ‘em to chill out."

“You run around seeking Me, reading all these books, listening to channelers, attending all these seminars, looking everywhere but inside. Hello! I’m right here!”

I agree with God. Stereotypes are silly, and it’s even sillier when people follow them rather than being who they really are. I don’t want to look, sound, act, think, or operate like a stereotypical spiritual teacher—boring!

I’m an actual cowgirl from Texas who happily transplanted herself to California soil, which if I’ve just been out riding or scooping horse poop might be all over my face. I’ve painted erotic paintings as often as spiritual ones, and years ago wrote some erotic fiction.

Mom was visiting and observed quite astutely, “You have pictures of naked butts all over your house.”

I said, “Mom—I know that.”

She wanted prints.

I’m a reclusive, card-carrying eccentric who’d rather live a quiet, normal life than travel all over speaking to adoring audiences—I just don’t need that. I help people powerfully through my books, website, and a few retreats a year, and I train others to do this work.

When a group of new people is standing around at a party getting to know each other I like to playfully get them to guess each other’s profession.

No one ever guesses me right. A voluptuous blond wearing fashionable clothes or cowgirl garb is in no way the stereotype of an internationally known spiritual teacher. No prayer beads or white robes for me—those things make you look fat!

People often guess my friend Russell is a writer—that’s an easy one—he just looks like a writer! It’s more fun to watch them scrunch up their face and try to guess me. I’ll prod, “Okay, what are you thinking, retired pole dancer turned interior decorator?”

While having lunch with a women’s networking group, Penny, a friend of mine, heard someone mention my name. She kept quiet as a mouse and straight-faced as a moose while they discussed me, noted who had heard of me, and gave their impressions.

Then one of them commented with a slight smirk, “Yeah, Lola Jones. I looked up her website. She’s the Marilyn Monroe of spiritual teachers.”

Penny said to me, “I decided it was time for me to pipe up, so I offered, ‘Yes, isn’t she cool and different? Lola is one of my best friends!’ ” The woman changed the subject pretty quickly as Penny grinned a huge evil grin.

They didn’t know the half of it: In my younger days I was in the Playboy issue, The Girls of John Deere.

People never know when I'm serious. It's up to you to figure it out.


Just Shoot Me Now

I’ve told my friends: If you ever see me wearing any kind of Indian garb and speaking in hushed reverent tones, acting all spiritual and shit, get a gun (if you happen to be in Texas where I’m from, anybody will happily loan you one, and may even have one in their purse), shoot me on the spot, and throw my body to the coyotes.

I was serious. Just that once, but don’t expect much of that from here on out.




Ah, yes, guns.

That reminds me of my mom.

My mother is funny: Patsy Ernestine Wacky Jones. Her whole family moved to Texas from Tennessee in the early fifties, and they were all hilarious, but my mom has the bonus gift of being funny when she doesn’t know she’s being funny—until you start laughing—then she gets it and starts laughing.

One November some years ago she inquired in her sweet drawl, “Lola you have everything—I just don’t know what to get you for Christmas, and with you living alone out there on those ten acres—would you like a gun?”

She was perfectly serious.

I tried to keep a straight face.

I did.

I tried.

I like to milk it for all it’s worth.

“Mom, that is so sweet, so thoughtful—so much in the spirit of Christmas! I’d think of you every time I got to shoot somebody.”

Then she laughed. She didn’t give up, though. Another Christmas she asked, “OK, if you don’t want a gun—how about a stun gun?”


Lick Here

People used to call me at odd hours from across the world until I got so well known that I had to take my phone number off the website. Two young guys called me at 11 p.m. one night—they were flirting and having fun, and did not seem to be sincerely interested in my work or my books at all. I answered their questions and they giggled until the call ended, leaving me mystified as to why they had called.


Later, on a hunch, I checked out the page they had mentioned on my website—the dating book page. The link should have said, “To find out more, or to order, click on the book cover above.” My picture is on the book cover.

But someone had apparently accidentally deleted one letter in the link by accident one day while tweaking the copy, so it said in huge letters right on the cover over my face:

“To find out more, or to order, lick here.”


I laughed till my stomach hurt and called up three friends to share.

In some pathetic, aging way, I’m actually grateful young guys would still bother to call me in the middle of the night. Just a few years ago, guys twenty years younger than me, who used to flirt with me and try to pick me up, started calling me Ma’am.

Ma’am? This was horrifying. “Pardon me, young man,” I’d say, “Don’t call me Ma’am!”  They’d be embarrassed and say, “My mom taught me to always say that. Sorry Ma’am, oh, I mean sorry.”

It was the end of an era. Now if a young guy is staring at me, I probably have spinach in my teeth or he’s lusting after my MacBook Pro laptop.

They’re too young to remember Marilyn Monroe, so being the Marilyn Monroe of spiritual teachers doesn’t get me a darn thing.



< One of sixty seven illustrations in the book.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream?
Aftermath of a big party the night before?
My horse Tava snuggling up to me during a photo shoot?
Just not my most photogenic side?



(HAND TO EAR) . . . Beep, beep, bee, bee, bee, beep . . .. A MESSAGE IS COMING IN: It’s my deceased grandma Esther with an important message for me.

She’s saying, “If a psychic is any good they’ll call you when you have a question. 'Hello Lola, yes, buy that house. No, do not loan your mother money, she’ll spend it on her boyfriend Marcello.' ”

“Oh, and get your hormones checked—your ovaries look like Raisinets.”



Lola, Are You In a Cult?

Some background: My relatives on my mom’s side were Church of Christ, and on my dad’s side, Assembly of God.

After my relatives read my serious spiritual book, Things Are Going Great In My Absence: How to Let Go and Let The Divine Do the Heavy Lifting, which didn’t sound anything like the Bible, they earnestly discussed the fate of my soul, concerned that God was going to smite me.

Surely I had gone over to the devil’s side, because in the book I talk about how all religions have a core of truth, and call myself spiritual, not religious.

Neither Abraham nor Jesus ever mentioned that. Yep, that sneaky ole devil mighta tricked Lola into writing it.

Maybe it didn’t help that I told them my Easter joke. The scene: a church, Easter Sunday, the day of the Resurrection.

Jesus strolls in the back door of the church while everyone is singing; he walks to the front, and watches the shocked, then ecstatic expressions on everyone’s faces. Then he points to the giant crucifix over the pulpit and groans, shaking his head, “Jesus, people, that is the last thing I want to see right now. Everybody has a bad day but is that the main thing you remember about me?”

Now, really, why would any one be offended at that? Do they think Jesus is oh-so-serious that he can’t laugh at himself? Jesus has a great sense of humor. When I told him that joke, he laughed his ass off and told it to everybody.

Maybe it’s because not one religious text anywhere contains even one shred of humor—and no one in the Bible ever laughed?

What is it with that?

What has happened to create our image of God as a grumpy, irritable, vindictive old geezer who sits on a cloud with binoculars and looks for transgressions?

Why do so many people walk on eggshells, worried about pissing Big Daddy off? Was it because in the Bible there was so much fighting, stoning, and smiting? (Have you ever wanted to smite someone? I have—only briefly, of course. Big deep breath.)

I am absolutely positive God is hilarious. Look at the humor in creation. Take Texans, of which I am one. Take politicians. Take fundamentalists, please! 

Anyway, my mom, with great concern and deeply furrowed brow eventually was the one who approached me, completely failing in her feeble attempt not to sound accusatory despite the sweet accent:

“Lola, are you in a CULT?”

It was one of those moments when angels sang “Aaaahhhh,” as I channeled the great masters of humor.

The drummer leaned in, ready to do his “Pa dum PAH,” as the perfect reply did thus prepare to spring from my full, quivering, Jezebel lips.

Struggling to maintain a straight face (I have to do that a lot, don’t I?) I veritably basked in the glee of what I was about to say, extending the moment while Mom leaned forward with a knitted brow.

You know that kind of moment, I was savoring the timing, drawing out the punch line—relishing the fact that I would NOT think of the perfect answer after the fact and spend days wishing I’d thought of it then.

No, I would not lament later—I had the perfect answer.

“MOOOOOOOOOMMM,” I whined exaggeratedly enough that even Woody Allen would ask me if I wanted some cheese with that whine.

“I can’t believe you would even ask me a question like that!

“Am I in a cult???


“Do you think I’m a sheep? A brainless, gullible follower?


Drum roll . . .

Building the suspense . . .

Drawing out the timing . . . . . . . . . . . .

“I am NOT in a cult! . . .

“I’m LEADING a cult!”

Mom almost fell over laughing, and she never mentioned it again. She read that groundbreaking spiritual book (yes, it’s serious, and it works) and now talks with me about it, telling me how proud she is of her smart, successful daw-uh-tuh (that’s daughter in English.)

“You should see my “daaaw ah tuuuh” on her “hawuuus.” And she lives in that fine hay-uuus on that heee-ullll in Califaw-nee-uh.

Translation: You should see my daughter on her horse. And she lives in that fine house on that hill in California.

It gets better. At my dad’s funeral, my uncle Bill, who sings in a Christian band and preaches for a relatively fundamentalist church, came up to me beaming, and told me he liked my spiritual website, and visits it often.

I must have looked like I’d had a stroke, but I recovered, smiled, and said a heartfelt thank you.

I was honored, no joke. My family is all great people.




Me and Mom. Note the furrowed brow.





Are You Saved?

Apparently a lot of people are worried I’m going to hell.

A pack (they travel in packs) of Jehovah’s Witnesses knocked on my door one fine day. That wouldn’t be so terribly odd, but my driveway at that time was an eighth of a mile long, and it was unpaved gravel. The nearest house was a quarter of a mile away.

I answered the door and they gave me some of those smiles that don’t crinkle your eyes, and said, “We want to share with you about our faith.”

Biting my lip so the pain would squelch a wicked grin, I offered, “Great! How cool! I’d like to share with you about MY beliefs, too! Our dinner’s ready, but give me your address, and I’ll stop by your house about dinner time tomorrow night.”

Their leader got seriously rattled and replied, “I will NOT do that! This is NOT a laughing matter. Are you saved?”

I grinned, “Thank God I am.
“I’m on auto-save.
“I’m good.

But thanks for dropping by.”



Lonely Socks

I have to address just one serious subject before we resume making fun of relationships, mainly because no one else seems to be handling it, and this is important.

You know, we hear a lot about co-dependency, unhealthy relationships, and he’s-just-not-that-into-you. So when is it time for a single sock in the drawer to just get it—that her long lost mate is just never going to come back?

When is it time for her to just move on and find another sock? And why can’t more single white socks just pair up with perfectly compatible single black socks without raising eyebrows in this enlightened era?

And, what I’m most concerned about: why doesn’t someone start a for all those single socks?




Take just about any topic, and a man’s point of view on it is typically different than a woman’s. Here are a few examples, horribly stereotyped. I admit this up front so we don’t get emails from irate, politically-correct people who didn’t notice they were buying a non-politically-correct humor book:

Woman - Let’s keep them all as friends.
Man - There should be a special planet where all exes go, and we never have to see them again.


Woman - “I’m sad that you haven’t told me your feelings about that misunderstanding we had.”
Man - “Wha? . . . How do I feel? Uh . . . I’m hungry and horny.”


Woman - “It’s time for us to do laundry.”
Man - “I can turn my dirty underwear inside out and wear each one more day.”
Woman: “You have to sort the darks and lights.”
Man: “If you wash them all together enough, they all end up gray and you don’t have to worry about it anymore.”


Road Trips:
Woman - “I’d like to see some sights on the way, stop to shop, and take some nature walks, maybe have a little picnic . . . make it a romantic four-day road trip. It’ll be fun! Oh, I need to make a potty stop soon.”

Man - “Let’s see how fast we can get from Texas to California. I say we drive straight through and we can pee out the window. Uh, well, you can use this cup.”


Spontaneous Play:
This could go either way with the genders.
One partner: “Let’s make sand angels!”
Other partner: “You get sand in your shorts. I’ll take the picture.”



Couldn’t Find It with Both Hands

I’ve been blessed with friends who love humor and fun, and I seek them out. It’s a big factor in who I hang out with. This is another one of those stories that’s 100 percent true.

We were all proud of our friend Bob when he started experimenting with natural health alternatives.

Self-described as gravitationally challenged, he was always trying to speed up his metabolism and lose weight. He heard about this herb called “ma huang” that was supposed to make you burn fat like a teenager.

He went to the health food store, approached a young, pretty clerk in the medicinal herb section, and asked, “I’m looking for ma huang, and I can’t find it. Can you show me where it is?” In his Texas accent it clearly sounded like “my wang.”

The girl turned three shades of scarlet and stifled a huge giggle, upon which Bob, a perfect gentleman, also turned red and started spluttering, “I’m not being impertinent, really, it’s an herb I read about, and I can’t find it. Can you show me where ma huang would be please?”

At which point she had to suck in a big breath, turn, and run into the stock room to avoid laughing in this fine customer’s face.

She came back out, but the minute she tried to talk, she burst into uncontrollable giggles. He busted loose with a big snort and laughed too. They finally located his elusive ma huang on the next isle.

Bob and I had immense fun together, taking photos and being silly. Once at the ranch in Texas we did a gender-reversed American Gothic self portrait:







The chicken got impatient:



There's so much more in the book!