Sometimes Accurate Advice For Folks That Wish They Had Been Born In Texas
This Texan received an email from Mrs. Her/She Cleaver of San Bernadino, California. She and He/Him husband traveled from California to Dallas for a relative’s non-binary wedding and made the mistake of stopping at a Bucc-ee’s in Amarillo, Texas.
Mrs. Her/She Cleaver: Mr. Texan, if that is your real name, or do you prefer to be called a misogynistic red-neck knuckle-dragging Neanderthal cowboy? I wasn’t sure. All of my troubles started when I accepted a wedding invitation to my non-binary relative’s wedding. Although she is formally female and will be wearing a dress, she prefers to be known as “it”, or “a human.” We quietly cruised into your backward state and needed a charge for our Tesla, which we recently disguised as a non-binary automobile. The only charging station in Amarillo, Texas, was located at a redneck gas station called Bucc-ee’s: who would name a business that? Pulling into the lot on our last few volts, we were amazed at all the carbon-burning autos and trucks purchasing gasoline and polluting our planet; there must have been a hundred gas pumps. I was so rattled; I needed my safe room, but I had to settle for my heavy blanket and a Valium. The two of us needed a restroom, so we swallowed our beliefs and entered. I must say, the cold air was refreshing, and my-oh-my, what a layout. Clothing, toys, jewelry, hats, all with a little Beaver wearing a baseball cap sewn onto everything in the store. The food, oh my creator from above, we have never seen so much of it—fudge, candy, jerky, BBQ, ice cream, every kind of sandwich known to exist. Personally, I was repulsed by all that wasted nutrition that could be feeding those poor, hungry illegals, and not one Vegan option available. How could they do that? We college-educated women have rights, too. While I was in the female’s restroom, a work of technology and cleanliness, my husband discovered the BBQ caveman meat section. Hot sliced brisket, ribs, sausage, and side fixings, he was gorging himself into a coma. I made a scene when I screamed, ” How could you do this to me? We are Vegan; think of that poor animal that died so you can stuff your jaws like a deranged Chipmunk.” He looked at me and said, “Kiss it, Karen, get in that toy car and get your happy vegan ass to Dallas; I’m never leaving Bucc-ee’s.” All covered in BBQ sauce and Banana Pudding, he ran to a big tub of little Bucc-ee’s stuffed animals and dived in. He then ran across the parking lot and rented a room at a motel and steak house called The Big Texan. I’m afraid our marriage is kaput, all because of Bucc-ee’s. Any ideas on how to fix this mess since your redneck backward state caused it?
The Texan: Well, Mrs. She/Her, or whatever you identify as It appears you picked the wrong state to visit. Bucc-ee’s is a national treasure, right up there with the old Alamo and Davy Crockett, and one thing for sure is, you “Don’t Tread On Us.” It appears you may be suffering from a culture shock known as “reality,” which no one in California can identify with. You should have just mailed a gift or made a donation in “it’s” name and stayed in your safe place. Your husband will be much happier and healthier living at the Big Texan Steak House and Motel; I’ve been there many times. You should fit right in with those man-bun-wearing, skinny-jeaned, purse-carrying little pansy-asses in Dallas; they are your kind of folks. Don’t bother writing back, and for once, you’ll get nothing and like it. God Bless Texas and Bucc-ee’s.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 