On Texas

I was driving to the post office today when I notices one of these gems on the Hyundai in front of me:

Yeah, that's a "Don't mess with Texas" bumper sticker, alright. On a Hyundai. With New York plates. And where was it? "On the bumper?" you suspect? No, it was on the rear windshield.

Alright, let's start at the top, with this.

You are not in Texas. You have not lived in Texas for several years (if ever) judging by your license plates, nor are you driving a vehicle that would be required for any of the tough, pick-up-type activities one normally would associate with a stereotypically Texan lifestyle. Moreover, you aren't even driving an American car. Best case scenario? You are the wife or girlfriend of someone who grew up in Texas. You yourself are not Texan. You aren't even close enough to be trusted with a Ford Fiesta.

You are also retarded. Now I understand that in Texas they execute the retarded, so perhaps this explains why you are not in Texas right now. It would also explain why you chose to affix your bumper sticker to the windshield instead of, say, your bumper, which I noticed was utterly devoid of clutter supporting George W. Bush, the Astros or the forcible removal to reservation space of the young brown man in the car next to you with paw prints and howling wolf window clings covering his vehicle. In point of fact, all of the developmentally challenged people I have met have had the capacity of mind to know that bumper stickers go on your bumper. This leads me to believe that you might actually just be illiterate, and you trusted that nice man at the store when he told you that sticker actually read, "World's Best Momma/Sister."

Man, fuck Texas.

One of my best friends has lived in Texas for years and she says she loves the place, except for all the Mexicans and all the times she complains about there not being anything to do and nowhere to go to do that not-anything. Basically, if Texas weren't where it was and full of people she hated with so far between anything interesting, Texas might be an almost decent place.

Oh, but the guns. The guns, she says. She loves that everybody has guns. Well you know what? Fuck Texas anyway. You heard me. There are only four places in the U.S. people can argue as being the best city in the world. One is Boston, and the rest of us let them have that because we do enjoy going up there from time to time and using their city like a giant outdoor toilet, plus I mean they've got the Red Sox so let's just lay off them for a bit. The three others are states and they get to fight it out: California, New York and Texas.

California? Fuck them. They talk a big game but if you put a Californian in a room with a New Yorker and a Texan, they're going to get real quiet, real fast. Because Californians are pussies.

But Texas has guns. Texas is big and strong and they will shoot you because they know they're the best state ever.

Fuck that. New Yorkers don't all have guns, they will fight you bare-knuckled. If you have a gun. Texans and New Yorkers get into a big fight and the Texans start shooting? New Yorkers will punch them. They will punch Texans and take their guns and use them as clubs to continue beating on Texans because fuck you, that's why.

Texas thinks it can make fun of New York for our delicious bagels and our expensive water bottles. You know what the best food in Texas is? Mexican.

Jesus Christ, if a Texan ever says anything derogatory to you about where you're from, just look him straight in the eye and say, "Oh yeah? Well you used to be Mexico."

Fuck Texas. Texas couldn't even make it as it's own country. It fought for its independence from Mexico and then immediately said, "Please, United States, we want to be a part of youuuuu."

Man, grow up, Texas. Stop trying to act like you weren't the fat kid we let play with the rest of us just because it was either you or Mexico and Mexico's mom doesn't rub crude oil all over herself while sunbathing out in the front yard.

Fuck you, Texas. Go back to Mexico.