If you drive through the coastal plains of Texas, you’ll see a few standard images. Cows behind barbed wire fences. Gas station and barbecue restaurant combos. And around this time of year, you’ll see young suburban families desperately pleading with little Ambreighlynne to LOOK AT THE GOD DAMNED CAMERA as they trespass to get the locally coveted “Toddler Among Bluebonnets” photo.
The state flower of Texas is the bluebonnet. It’s a bright blue wildflower that grows in friendly territory, such as busy highway medians and other people’s land.
Listen here, y’all: do not pick bluebonnets under any circumstances.
Ask any Texan. Or don’t, as “asking” isn’t a prerequisite for getting Texas-specific information from Texans. Posing your cherubic tykes with bluebonnets may be mandatory, but picking bluebonnets is illegal.
“Imagine” is a catchy tune about the pitfalls of religion and materialism, written by a guy who got filthy rich selling jangly three-minute pop songs about love and walruses and shit.
That sentence is a good summation of my bitterness as of late. I’m having a hard time enjoying much of anything, even ubiquitous peace anthems by former Beatles.
I turn on the TV. How’d some lousy sitcom actor get to be famous while I am sitting here in obscurity? I drive to the store. Why does this asshole driving next to me get to roll a Jag instead of this banged-up Prius?
This whole setup is horseshit. I’d like to speak to the manager of…the world? Sure. The whole damned WORLD.
I grew up in the country, outside of a small town, which was itself on the outskirts of Houston. We lived in a doublewide trailer, sharing the land with yaupon bushes, pine trees, stray dogs, and mosquitos. Every summer, we’d gather around the ol’ thermostat and yell cuss words at it, in unison. It was the only time Ma would let us young’uns cuss.
Why does the sun rise in the morning?
If you asked a caveman in 5000 BCE, he might say “ugh” and point at the horizon and his eye. That’s Caveman for “My ancestors died and now live in the sky, and they push the orange ball up every morning so we can see to hunt woolly mammoths.” He’d then hop on a brontosaurus and continue his work in a quarry.
Fast forward a bit, and you’d get answers like “the Good Lord’s divine providence shines upon us,” or other supernatural answers. They’d likely be burning someone at the stake, but they’d pause to kindly answer your question. Puritans were notoriously hospitable, always stopping whatever they were toiling at to greet a stranger. Then they’d get right back to toiling, lest the Lord smite them for sloth. Continue reading
Joel Osteen, pastor of Lakewood Church in Houston, seems to have gotten caught on the wrong side of Hurricane Harvey.
For those of you who aren’t in tune with the goings on of Pastor Joel, let me give you the quick catch-up.
Joel Osteen is the son of John Osteen, a Texas televangelist and founder of Lakewood Church. When John died, his son Joel took over as the church’s leader. In the eighteen years since John’s death, Lakewood Church has grown tremendously in scope, bringing Joel fame and fortune along the way. Continue reading