PriorBlog

My apologies for not blogging too much when I was in Houston.  I just felt like blogging wasn’t a manly enough thing to do, at least not in Houston, where manliness is king.  What the the northeast lacks in gunshops and executions, we make up for in sport Championships.  Places where championships are scarce are usually hotbeds of machismo run amok.  When was the last time Afghanistan won anything in the Olympics?  I can hear the Texasuards saying ‘but what about last year’s NCAA football championship?’  This only proves my point though, as UT is in Austin, the only city in Texas without a nuclear arsenal for the expressed purpose of deer hunting.

Normally, I would read the above paragraph and accuse its author of having a provincial attitude, of trying to impose his own cultural norms on another place, and, failing to do so, resorting to an unfair wholesale condemnation of said backwater.  But since I just spent five days there I can talk all the smack I want.  Afterall, their guns can’t reach me from here!  Note to Texans, I am in Montreal now.

There are some good things about Texas, like the barbeque joints.  There’s always a supply of fresh meat because the gun ranges have live targets.
 
Rimshot.

One thing I didn’t do in Texas that I thought of doing a while back was mail a letter.  There’s this asshole I have had to deal with at work a bunch of times.  The last time I spoke with him I got so mad it ruined the rest of my day.  He doesn’t work at my office, he’s some out in the field sales rep guy who really doesn’t know anything about me.  Anyhow, after he pissed me off, I had this great idea.  I knew he wouldn’t have a clue that I was going to be in Houston in a few weeks, so I took an envelope, wrote his name on the outside of it, and then I took a piece of paper and typed out “You’re a dickhead” right in the center of it.  It looked so cool, so lethal.  First off, he’d be getting the letter from Texas.  That would really throw him for a loop.  He’d have no idea who it was from.  Or, maybe, better yet, he knows somebody in Texas and he begins to think they sent the letter and this sets in motion a whole series of events that ultimately end in his contracting scabies and/or Jerusalem syndrome.  But better than that, I think would be the general feeling of unease that would take over “Rodney’s” life after opening the letter.  I can just see that dickhead now at the police station insisting they get fingerprints from it, and the police laughing at him until he gets so indignant that they eventually have no choice but to take him back to some room called the “stockade” or something where they beat him senseless.  That would be awesome.  But of course, I wussed out and didn’t send it.  I figure it’d be more fun to just punch him in the face next time I see him.