Deoxy #5: Deep in the Fart of Texas

DEOXY XYLOFLUX

Is it just me, or does it seem like nothing good comes out of Texas? It's the place where George W. was governor, it spawned Leatherface, and according to the Misfits, Texas is the reason that the president's dead. So, what would drag me over 1200 miles to the Lone Star state? Rock and Roll! That's right, I drove 1200 miles both ways just to see Fugazi. The show was good as always, but the trip? I don't know.

I immediately knew I was in trouble the minute I crossed the border near El Paso. I was greeted by two giant sculptures of stars straight out of communist Russia. Soon, I was bombarded by traffic signs to the left and to the right of me! I was in hell. My plight got worse as soon as I pulled over to the nearest Texaco. They didn't have 87 gas! Only 86! Please kill me now!

After taking a chance on strange fuel, I headed into the store to pay. There, I was once again bombarded, this time by dirty looks! There were five fucking George W. clones with ten gallon cowboy hats glaring at me. Yep, to have messed up hair and a Ramones shirt was apparently "far out" in Texas. I'm just glad I didn't wear my Bowie shirt.

The next four hours were fucking hell. Texas has the MOST BORING highways I've seen. You can go two hours and not pass another car. Just count your lucky stars, readers that you don't have a mind like mine that you can spend four hours alone with. You can only think about forcing people you know to sodomize each other for so long.

I pulled into a local town to bunk for the night, and feeling a bit peckish, I decided to get some grub. I strolled over to the local subway. That brings another point. I must have seen over a hundred subways on the way to Texas. There was one in every fucking bus stop from here to kingdom fucking come. You could blow up New Mexico, and the entire fucking world for that matter and nothing would be left standing...except for Subway. Fresh taste everyday, even after the apocolypse.

Anyway, I walked in, and what do I find? No Chicken Teriyaki sub! Instead, it was plain old boring roast beef and turkey. There were these two little country girls that were clones of the daughter out of the fucking Beverly Hillbillies helping me. When I asked them for my sub, they looked at me like they were going to get pa's fire stick if'n I didn't shut my city slicker trap. Then it hit me! I had become a snob! Simple country life was not for me! I pondered this fact as I went back to the hotel and then jacked off to "Real Sex" on HBO before I slept.

I got to San Antonio with little fuss. I was walking around downtown when all of a sudden I saw a crowd of people flocking in the direction of the Riverwalk. (A river with restaurants and knick-knack shops around it that runs through the city, in simpler terms, a tourist trap.) I decided to conform and followed the fuckers to a lizard talking about San Antonio pride. Yep. I had walked into the city where the fucking final four basketball shit was taking place. There were people as far as the eye could see gathered around some mascot talking about how somebody was going to win against someone else. I quietly chuckled to myself as I pictured the lizard talking about the advancement of the aryan race through the rounding up and killing of filthy jews. Not that I support that of course.

It also seems that there was a lesbian convention in town, too. Damn, I've never seen so many carpet munchers in one place. Sometimes I think it sucks how lesbians are never as hot as porn portrays them. Instead of cute, powdered little pixies happily eating out each other, I get two Jabba the Hutts grabbing each other's asses through endless layers of fat that no doubt cover endless bedsores that ooze with infectious pus. Stupid TV. It always lies to me.

Sweet karma! It finally caught up with me for killing all those bugs with a magnifying glass when I was 14! The show was right next to the Alamodome where the basketball match was being held. I walked over to find little girls singing Tejano music on a stage while below vendors were hawking 60 dollars t shirts and 20 dollar parking.

The rest of the trip was a bum, except for the food. I had two of the best breakfast burritos of my life in San Antonio, and these pecan pies that were sold in stores, mmm. They came in little tins and were 17 grams of fat each. Good apples there too.

Nothing of note happened to me on the way back, except for THE THING! I was driving through New Mexico, when I saw a sign that said "Only 256 miles to THE THING!" "What could it be?" I asked myself. A desert demon? A whirlpool in the sand. As I neared THE THING the signs got more frequent. Only 98 miles to THE THING! You're almost to THE THING! I was growing anxious. Finally, I got there. It was a building complete with a tourist store and a Dairy Queen. I grew hopeful, because some guy scribbled optimistic graffiti into the bathroom walls. "If the thing isn't the coolest ever, then I don't know what is." After releasing my bladder broth I headed to the admission place. I noticed that no one was going in. I gave this guy with a cowboy hat a dollar who looked at me and them my camera suspiciously. "So, you wanna see the thing, boy, well, good luck!" I headed into the doors into a room with cars. They had inscriptions like "This car is claimed to be used by Aldolph Hitler. It just cannot be proved." I finally got to THE THING. It was a sea monkey esque creature with hokey beads and obiviously fake. Was I mad? No! It was great! I had just fallen for the oldest trick in show business. I was proud.

The only moral I can give you, is don't use a truck stop bathroom. Hasta la Pizza!