The Season of Our Torment

The Winter Texans are back. We have entered the season of our torment.

Lord, it seems like they just left, migrating North late last spring in a drove of aluminum RV’s and shiny trucks.

Farmers on subsidies, milking the great American tit……

And now they’re back, with their cheesy jokes, and mid-western farm field bullshit. If I hear jalapeño pronounced jal-ap-ano one more time, I may have serious issues with the Oshkosh-overall clad fucker. They can get the silly umlaut right, but give them an enyay….

No, I don’t like lutefisk. Can’t even stand the smell of the stuff. Give me menudo any day.

How long Lord, oh how long must we suffer the bastards?

My friend Don thinks they snuck in on the heels of the Bikefest crowd, unnoticed among all of the motorcycle trailers. I think he’s right. And, now they’re here; doing whatever they do, driving slowly, like they’re still out in the fields on their subsidized John Deere tractors, lost to oblivion, why oh why can’t they just stay up North and drive badly on their tractors? And they're out on the bay in their walleye boats tossing shrimp and great chunks of squid at hapless hardheads and whiting, or crowding the streets of Nuevo Progreso looking to “jew down” the locals. Winter Texans are everywhere en todos lugares.

Everywhere you go, you can overhear them talking about how things are so much cheaper back home, how they do things different back home, how things are so much better back home. Hell, why don’t they just go back home then? Get out of our hair.