The Beef Capital of Texas

On the way down to San Antonio, we stopped for more than an occasional beer. From Joplin to Tulsa, from Lawton down to Fort Worth, from Waco to Austin and finally out in New Braunfels, we took the drive slow and kept our spirits up as we headed down towards our destination.

At first, I was pushing to head down to Amarillo Texas, the beef capital of Texas. A few years ago, I used to nail this woman from some small town around those parts named Pampa Texas. So I wanted to head down to Pampa and pump her full of led, but Frank would have none of it.

“There are no black chicks in western Texas,” he complained and with such a statement, I could not argue. I was never really into black chicks. I preferred the Asians. But hey, to each his own, that is what they say. I was not one for sexual or cultural stereotypes. I knew what I wanted and was solely focused on my mission.
We never made it out to those western parts of the Longhorn State. Hell, the way we were going, we barely even made it to our default destination.

San Antonio was just another town. There was nothing wrong with that town but nothing to write home about. Sure they had the River Walk, the Buckhorn Museum and that overrated Alamo. Frank’s motivation for driving down to San Antonio had nothing to do with its tourist attractions. He wanted to get together with Susan, the half black, half Indian stripper that he met online. As for me, I just needed to get away from Stephanie and her exaggerated hormones.

Jason sat in the back of our Chevy during the entire ride. He kept mostly silent.
He had his earphones on and with the exception of the occasional bathroom request, he mostly kept to himself. Jason was a married man. Frank and I were not. We all grew up together, but now that he had that ring on, he was no longer to be trusted. He crossed over to the other side.

Sure, all generalizations were faulty at their core but the proof was in the pudding. Jason, that motherfucker had lost his personality the day that Gwen came into his life. Sure, I would understand such a metamorphosis if she had a nice pair of tits on her or a half descent personality. But this woman had nothing to offer. From bottom to top, she was a fast food commercial gone wrong. Eat six cheeseburgers a day and see how life will turn out for you. Her personality would not make the dollar menu.

Jason was pussy-whipped, or rather, he was canyon whipped. How that skinny fucker ever got that woman on top of him without a forklift was beyond my wildest imagination.

But enough blasphemy, I tell you. It is too easy to judge others. It is too convenient to see all the faults in your friends and to ignore your own shortcomings. I was not one to talk about anything. I was 24 years of age without an education, a job or anything any real prospects.

Sure, I could talk the good talk and walk the hard walk but at the end of the day, I was just as scared as the rest of the people who surrounded me. Alcohol somehow made all of us more adequate. That was with the exception of Frank.

As we walked into Calvin’s Chicken House around 7pm, we found ourselves a booth adjacent to the main stage.

To the tunes of Lady Gaga, a dancer named Ebony moved around like the beautiful layer of chocolate that she was. We each deposited several dozen dollar bills in her panties and later spent another fifty or so on lap dances until we were fully released.

At a local Holiday Inn hotel bar, we each drank half a dozen Pabst Blue Ribbons with some jerkoff insurance salesman named Carl Laundry the Third. None of us could really make out what he was saying underneath that thick Texas accent that was smothered so hard like fat butter on wet toast. All I could make out from the guy was that he loved Jesus and that he found his lord and savior or something of that sort.
Jason did his best to seem interested, Frank and I drifted off into our own conversation.
Finally, we got rid of the guy and walked over to the two drunk skanks who were smiling in our direction from across the other side of the bar. Sure, they were a bit meatier that I liked them. The one I chose was around 5.1 and 145 pounds with beautiful double D’s to compliment the rest of the meat sandwich.

Frank and I took the girls back to the room. Jason remained a vegetarian.
Pornography was always a matter of geography. Or at least that is what they said around my part of the state.

In the morning, I woke up next to a strange woman who smelled like Miller Light and a pack of menthol cigarettes.

We never made it out to Amarillo Texas. We barely made it back home. Regardless of what you may think, just remember – it is better to ride the bull than to watch the rodeo from the comfort of your own television.
A year later, Frank was engaged to a woman that none of us ever met. She lived in Ponchatoula, Louisiana, the strawberry capital of the world.