Ok, a guy from Texas walks into a bar... And how did I know that he was from Texas? Did I ask him where he was from? No. Did we get in a conversation that prompted his origins? No. I hadn't yet been told what he wanted to drink. I didn't yet know his name. He wasn't yet close enough for me to smell his Stetson cologne, but I certainly knew where the hell he was from. And how did I know it? Because he tells me... that he's from friggin' Texas!

 

For those of you who wanted a more relevant craft beer post, then you're going to have to tune in next week. In fact, if you're not from Texas then you should probably do that too. This has nothing to do with you. It has to do with the seeming eight million Texans that come crawling through the door of my bar.

 

Surely there's a lot of things on his mind. "What's on tap?", "What's new?", "Got any recommendations?", "When do the parking meters no longer require change? Will my chrome-plated cowboy-Cadillac get towed", "Can we put the rodeo on all the tv's?" -I'm sure all that meant something to the guy. However, nothing in this whole big world was more important to him than letting me know that he's from friggin' Texas!

 

And it's not just him. It's all of them! Do you think folks from Ohio come stompin' in sayin', "Hi, I'm from Ohio?" -no! Do people from Oregon do it? -no! People from New York? -no! Florida? -no! No one in the other forty-nine states feel the same necessity to decry their motherland like people from Texas. If anyone has the benefit from such glory, it should be the guy from Hawaii- but they don't even care about that. Its just Texas!

 

Do bars do special things when they learn that you're from Texas? Do they give you free pints? Better pints? Foot rubs? Do they have a special fluffy chair for you to sit in? Is there some podium nearby? A pedestal? Do they give you a trophy or any shiny medals? I need to petition all bars to stop giving this to Texans; we don't need to condone this type of behavior; kind of like a "Don't Feed the Bears" campaign.

 

But with his chest puffed out and his belt buckle a-shinin' I know how this evening will go. He will be the loudest voice in the room. He will drink the lightest beer on the menu, pee four-hundred times and brag about how they did it in Texas. And I'm already feeling sorry for whomever he's going to be sitting beside.

 

"Hey man, how's it goin'?" -"Good, but when I was in Texas I was better."

"Got big plans tonight?" -"Naw, but when I was in Texas we would stay out later."

"I bought a guppy today?." -"In Texas, our guppies were a foot long!"

"I grow mushrooms.-"In Texas, our mushroom farms were bigger than Kentucky!"

"I still live with my mom" -"In Texas, I lived with three moms!"

...and so on and so forth.

 

And at least his accent is cool. With every word properly displaying all of the vowels, and pregnant pauses that were long enough to catch a chapter of "Gone with the Wind", and a draw that you have to stare at his mouth to understand the words- this guy is obviously in love with the sound of his own voice. And he likes the feel of his tongue beating against the roof of his mouth way more than he should.

 

And now he won't leave. Its thirty minutes past last call and he doesn't show any signs of going anywhere. He's been here all day. Apparently I'm supposed to keep the
beer open later for people from Texas. But this entitlement comes from somewhere. But where? Ford makes bigger trucks with more wheels just for Texas and put special stickers on them. Budweiser makes special beer labels for Texas. And I'm sure that sex in Texas is better as well. We gave them what has basically turned out to be their own little fiefdom down there, in order to buffer us from the Mexicans and hurricanes; and since then, the rest of us have marched onward to civility and we forgot to domesticate the Texans. And now they are spreading out and gracing me at my bar with all that pride, all that confidence, all that gumption and all that need to be fully house-trained.

 

So Tex- I get it, you're here. You like it here and even thought your arousal of the mere mention of the Lone Star State is readily apparent, you seem to find a fondness about my bar. But keep in mind, there's no free bacon for you. We won't give you any oil wells and we don't want your sand. You're not getting any privileges from me as I assume that you're going to be one serious pain in the ass. "Whew, feels good to get that off of my chest!"

 

"So, what's up man, can I pour you a beer? By the way, what's your name?" I'm putting on my seat belt because here it comes...!

 

Drink an IPA- now this post is craft beer relevant.

 

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