If you’re from Texas, you might want to stop reading now.

See, I’m reasonably sure you haven’t done anything to me personally, but I’ve still come to a life decision* that you’re not going to like.

I fucking hate Texans.

I mean, we all know about George Bush and how he sucks. And what makes that even worse is that he’s not a Texan, but has latched on to the identity like it’s the apex of what an american personality should be and instead of coming off as down-home-genuine my-word-is-stronger-than-oak, in actuality it is phony and gross.

But that’s not what solidified it for me.

What solidified my hatred of Texans was lunchtime today.
At lunch today, I was making a left in to a Subway parking lot. (turkey on white with lettuce, tomato, mayo, and a little salt and pepper. yum.) As I began my turn, a red SUV gunned it out of the parking lot trying to make a left as well. The SUV came fairly close to brushing the side of my car and so, with my window down because it’s so nice out today, I said – out loud – ‘jeez, watch where you’re going’. Yes I actually did say ‘jeez’.

I parked and was getting out of my car when the same SUV pulled up next to me.

The red-faced man in the red SUV who looked suspiciously like John Locke’s dad from ‘Lost’ said “So you think I need to watch where I’m going”. Aware that the Subway was full of state troopers, a fortunate calm came over me. “Uhh, yeah, as a matter of fact I do.” His response could have been Shakespearean it was so well crafted. “Fuck you, fatboy.” I was taken aback, but just had to ask the only question that was in my mind at the moment, “You really think you’re a tough guy, don’t you?” He pointed to his license plate. “Look where I’m from.” Texas tags. I couldn’t help it; I started laughing. “Oh, that’s right. Don’t mess with Texas?” He called me fat again and I called him old and then he peeled wheels out of the parking lot. It was a sweet little moment.
The whole time, his lunch buddy sat silently in the passenger seat, looking (I believe) mortified that his friend would chase me down to yell at me.

Yell at me for exclaiming my fear that his shitty driving was about to result in a scrape-up.

He called me fat boy.

He pointed to his Texas tags as proof that he was tough.

Fucking Texans.

Fucking arrogant, lets-get-in-to-a-pissing-contest Texans.

I hate them all. Texans are now my sworn enemies. My nemesisesisses. (or, possibly, nemesi)

The everything’s-bigger-in, don’t-mess-with Texas personality is the egotistical equivalent of the plastic nutsucks that douchbags hang off their trailer hitch. It’s a clear sign of an unimaginitive response to perceived shortcomings.

If fucking Texas is so great, than Texans should go back to their tumbleweeds and oil derricks and leave the rest of us alone.

I love my state; love it with a passion. I think that, for 30 years of my life, Maryland has been the ideal place for me to live. But I don’t think being a Marylander makes me better than anyone else. I don’t think being a Marylander makes me tougher or smarter or better looking than anyone else.

I do think though, when someone questions your character (“you really think you’re a tough guy?”) if your answer is about where you’re from, that answer says a hell of alot about who you are.

*I actually have made another un-related life decision recently but want to wait until all the hate is out of my system so I can write about it in the correct (read: positive) state of mind.