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Volume 3, Issue 22
October 25 November 7, 2001
One Last Thing
Andrew Wells
AN OPEN LETTER TO
COLORADO,
FROM A
NEWL -ARRIVED TEXAN:
Dear mountain people,
As I've become more familiar with this
here state of yours, I've come to realize
that as a Texan fresh off the pigwagon, I
occupy a pretty low rung on the old welcome
ladder. Coloradans seem to regard
my kind as somehow less-than-flawless--
as if the people and culture of Texas were
not the greatest goddamed show of
humanity this side of Uranus. And while I
might understand your difficulty comprehending
my superior idiom, I fail to see
how your insignificant native concerns
could trump destiny. You should all throw
open your arms to embrace your fate.
And make no mistake: I AM your fate. I
am the pilgrim, and this is the promised
land. I will follow my brethren out of
Buckscuffle and Waco in a procession of
Manifest Destiny. And be forewarned: We
WILL displace you, just like we did the
Mexicans and the Indians before them.
We have history on our side: After all,
some of the best land in Colorado was
once a part of the Republic of Texas.
Make no mistake-- it will be again.
Ahh, Colorado! That mountain valhalla
known so tenderly back home as "The
North 40." To put it in language you people
can understand: "Dood. Like, I've
come for your land, and just to let you
know you'll be eating grits instead of
homefries. You'll also be serving cream
gravy with your biscuits, and from now
on it'll be called 'Texas toast, ' because all
the shit you had before sucked hard."
And I have some other complaints, too,
dammit. First off, there simply ain't
enough air around here, man. I can't even
breathe, and yet you pretend that it's
entirely natural. Think about it, you are
actually accustomed to an oxygen deficiency!
That may go a long way in
explaining your lackadaisical attitude
toward life, God, and The American Way.
Second, learn to drive! Don't you people
realize that the right lane is for passing,
and that the correct speed is 90 mph? That
is, until the first snowflake falls, at which
point the speed limit instantly reverts to
17 mph. And this is not up for discussion,
people. Placate me, or I'll have my people
raise your rent!
You see, I am the most recent postule on
the Northerly, spreading rash which has
been irritating the shit out of Colorado
since World War II, when the first ex-fighter
jock came barreling out of the
Panhandle in search of a fast ride down a
steep mountain and instantly got stuck in
the snow.
I am riding the crest of the latest vile
expat wave from The Greatest State And
Once-Nation Ever, washed-up on your
mountainous shores by too much money
or politics too dangerous for the
Motherland.
I mean, did you really think those murderous
fugitives from south Texas landed
in Colorado by accident last year? Hell
no! They were just following the herd,
trying to blend in.
We will bring our hairdos. We will bring
our big hairdos, and we will also bring
our boots and our two-step and our fanatical
love of killing your wild game and of
outsized estates on which sit mammoth
manses which do not at all blend in with
the environment but which will not matter
in the long run because when we are done
everything, every last bit of earth the eye
can see, will be landscaped or paved.
And you've got to admit it: An unchanging,
flat horizon is much easier on the
eyes than the craggy dissonance of the
Front Range. We are, after all, a people
who, through lack of discernible landforms,
have been led to consider as natural
a worldview in which one can see the
porch light of a neighbor in a town 30
miles away. You expect us to just take pictures
and leave footprints? You've obviously
never been to Houston, partner.
Sure, we've got our minor hitches. We
still believe the Cowboys are "America's
Team." We don't understand hockey; and
we tend to either weave drunkenly back
and forth across the bunny slope in perfect
snowplow fashion, or overestimate our
abilities and charge, whisky-fueled, down
the double blacks with nary a thought to
the welfare of our fellow skiers. But by
god, we do it with grace.
And don't blame us for our size. We can't
help it: we're Texans, and everything is
bigger in Texas. That's right. Everything.
Don't feel guilty about importing your
best college football players from the
backwaters and megalopolises of the
Lone Star State. We like to share. You
should, too. We'd be more than happy to
let you move to Texas, but it's odd how so
few of you decide to do so.
But not us. We're a nomadic sort by
nature. You can find us the world over,
attempting to spread our superior ways to
lands and peoples both near and far.
We're America's cultural evangelists so
why else do you think the people in other
countries think so highly of you as
Americans? We Texans have laid the
groundwork. You have us to thank.
Mostly, though, we tend to move to
Colorado. It's those summers, you understand.
They fry the brain. In a twist of the
popular hippie joke, one might also ask:
"How many Texans can you fit in an F-250
headed to Denver?" Answer: One
more and their gun rack.
Boy howdy, you are some lucky people.
To think that out of all the states in the
Union, we have chosen to impose ourselves
upon you. Not that it needs to be
said, but you should thank us for coming.
I mean, all that wild and untouched land
needed to be developed by somebody, and
we were happy to oblige with our vast
expertise of land management.
So next time you come in contact with a
Texan, give him or her a smile and a handshake.
Welcome them home. If necessary,
give them yours. Show your gratitude,
Coloradans. Otherwise, we will crush
you.
Finally, a word to all my fellow Texans.
Brothers and sisters, I bring you a message:
The cow has been tipped. I repeat:
The cow HAS been tipped!
Sincerely,
Tucker Teutsch a.k.a "The Mule"
Tucker Teutch can be contacted to discus
Texan superiorty and other pressing
issues at tuckerteutch@hotmail.com
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