I’d like to apologize to anyone who lives in Houston.  Not because I hate the city they live in, but because I feel sorry that they live in this city. 

Houston is awful.  The traffic, the pollution, the lack of sidewalks, the lack of cohesion or anything resembling culture.  And don’t give me that shit about the opera, the ballet, the theater and the symphony.  We all know that’s a load of horse shit.  It ain’t New York.  It don’t wanna be New York.  And all the Jews in River Oaks ain’t gonna make it New York. 

The Menil is the Menil.  But this city ain’t just the Menil, or Rothko’s Chapel for that matter.  No, Houston is just one shithole tangle of highway and isolation. 

And yes, I’ve heard it all before.  I’m an uppity spic.  I’m a pretentious fag.  I’m a would-be Yankee asswipe.  Throw it at me.  Houston sucks.

Yesterday, I walked (I don’t advise this in any situation in Houston) to the movie theater near my sister’s apartment to see The Dark Knight.  The movie was better than expected but the walk was much more dangerous than necessary. 

When I finally got to the theater, I bought my ticket from some fucking wetback shithead who sold me the right ticket to the wrong showing.  I went to the desired screening anyway.  Fifteen minutes into the movie, I left my seat to buy a some candy when I realized that I was actually going to enjoy the film.  But there was fucking Mom and her little girl in line, “Hillary, are you sure you want a medium popcorn?” 

Bitch, you are the mom.  Your kid is a fucking first-grader.  If you don’t figure this shit out for her, she’s going to end up blowing the entire baseball team in high school–gay guys too. 

I gave them my best Bette Midler glare in Big Business without even trying when the lazy-eyed darkie dumbass ordered them to stand aside and asked me what I’d like to order. 

“Sour Watermelons.” I said as polite as fucking punch.

Fucking Punjabi middle-age bitch waddled over to the far corner of the counter to fetch my snack even though several packs were sitting in the glass case right in front of us.  She put in my order like I had just purchased a fucking Monet at auction.  Bitch, it’s a fucking box of sour candy!

After I left the theater, I went on a brief search for a baguette at the nearby strip mall.  No luck.  I was met by dumbstruck, open-mouthed faces and shrugs.  You would have thought I was on the hunt for Colonel fucking Sanders himself. 

When my sister did finally pick me up, she took me to the local competition to Central Market to buy said baguette.  I told her to wait in the car as I ran into the store only to find a shitty, squishy “baguette” that would cause any sensible Parisian to slit his throat with a butter knife. 

Central Market’s baguette was only slightly better.  Aren’t these people suppose to know better?  I know it’s only Houston but give me a fucking break.  And then that ugly fat hippy bitch in customer service sent me to the “shortest line” behind the steroid-taking white trash lottery winner.  “Ya want some coffee Shannon?” he asked his wife.  

Then it took the slack-jawed bitch behind the counter four minutes to make his coffee.  Four fucking minutes. 

I was patient.  My sister tells me not to lose my cool because this is not Tokyo or New York or even fucking Chicago.  I love my sister and I respect her choice to live here.  But every time I visit her in Houston, I get scared she’s going to think slow-ass shit-brains are normal. 

You can call me the fuckiest asshole cocksucker you want, the most uppity faggot wetback who ever walked this earth.  But Houston fucking sucks.  Thank God my sister’s apartment building has a gym.  I can work off at least some of my aggression.

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