I've never been to Crawford, Texas

In all my travels, despite spending a large chunk of my life within frog-spittin' distance, I ain't never been to Crawford, Texas. I was born (at a very early age) across the street from the Alamo, where the Yankee carpetbaggers held out to the last man against the good Texans. (Strangely, that's not quite the spin the event got in my Texas history class in junior high.) I spent my early childhood in Houston, learning that on a humid summer day the sweat trickling down your torso was just like superglue, sticking your arms to your sides so firmly that you had to rip off a layer of skin to pry them off. We then moved to Dallas, where my vocabulary expanded rapidly (most especially my four-letter vocabulary — maybe that's where Dick Cheney and Dubya picked up some of their "colorful expressions" that they try not to let the press hear). Much of my family still lives in Texas, although even their loyalty to the good "pro-business" Republican hegemony is showing serious signs of strain. When the Republicans start putting snooping into people's bedrooms ahead of a healthy economy, they lose support.

We'll see what I can come up with this afternoon, but I'm looking seriously at being a good little jet-setter and flying off to D/FW and driving down to Wacko on my way to Crawfishord.

After all, what better way to show my resistance to a war for cheap oil than by expending who knows how many pounds of jet fuel (at just under 454 grams per pound!) and then renting a car to drive around the countryside of my native state! Viva el acondicionador de aire! (If ya cain't figger that one out, li'l Dubya, well, just ask Laura to read it to you.)