We honkytonked at Ginny’s Little Longhorn, stuffed ourselves full of queso, enchiladas, breakfast tacos, po’ boys, and Casey’s New Orleans sno-balls. Did some Texas metal bowling at Dart Bowl, froze (and did NOT climb on the rocks) at Barton Springs, danced in the kitchen, listened to records, and stocked up on essentials at the taxidermy shoppe and the army surplus store. All thanks to these cool people.
There was also Lone Star Luchador.
And Vegan Nacho Libre.
And Totopos Chico.
And I bought these cute yellow shorts, which look just fine when standing still.
But as soon as I move, instant momgina.
Let’s see that again:
“Hey, dudes, let’s ride our single-speeds to the Whip-In and drink beers all night by the Moon Tower…”
“On second thought, I’m going to pop open some Yellow Tail and read 50 Shades of Grey…”
I am too fucking lazy to even carry a shopping basket anymore. Thanks, Texas.
Then I noticed this magazine cover:
What did the rest of the shots on the photographer’s contact sheet look like? I can just hear the photo shoot in progress, “Bigger smile! More deadness in the eyes, Paula! Yes! That’s it!”
A simple Google search reveals that she ALWAYS looks like this. Folks, I’m just going to put it out there: Are we even sure she is human? I mean, those cylons are crafty. Can robots get diabetes?
But then I realized what is really going on here. This is 2012. Paula doesn’t even have to show up for photo shoots anymore. Hell, Conde Nast probably has a whole iStock library full of “Paula Deen heads.”
Well, two can play at that game, Southern Classics magazine.