Cowboy boots or socks? Please, I’d really rather have the socks!
A long time ago, I spent a few very miserable years in Dallas, Texas, amongst a lot of pretend cowboys who would faint or cry and run home to mommy if they ever saw a cow within ten yards of them. One day, I sore a scrawny guy with a gigantic pot belly walking into my office building decked out in full cowboy regalia, with a gigantic gold belt buckle over his huge pot belly, wearing very pointy, fancy cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, and I realized I was the only person laughing. That’s when I knew I had to get out of Texas.
Cowboy boots or socks? Please, I’d really rather have the socks!
A long time ago, I spent a few very miserable years in Dallas, Texas, amongst a lot of pretend cowboys who would faint or cry and run home to mommy if they ever saw a cow within ten yards of them. One day, I sore a scrawny guy with a gigantic pot belly walking into my office building decked out in full cowboy regalia, with a gigantic gold belt buckle over his huge pot belly, wearing very pointy, fancy cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, and I realized I was the only person laughing. That’s when I knew I had to get out of Texas.