“If James Joyce had been from Texas instead of Dublin, then Ulysses would be a hundred times longer, partly in Spanish, and most likely feature more characters named Hank. If James Michener had written ’bout Texas, then his books would be exactly the same. What writer could capture her like a big-game hunter? Texas is too well-fed to fall for traps, and too sprintacious for riflery or bows. She eludes allusion and refuses reference. Texas is beyond the capacities of one writer, or lady writer, as Texas is merely the superposition of millions of hearts all believin’ in one another simultaneously.

“Texas crowdsources itself into being, basically.

“Both I and my wang are well-acquainted with the pleasures of this world! I once et a Monte Cristo in Monte Carlo, and I twice smoked Montecristos in Montevideo. I tied one on in Taiwan. I penetrated the Iron Curtain, and I toured the Silk Road, and really expected something different from the Ivory Coast. Tyrants toasted me, despots drank to me, and I saved Robert Mugabe’s life on three separate occasions. I have made my love to 81 stewardesses, 16 of whom were assigned to first-class. I was the very first gaijin to ever drive a Datsun.

“It was a mistake letting Skippy Joe borrow that vehicle.

“But I return to Texas. Not via stickery, but voted of my own volition. I choose her highways, and sidewalks, and barflies. Her roadhouses, and cathouses, and that town what got the Gucci store. A sky blue with hope, and a land green with promise and also grass. I’d rather be where Dan Rather’s from. The Autobahn’s not what I want my auto on. Nor will I be seen in the Seine, spend time on the Thames, or get dnear the Dnieper. The Danube makes me blue. The Firth of Forth is fourth or fifth on my list, and Machu Picchu’s for sissies. What need have I for Vienna when Vienna sausages are so readily available, and often served up by itty-bitty girls wearin’ jean shorts so skimpy as to be mistaken for rumor?

“A Texan judges the world, and finds it Not Texan.

“So I return, like a boomerang with insufficient postage, and recall the air. It is sweeter in Texas, and heals minor wounds and verrucas. The water tastes like beer someone else paid for, and treats alimentary ailments and digestives distresses. The standing ovations are taller. Roy Head’s been vertically ovated everywhere there is, but nothing’s like home. Yes, that Roy Head.

“You should’ve heard of me.

“Nobody called her perfect! Like the Christ, Texas’ divinity is bifurcated. She contains within her aspects both spiritual and fleshy, and like all that is human, those parts are flawed. Up to 30% of state schools contain a Hellmouth. Our airports lead the nation in “urinal chaos,” which is a metric I am not familiar with. Several major metropolitan centers should have been built elsewhere. We allow Fedzilla to keep his boot on our bolo-tied neck via the national speed limit, which is unconstitutional and pussified. All the dentists are deranged.

“One time, the ocean et Galveston.

“Healthfulness is also on our to-do list. Most Texans got more extra meat on ’em than a butcher what did his ordering during a manic phase. We got big boys, and grand girls, and children chockful of chunk. Can you blame us? Our diet is to live for! We’d rather eat our ribs than see them, and brisket sells the briskest. Our Tex has been Mexed, and vice versa. Our delightful delicacies deliver such succulent satiation, alliteration absolutely abounds. Flights of fancy-talking follow feasts.

“It’s a delicious meal makes you start talking funny.

“Like the opposite of People magazine, my weight was never an issue. My romantic, frantic, never-mistaken-for-Danzig dancing moves had kept me trimmer than a guy whose job it is to cut off the edges of stuff real neat. Combined with a lovemaking style that was highly aerobic, my waist remained tighter than a cheap teenager’s cooter, my muscles more supple than a supplement. The same could not be said of my beloved friends! Big Bucktoothed Pete, always a wide and ample figure, had blown up like a balloon that ate too much pie. Louie Grabass’ belly was spacious enough to seat one adult or two medium-sized children, and the man could barely reach the stove upon which his changas chimi’ed.

“As you might imagine, Skippy Joe remained lean enough to teach anatomy off of.

“As I noticed my chums getting chubby, my vision done kaleidoscopified itself, like in the movies when the background goes one way, and the actor goes another, and you spit up in your popcorn just a little bit. I could trade my wealth for their health, and also maybe there was some tax benefits to be accrued so’s that I didn’t actually have to give up the wealth in said trade.

“I made a note to call Goldman about that.

“I would build a hospital, and name it after myself, and perform there to cheer up sickies and those what got mangled by threshers. Cascabel had not had no decent doctoring since the unfortunate incident in 1978, but that particular preacher had been chased off and was unlikely to get folks all riled up again. With my beneficence, medicine would make the comeback that Fatty Arbuckle never got. Doctors, idealistic and crusading, would be recruited. Fiercely competent nurses whose scrubs barely contained their hearts would be hired. Technicians who knew how the machines worked. Candy-stripers with pert buttocks. No expenses spared.

“Turns out I did not have “no expenses spared” type resources.

“Plans were updated, downgraded, and I fired the architect and just let Big Bucktoothed Pete and Skippy Joe eyeball the construction. I could also only afford one doctor, who was foreign and had a name that sounded like a turtle choking on a penny, and three disgraced nurses, one of whom immediately broke her hand punching Louie Grabass for living up to his name. We had a microwave that operated in a similar, but not identical, fashion to an x-ray machine. The burn ward was an aboveground pool Skippy Joe had stolen and filled with aloe, which he had also stolen.

“Skippy Joe kept one eye on the bottom line, and the other on the security guard.

“The people of Cascabel lined up to have their carbuncles prodded, and their buttholes okayed. They was missing teeth, and limbs, and some but not many were earless. There was a man what had become conjoined with his tickhound, and triple the number of fireworks-related maladies as you’d hope. Folks were in wheelchairs, and several had been brought in wheelbarrows.

“Opening night, and it was a sell-out.

“We left the foreign doctor and the disgraced nurses to their sacred duties, ‘cept for interrogating the doctor ’bout where exactly he was from, and taking turns on the nurse with the broken hand. Skippy Joe had gained access to the pharmacy, mostly by building and stocking it hisself, then never giving no one else the key, and he revved our healing team to speeds that shredded stethoscopes. The majority of our patients, believing it to be a Jewish trick, did not have health insurance and instead paid in trade, specie, or lettin’ Big Bucktoothed Pete preach at ’em for a while.

“Cascabel’s economy has always embraced flexibility.

“To celebrate the health of both the town and my wallet, I stood my lifelong pals to drinks of a medicinal nature. We drank Quincy, MD’s, which are cocktails that somehow have the power to investigate crimes and arrest bad guys. We drank Dr. Frankensteins, which is when you mix a whole bunch of stuff that doesn’t belong together, and then you’re surprised when violence ensues. We drank St. Elsewheres, which are equal parts vodka and water from an autistic kid’s snow globe. We drank Dr. Whos, which have different ingredients every round.

“We drank Dr. Monkeyfighters, which should not be consumed anywhere near a zoo.

“Our inebriation allowed chaos to sneak in, like a kitty cat who was also a ninja and a burglar and wearing socks! Skippy Joe’s potables proved too potent, and he had overclocked the foreign doctor and the disgraced nurses! Also, the burn ward sprung a leak and the aloe got in the microwave, which caused a small fire that was promptly worshipped by the foreign doctor and disgraced nurses, and thereby encouraged rapidly into a much larger blaze! They fed theyselves to the flame as living sacrifices! They walked into the fire willingly, and singing!”

“We still can’t figure out what Skippy Joe fed ’em!”

…

“Sir, is this for pick-up or curbside delivery?”

“HOSPITAL OWNERSHIP IS NOT FOR EVERYONE!”

“C’mon, man; I got people on hold.”