Erase Myself And Let Go Of What I’ve Done

Deep in the heart of south central Texas where we live just on the cusp of magnificent Texas hill country, one of our primary grocers in this neck of the woods prides itself on keeping things as Texas as possible.


Rest assured I usually try to avoid using the same word in a sentence more than once, let alone three times.


That particular grocer is HEB.  The initials are those of it’s founder, whose last name was Butt.


*pause for not only the reader’s implementation of a butt joke, but for the building of anticipation that I may make one before this merciless blog is done*


Yeah, I’ve probably already made my butt joke for this post just by putting words between the asterisks up above.


Anyway, HEB (promoted as “Here Everything’s Better”) ran an ad sometime in the last year about how a kid off at college had received a care package of HEB brand foods which served to the young would-be prodigal as a reminder of all things Texas.


Screw that.  If I want to send a reminder to Junior of what it’s like to live in Texas, I’ll send him my property tax bill.


Anyway, while wandering through HEB today gathering vittles for tonight’s family session where Juniorette holes up in her room, Wifey breaks out the knitting needles, and I take to the laptop strategically placed in front of Monday Night Football, I happened upon a new product which HEB is now offering in the frozen food section.


Ladies and gentlemen, if there were ever a shameless attempt to co-opt Texas pride in the middle of HEB this one takes the cake.  This one is just about as bad (if not worse) as their attempt to package guacamole, barbeque sauce, and charcoal with the blue star of defeat featured on the helmets of  those crackheads and debutantes up in Dallas.


I’m talking about the Duke, people.


John Wayne.


Who in tarnation has the unmitigated gall to name a food after one of his best movies?


Who, I tell you, who?!?


I’ll tell you who.


A giant ass, that’s who.




Probably more a Butt, versus an ass, but you know.

Randy Tharp

TharpSter is a husband to one woman, a father to two kids, a master to two dogs, an occasional cubical occupant, and unable to make up his mind on an adequate theme for this website.

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