Every time I’m in Houston, there’s always an interesting take-away. Sometimes several. This trip, I found out one of my co-workers used to do drag (but he confesses he was a very ugly drag queen) and 6’7″ is too tall for me (another story), but this conversation was the most memorable:
Wheeler (his real name because I can’t make it up; his last name is even worse—or better, depending upon your sense of humour): Last week, I was sitting on my parents’ porch in my shorts and looking over their two acres of land while cleaning my guns, and I realized I’m a redneck.
Me: Aren’t you Army Reserve? (His haircut and build give him away.)
Me: Then you’re only redneck lite.
Wheeler: Nah, because even if I wasn’t Army Reserve, I’d still own a lot of guns and know how to use every one.
Me: So, if the zombie apocalypse happens, I should make my way to your house.
Wheeler: If you want to stay alive.