Orange, Yellow, and Red Man: Notes from Texas Hill Country

I had a rough night. I woke up thirty minutes after I fell asleep feeling terrible, so I put on my jeans, zipped up the quarter-zip I fell asleep in, and walked to an all-night gas station in Austin – I guess it was a little past midnight.

I figured I needed something to eat since I hadn’t eaten much throughout the day. For better or worse, I think I chewed more Red Man than I ate food – just one of those days. And, now that I think of it, how in God’s name could a situation like that be for the better – at least health-wise?

I drove four hours into Texas Hill Country and four hours back. In addition to listening to George Strait and Dwight Yoakam’s complete catalog, I had a chew in probably half the time as I moseyed through a part of America few get to see.

At times, it looked like I was approaching Jackson Hole, and at others, like I was driving through the Appalachian Range. It’s safe to say I’ve fallen in love with Central Texas.

Anyway, I picked up cashews, Fritos (which I never buy), a red Gatorade, and a bag of gummy bears.

On the walk back, which was windy and eerily quiet, I wondered why in the hell I bought what I bought. An upset stomach doesn’t usually need what was in the plastic bag I was carrying.

I got back to where I’m staying, shivering a bit, and eventually crashed around two in the morning.

And then I woke up late this morning. I still don’t know what caused the sour stomach, but it was gone. What wasn’t gone was the bag of bullshit I brought home.

So, me being me, I had the bag of gummy bears for breakfast – in bed. I actually woke up excited at the thought of them.

That said, there’s something we need to discuss.

I’d like to think I’m an accepting man – that I’m not that judgmental. I have my flare-ups like anyone else, but for the most part, my libertarian attitude keeps me at even keel.

I don’t care what your religion is, or who you sleep with, or the color of your skin. I like to live by our country’s old motto: Don’t Tread on Me. You do you – and I do me.

Or, as one of my favorite poets said, “Good fences make good neighbors.”

Robert Frost: 1874 - 1963

With that said, there’s a type of person out there who I don’t understand.

Try as I may, these people are… well, let’s just call a spade a spade: they’re lunatics. If it were up to me, they’d have to get a license to procreate.

So, who are these weirdos?

They don’t have an official name. Hell, they may not even be aware they exist. They probably wake up at the same time as I do, shower, get dressed, and appear to be living normal lives. Society seems to operate with them in it.

They’re functional adults, but they are not children. Oh no, no child would EVER do what these nut jobs do.

Who I’m describing is that rare breed of human who likes orange and yellow gummy bears.

Yeah, I know, you agree with me (unless you’re one of them).

Who in their right mind prefers those terrible colors in their candy?!

We’re talking about gummy bears, but not to the exclusion of Skittles or Starbursts. Is there anything worse than opening your hand to see orange and yellow candies? No, there isn’t. It’s truly a travesty.

And to think that somewhere in our beloved country there are adults who prefer this existential threat to all that is good – to the red and purple and pink – and the white gummy bears (which I still don’t know what flavor they are, but they’re delicious).

I just don’t know what we’re supposed to do with these scoundrels. They shouldn’t be allowed to vote – that’s for damn sure. There should be an orange and yellow dot on the corners of their driver’s license to warn anyone checking IDs that they have a lunatic on their hands.

If you know me, I put these people in the same category as those who prefer pulp in their orange juice. While we’re at it, throw in the folks who sleep without the ceiling fan on. I don’t get them either.

But the orange and yellow crowd? Well, they’re at the top of the crazy pyramid.

That said, I ate all the orange and yellow gummy bears this morning. I suppose when they’re mixed up with the reds and whites (and greens), they’re not that bad.

But on their own… I’d rather chew on a traffic cone with a side of sour lemon.¹

¹ Alternate version: “...I’d rather chew on Mario Batali’s crocs with a side of sour lemon.” Ultimately rejected for being too esoteric, too disgusting, and too perfect.

*Composed, Edited, and Published in Austin, TX