Ten Houston Dudes You've Probably Dated
|Phineas H via Flickr|
The Urban Cowboy
No one in this city needs a gun rack; there aren't wild elk and buffalo roaming off Yorktown, nor are there deer leases off Richmond or Montrose. And yet for some reason, the Urban Cowboy has three gun racks in his living room alone. There are dead, stuffed creatures as far as the eye can see, and even his counters are made of leather. He's completely manscaped his house with every accessory a good urban cowboy should have -- guns, guns, and more guns. Well, at least in the main areas. You'll never make it to the bedroom to find out the beauty of that thing, or how many gun racks he's got nailed to the wall in there cause, well, you're kinda worried he's got a thing for shooting shit, and you'd rather not be next.
The Bottle Service Broseph
Oh, this guy. Good old Broseph. He's a ton of fun at first, ordering shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, e'rybooooody and dancing around like there's no tomorrow in his cut-off tee and embroidered jeans. He loves pop music, he's so okay with tanning, and he's got so many aerosol hair products, you worry about spontaneous combustion.
Things start to go downhill when the tab comes every Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night -- you take Monday and Tuesday off as grooming days -- and he's nowhere to be found. He's ordered a bottle of Dom and a bottle of Grey Goose on your tab, though. He emerges when the credit card slips are all signed, content with his free buzz, and newly-oiled up with glitter lotion from his stint spent hiding in the bathroom.
The David Downer, aka Captain Depresso
Oh, man. This guy. He's the male counterpart to Debbie Downer, hell-bent on convincing everyone that everything in this city sucks, and he can't wait to get out and into a place with some real culture. Our music scene is non-existent. He knows this based on the fact that no one will book his crappy nu-metal band, or even give him a job because he won't shower or cut his hair. He can't find a place to live, so he crashes on his buddy's couch and smokes weed all day because he's so progressive that this city just doesn't "get" him. It's all garbage, man. This city is run by The Man, man.
He'll never leave this city, though. He'll never leave. He's too content to drunk dial you after a 6-pack of PBR and beg to sleep on your couch for a while, while he gets himself together to hitchhike to Austin. You'll eventually get bored with his outsider shtick and change your number. It's the only way he'll stop calling.