🤠🌪 Keep Your Boots On

Because down here on the Gulf, you keep your boots on, so you don’t step in shit ...

literal or metaphorical ...

and lately the world’s been throwing both at us

like it’s running a clearance sale.

Somewhere between the lettuce aisle at H‑E‑B

and TikTok’s panic‑du‑jour,

my guts decided to audition for Cirque du Soleil,

doing flips, aerial silks,

a full Vegas residency

right there in my colon.

My stomach stepped out with a top hat and said,

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the show.”

My intestines hung from invisible ropes

like they were born in a circus tent.

My colon attempted a triple backflip

that would make Simone Biles salute.

And me?

I was clutching the counter

praying for intermission,

sweating like a sinner in a revival tent.

Meanwhile TikTok folks are out here

describing symptoms like they’re reading off a menu at Chili’s ...

“Explosive diarrhea, mild nausea,

a side of muscle soreness if you’re feeling fancy.”

Brother, nobody is thinking about muscle soreness

when their butt is doing interpretive dance.

And “Explosive diarrhea in lettuce”

sounds like a punk band from Austin

playing a dive bar off 6th Street

with a $5 cover and a warning at the door.

Then the news shows the molecule ...

a big shiny 3D protein spike

spinning like a disco ball ...

like we’re all chemists at home squinting at the screen saying,

“Ah yes, that explains why my butt is doing gymnastics.”

landing like Simone Biles with a Whataburger cup in her hand.

Mother Nature herself slams the door and hollers,

“I TOLD YOU TO CLEAN YOUR ROOM.”

And we’re all standing here in our boots,

trying not to step in whatever she’s throwing next.

This is Gulf Coast living, baby ...

humidity thick enough to baptize you,

storms that roll in like drunk uncles,

lettuce that goes rogue,

and guts that think they’re auditioning for Broadway.

Keep your boots on.

Keep your humor sharp.

And keep your free‑thinking heart steady

in this wild, sweaty, ridiculous world.

🤠 Closing Note

And just so nobody gets their britches in a twist,

let me say this plain as a Gulf Coast sunrise:

No guts were harmed in the making of this poem.

No lettuce staged a coup.

No TikTok diagnosis came within ten miles of my boots.

is pure comedy.

Lets go t Taco Bell!!!!