Here at The Cowboy Country Club we don’t concern ourselves with things like “dress code” or “decorum” we just value the important stuff like cold Lone Star and a dang good chicken fried steak at the clubhouse.
Picture yourself sitting on the banks of the beautiful north country of the Río Grande: crisp mountain air, cold Lone Stars in the cooler, the perfect fly on your line.
Picture yourself on the banks of the Río Grande: crisp mountain air, cold Lone Stars in the cooler, the perfect fly on your line. This is the dream. But there's only one thing that can make it better— that first take from La Trucha Del Norte!
At dawn, birdsong fills the air as a covey wakes the sun. Hidden in prickly pear and cedar scrub, they're nearly invisible — until a flutter of wings erupts from the brush, then vanishes just as fast.
Different mother, still my brother. Six shooters and samurai swords? It’s all basically the same. Underneath it all, we’re just two old souls searchin’ for our next cold one.
It ain’t a deer, it ain’t a moose, and it sure isn’t your imagination. It is El Fantasma del Bosque—a shadow with antlers, slipping through the trees. You won’t hear it or see it, but rest assured—it just saw you. Or... maybe it was your imagination?
The main event, tonight at Arena Los Senderos. Jefe defends his title against the underdog: the Conejo Kid. Seniors get in free. Kids are half priced. Buckets of beer are ten pesos till we sell out.
When you’re lost in the Galactic West, ridin’ a horse named Jupiter in the asteroid belt, a laserproof sidekick is all you need to stay on the straight and narrow. Fair warning. This ol’ tin can is smarter than he looks.
Look, ‘possums might not win any beauty pageants, but they’ve got one helluva survival instinct—kinda like your uncle who somehow keeps getting free refills in that same styrofoam cup at the corner store.
It ain’t majestic, it ain’t graceful, and it definitely ain’t for good eatin’—but you can’t look at one without crackin’ a grin. Just a lil’ round fella standin’ around, judgin’ the world, and lookin’ mildly concerned about everything.
He may be a Tejas icon, but we ain’t messin’ around with no daggum mycobacterium leprae, no siree. Sidle up to the bar all ya want. Just bring yer own drinkin’ vessel, and wipe your seat when you leave, amigo.
When you’re lost in the Galactic West, ridin’ a horse named Jupiter in the asteroid belt, a laserproof sidekick is all you need to stay on the straight and narrow. Fair warning.
Before he knew it, he's bein' yanked towards that glowin' thing, his horse’s gettin' pulled along with him too, and he’s thinkin’ this is the end of it all.
When you’re lost in the Galactic West, ridin’ a horse named Jupiter in the asteroid belt, a laser-proof sidekick is all you need to stay on the straight and narrow. Fair warning.
A skull grins beneath an ‘ol Stetson brim, Flames lick his helmet blue, defying death's whim, With hollow eyes he stares, a cowboy to the bone, Ridin' through eternity.
Every wanderin’ soul that takes a seat at this bar is talkin’ bout that new feller in town. Haven’t seen him myself, but they all say he’s a severe lookin’ sorta man.
