Life as a Kelpie-American is Hard
Another Saturday night and I’m stuck at home. But I generally spend every night of the week at home, so, I guess, it’s not like Saturday is special or anything.
Most evenings are spent with the family, bathing with my brothers and sisters at the lake and singing soft, gentle songs to those who might be passing by in an effort to lure them to the water’s edge where we can drag them into the bayou and snack on their entrails. You know - the Kelpie version of Netflix and Chill. This should be fun - these are the best years of my life and I should be enjoying the thrill of the hunt, the delight of silencing screams with my deadly kisses. But something’s not right. The experience isn’t what it should be. Is every Kelpie-American filled with such ennui?
Maybe it’s that the hunt is so damn hard. It’s been slim pickings for the most part since I was first taught to lure prey to the water with my siren song. My mother set my expectations from the beginning. There will be more empty nets than full ones, she said. But lately there have been almost none who hear our songs and even less who choose to follow them to the water’s edge.
I have to believe it was easier for our ancestors in Scotland. People had a tendency to get drunk and go wandering. My grandparents would speak of nights where they would feast on half a dozen drunken bums from dusk till dawn every evening, the drunkards having stumbled their way to the Loch Ness on their way home. There was hardly any need to sing, the bastards would come to the lake on their own accord, almost as if they were looking to be eaten by the water horses who called Loch Ness home.
My siblings and I have discussed whether or not our lives would be better if our family had not immigrated to America. Our grandparents made the journey in search of new opportunities, lured themselves by the songs of freedom and wide open spaces sung across the Atlantic. Most sung by Garth Brooks and George Strait. Sure, go to America I guess, but why pick Texas of all places? Why Houston?
My parents say that their parents fell in love with the city’s bayous and the easy access to the ocean. But never once have we visited the beach. It’s too dirty, they say. The sharks are rude. My parents refuse to relocate from this city’s overgrown canals and it’s up to us, the young ones, to try and feed the family in a city where half the population is too fat because they stuff their mouths full of Shipley’s Donuts and sauce-drenched brisket and choose to drive everywhere instead of walking. This country was made for the lazy, it’s no place for hardworking, human-eating Kelpies.
Nobody walks, everybody gets in their pick-up trucks. Have you ever tried singing to a person loud enough so that they can hear you over a diesel engine? And the few people who do walk or jog in this city have their ears plugged up with headphones that pump in music too loud for our songs to compete with. Trying to get the attention of a jogger or powerwalker as they strut across the dried up creek beds blaring Kelly Clarkson into their ears is next to impossible.
We realized a few years ago that we would need to step up our game if we were going to try and feast on Houstonians.
One of my sisters tried Match.com as a way of luring innocents to the water’s edge. She created a profile that highlighted her best features - her big brown eyes, her curly locks of hair, her supple breasts, her hoofed horse feet. You would not believe the kind of weirdos she attracted. It turns out this city’s men really love their horses and, when confronted with a beautiful young woman with the powerful, hoofed legs of a horse, it really did something to the minds and hormones of those cowboys. We’re not going to eat anything that wants to fuck us. That’s just gross. My sister deleted her dating app and we had to move from Buffalo Bayou to White Oak Bayou just to get away from those boot wearing, tobacco chewing degenerates that wanted to tie us up in their love lassos.
Life isn’t all food, though. And besides, we’ve learned to make do with Jack in the Box as a substitute for a virgin’s tripes. In fact, if you told me Jack In The Box made their burgers from the entrails of virgins, I’d believe in a heartbeat.
My siblings and I try to distract ourselves from our gnawing hunger by exploring extracurricular activities. But try having hobbies in this city as a mythical creature. The mosquitos, humidity and stench of urine that permeates this city follows you around in any outdoor activity and the culture scene is just dead, unless you like bad country open mic nights and terrible stand-up comedy from people who think it’s OK to use derogatory slurs like “imp” or “fairy.” What a bunch of redneck spieciests!
Dating in Houston is generally a pain-in-the-ass for most people but dating as a Kelpie-American is almost not worth the hassle. Tinder is full of Chupacabras and Boggy Creek Monsters that only have one thing on their mind. I went on a date once with a Chupacabra and all he wanted to do was tip cows and suck the blood out of goats. I know it’s in his name and all but I just thought he wouldn’t be a walking, chirping stereotype. Silly me for thinking I could discuss philosophy and dreams with a damned, dirty goat sucker.
Sometimes I dream about moving back to Scotland, our ancestral home. It would be good to get back to my roots, rediscover my heritage and, hopefully, ditch this god awful Texas twang my family and I have picked up since settling in Houston. The only thing stopping me is the Rodeo. I still haven’t gone yet and I’d really like to check it out before I leave. I hear Lizzo is playing this year. I just love Lizzo.