Last week I walked into a local “home style cookin’ restaurant/watering hole” to pick up a take out order. I spoke briefly to the waitress behind the counter, who told me my order would be done in a few minutes.

So, while I was busy gazing at the farm implements hanging on the walls, I was approached by two, uh, um… well, let’s call them “natives.” These guys might just be the original Texas rednecks–complete with ten-gallon hats, snakeskin boots and the pervasive odor of cheap beer and whiskey.

“Pardon us, ma’am. Mind of we ask you a question?”

Well, people keep telling me that Texans are real friendly, so I nodded.

“Are you a Satanist?”

Well, at least they didn’t ask me if I liked to party.

“Uh, no, I can’t say that I am.”

“Gee ma’am. Are you sure about that?” they asked.

I put on my biggest, brightest Dallas Cowboys cheerleader smile and said, “No, I’m positive. The closest I’ve ever come to Satanism is watching Geraldo.”