Cowboys Boots Rule, You Sneaker-Wearing Cretin

© Mike Vance 2020
I am a native Texan. No brag, just fact, as they say. And while I fully understand that today’s Texas is a giant cosmopolitan state where we no longer ride horses or feel quite so free to spit indoors, manly footwear still comes with a riding heel. Not to mention that in today’s dating market, you never know when you might get a request for spurs. All that amounts to one thing, while running shoes might be darn comfortable, they just don’t have the versatility of the good ole’ cowboy boot.
Sure, there’s a sizable argument to be made that one can go faster in running shoes. My answer: tell that to Walker, Texas Ranger or Marshall Sam McCloud. Shoot, we’re up to our ears in heroes that can chase down a bad guy without having to worry about any laces tripping him up. Marshall Matthew Dillon. Ranger Captain Woodrow Call. Any of the Cartwrights except Angela. On the other hand, take a look at Dustin Hoffman from Marathon Man. He wore running shoes, and he got his butt kicked and his teeth pulled out. Case closed.

A nice pair of Justins can take you just about anyplace you want to go. They go fine with a suit, ask Racehorse Haynes. They’re tailor made for jeans, ask Angie Harmon. You can even wear them with shorts, ask Robert Duvall from Apocalypse Now. But most importantly of all, women dig ‘em. Why you can’t even get into a C&W dance hall wearing your little sneakers. But sidle up to a bar with a pair of peanut brittle ostriches on your feet and a slightly rakish Stetson on your head, order an ice cold longneck, get a good lean on and you got more action than you can shake a stick at. (“If that’s your idea of a good time”- G. Marx) That is until they find out you can’t dance without people alerting the paramedics.

But that is entirely beside the point. When I slip on my Luccheses or Justins or Tony Lamas, I can do so without any gnawing guilt that they were assembled by scores of emaciated Saipanese children being cattle prodded by some US Protectorate-flaunting, under-the-table-lobby-money-giving, Phil Knight-kissing goon. I don’t have to envision my scraped together dollars going to buy a bottle of gold infused designer water for Michael Jordan. If my boots are made by kids chained to a sewing machine, well, at least they’re Texans, By God!

I’ve got another question, too. Does any one truly believe that the soles of running shoes are really computer designed to imbue your every stride with custom support and aerodynamic fluidity? Do you think those outrageous prices are justified by some other-worldy R&D budget? Doesn’t anyone remember that the first Nikes got their sole design from a waffle iron? I do. I don’t think I’m too far out on a limb when I tell you that the vast majority of today’s running shoe soles are designed by crayon-wielding spider monkeys hopped up on Zoloft and peanut butter cups.
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Simplicity. Versatility. Legacy. Style. And the true feel of the Texas frontier. Keep those things firmly in mind the next time you’re sitting there with a toothpick trying to dig bull dookey off the bottom of your running shoes.