I would like to take this opportunity to tell you all the tale behind the inspiration for this shirt.
It was a hot summer day that lead into a hot summer afternoon, which then lead into an equally hot summer night in the middle of August of the year 1992. I was living in ghost-Austin, Texas, with another ghost who went by the name of "Sal Saballs"; he was the ghost of an immigrant from a country to the far south of Texas who had met his doom when he attempted to make a helicopter out of ply-wood stolen from the walls of the border that separates Texas from this mystery country.
...Anyway, it was a hot summer night in the middle of August of the year 1992, and Sal was escorting me around ghost-Austin, Texas in his ghost Cadillac. We were on a stretch of highway that was surrounded by a plethora of ghost-cactus, which when ripe, are extra transparent. This is because the ghost milk coagulates and forms a substance that is similar to ectoplasm, if only a bit more creamy in taste and texture. When the milk makes contact with the ghost-cactus it creates a reaction that henceforth makes the cactus appear transparent.
... As we were passing through the ghost-cactus valley, Sal turned to me as I was busy admiring a peculiar looking vulture, whose beak was atleast 3 times its own size and its head a striking shade of ivory-white, and its body feathers a deep brown. Though I was occupied with gazing upon this magnificently miserable bird, who in my mind I had dubbed "Trevor" (a proud, spanish name meaning "To trev oars") Sal took a moment to interrupt my ripening thoughts to ask "Are you hungry amigo?" As if he knew what hunger was. Being doomed to the accursed life of a ghost incarnate of a vampire, hunger is a feeling all too acquainted to my withering body; the blood of ghosts is all I crave, if not for my own satisfaction, then out of fear for being condemned to a hell ten times worse than the one I currently walk upon: ultra-death.
Ultra-death is a deep, sorrowful place that the deader than dead go when they die for a second time. It is a dark realm filled with the ghosts of ghosts that you cannot see, for it is dark and they are see-through. The only way you know you have reached ultra-death is by hearing the screams of the lost souls shouting from the top of their ghostly lungs, "I am here, in ultra-death!" and that is how you know, the only way you can know. And ultra-death is rumored to be filled with terrible smells, much akin to the urine of several cats dying of kidney failure, and it is also filled with terrible feelings, as though a million homeless men in a New York subway are rubbing their loin-horns against your thigh, and you think for a moment that it isn't so bad, but then you catch a glimpse of his toothless grin and know that he plans to rape you no matter what the consequence; only in ultra-hell, there is no smile or expression you can read to know that the rape is imminent, and you simply will not know when it is until it is too late.
... Sal seemed not to know, the agony my mind never ceased to carry, and continued to speak after taking a long draw from his ghost-cigarette, "I know of this place, ya, it is not far! They make good steak. You will like, ey?" I did not respond, as his inquiry was both senseless and did not make sense. I placed my hands upon my lap and stared at the ghostly road ahead, and in the horizon a ghostly town started form a ghostly skyline. Curious, I asked curiously,
"Where are we going, Monsieur Sal." and at the question, he released a laugh that sounded much like an old hag coughing up lung after having strained herself while beating her retarded grandchildren. This is a typical method for discipline in Italian families, as torture was a typical method of conditioning that originated in the country in the late 1300's. Meanwhile, Sal gave no further response and simply pressed his ghost-foot upon the ghost-gas pedal, and we accelerated with great speed down the road until the small town ahead was a large town we were driving in.
Passing a menagerie of small business buildings, a peculiar scent began to fill the ghostly air. I heard Sal audibly making drooling noises, which I tried in my best will of powers to ignore. Though I must digress, by the time we arrived in town, I too, had grown a bit peckish. My stomach ached and my throat began to dry and my whole body churned in agony as the thought of food forbade every one of my senses--even Schmelg. It seemed as though my hunger had evolved as a Venonat to a Venomoth, and it was a powerful force within me that I feared would tear me asunder.
But then, the tires of Sal's car screeched and the car jutted forward to a stop. I looked at Sal, whose sombrero had fallen over his ghostly brown eyes when he had applied the brake, and he release another one of his gnarled laughs. "We are here, paradore!" and Sal pointed with his left hand, to the left, at a building that was adjacent to his left finger. I peered with my fierce orbs, at the label this building adorned to advertise its business.
In large, neon-yellow letters, the word "Texas" was spelled out.
Texas, I repeated, wondering why on this ghost earth a building would name itself "Texas" when we were already in the state of orgin. Then Suddenly, in bright, red cursive, the phrase flickered underneath the former word, "Roadho" I was not so sure what to make of this sentence, and simply accosted the confusing words to the owner of said business being illterate. I tried to ask Sal what the name of the facility had meant as we stepped out of his car and made our way into the afformented restaurant.
Without even looking up from the ground, Sal simply said with a smile that I could visibly hear, "... Sometimes shit don't always work out, man. Not even the lights, you hear amigo?"
To this day I am still not sure what he meant.
And the food at this "Texas Roadho" was only sub-par. I can still recall the taste of their peculiar rolls on my ghostly tongue to this day.
Perhaps I will tell this tale another time.
