Bosnia-Hercegovina is completely and utterly different from Texas.

BiH is small; it's poor; it's home to a large Muslim population; it has very few fat people; and the police are allowed to pull you over for no reason at all, just because they feel like it (hmm, sounds like Serbia!).

It even has mountains.

We're talking about two different worlds.

Two different worlds, though, that spin around in the same solar system.

Bosnia is also pretty similar to Texas -- as it is similar to every other independent nation in the world, for that matter -- in one category: The existence of the "What did you just say to my girlfriend?" guy.

We all know him, don't we? And we all know his super tough, "What! What!" sidekick friends that come attached as part of the "Look how tough I am" package deal.

The other night -- my first one back in Sarajevo, after leaving for Travnik nearly three months ago -- I came face-to-face with one of these entourages.
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A cafana is simply the Balkans' answer to the Texas dive bar: No matter which one you go to, you're certain to find a healthy serving of dirty old men, hot girls, pot-bellied young guys and dark-lipsticked cougars; cheap beer, dirty toilets, overflowing ash trays and authentic ambience. All to the tune of some good ole Bosnian folk music -- which, in this country, is the equivalent to Texas country.

You're also certain to find the "What did you just say to my girlfriend" guy and his "What! What!" meat head friends -- in every dive bar; in every cafana.
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I didn't even do anything wrong. I was falsely accused. Let's get that straight right away.
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The group I was with had posted up in the corner, right beside the entrance to the girls' bathroom. There was a chair next to the entrance. We had been drinking pivo for two or three hours.
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Skila's friend had pulled the same joke about five times in a row, and it was only getting funnier with time ... and with pivo.

"Pola marka!"

About fifty euro cents: That's all he was asking for as an entrance fee to the ladies room. Toilet paper doesn't grow on trees, after all. Rolling eyes and a dismissive failure to obey was the standard response from each girl -- Skila's friend didn't even have any toilet paper to sell.

My legs get tired when I stand all night. I'm sure yours do as well. So when Skila's friend got up, I sat down.

And unlike your average Texan, I came into office ready to raise taxes.

Toilet paper is a need, after all, not a want. Unless a girl is ready to drip dry, she going to pay whatever I tell her to pay.

"Jedna marka!" That's what I demanded -- an entire mark, twice the price.

"One mark?! Damn, you are pretty greedy," everyone around me joked. I, too, didn't even really have toilet paper to give. (But not because I didn't try to take the joke to the next level. At one point, I got up and made a move to grab a roll from the guys' bathroom, but was informed of the futility of my efforts. "Where do you think you are?" Skila's friend asked, intercepting me on the way. "This is Bosnia. There's no toilet paper in that bathroom, man.")

It was all fun and games until the hot blonde girl came up. Those types are always trouble.

"Jedna marka!" I yelled, angrily putting up my hand for her to stop. She laughed; she kept walking. End of story.

Right?

Wrong.

"No no no no," my friends said. "You need to say something else next time. You need to say 'Pušenje, ili jedna marka!'"

Pušenje..... pušenje.... pušenje...

I had seen that word before.

"Is that the word for 'smoking'?" I knew I had seen it before -- every cigarette pack in the Balkans uses it in its warning label.

"Yes," someone answered. "But it also means 'sucking.'"

"I am not gonna tell a girl 'sucking or one mark'!!" This was Bosnia, after all. That hot blonde girl probably had a surly Bosnian boyfriend.

And I didn't say it. Nothing of the sort. All I did was ask what "pušenje" really meant. But that girl -- she was trouble, all right.
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Turns out she did have a surly Bosnian boyfriend. And, big surprise, that dude had two "What! What!" sidekicks. All of them like to fight. Kind of like guys who go to dive bars in Texas.

She had laughed when I demanded she pay a mark for entrance, but wasn't laughing when she went back to her table, after finishing her business. And she wasn't telling the truth about what had happened on her way to the bathroom, either.

Turns out that she accused me of actually taking the bait Skila's friend laid before me. That I had actually told her that the only way she'd get any toilet paper was either some pušenje ili jedna marka. And that brings us to the situation I found myself in just a few minutes later, sitting in the same chair, clueless, as three drunk Bosnians towered over me, clearly talking smack in a language I don't understand.

"Bosnian Bosnian Bosnian Bosnian!" the main guy, standing in the middle, growled. "Bosnian!"

I was quite confused.

"Bosnian Bosnian pušenje Bosnian!"

Uh oh.... I heard the keyword. "Pušenje" -- I was no longer confused about what this guy was talking about.

Just play dumb, Bayless.

"You want a cigarette?" I asked, eyes as innocent as could be. "Pušenje? Kako se kaje? Smoking?" I put my fingers to my lips and made like I was taking a drag. "Da?" Just keep pretending you don't understand, Bayless. Everything will work out.

"Nema!" the leader yelled. "Bosnian! Bosnian Bosnian Bosnian!" He was really getting angry, and his friends were licking their chops. Gulp. "Još jedno, brate! Još jedno!" I knew what that meant: "One more time, dude! Say it one more time!"

This was quickly becoming not so funny.

The whole time, as I sat there, surrounded by the surly boyfriend and his tough guy sidekicks, all I could think of was my dad. "Someday," The Bob loved to say to his smartass son throughout his childhood, "your mouth is gonna get you in trouble. Someone isn't gonna think you're too cute, and they're gonna kick your ass."

And here it was. The prophecy was being fulfilled. And the irony was that this time, I really had not said anything to provoke this kind of reaction.

Oh, sweet irony.

I don't know what Skila and his friend said to calm these dudes down, but it was along the lines of, "He is American/he doesn't speak Bosnian/he doesn't understand what you're saying/he didn't say that to your girlfriend."

Their little pow-wow looked familiar -- it's the same kind of chest-puffing expo you find at a Texas dive bar when someone "looks" at someone else the wrong way.

Lots of scowls, lots of pointing, lots of bravado.

Lots of playing dumb, on my part.

"Cigarette? Pušenje? You want to smoke?" I continued to ask.

Finally, the trio of tough guys had enough. They proved their point -- that they were bigtime -- and they left. And I continued to sit there, dumbfounded at the turn of events, telling myself that I would never make another joke in the Balkans as long as I lived.