Chillin' in this here pigskin town...

Don't be fooled by the intermittent periods of success enjoyed by both the Houston Rockets in the mid-90's or my beloved Astros in the middle part of this decade. Houston, Texas is a football town. It's always been a football town. And nothing -- not Bud Adams, not the absence of Vince Young or Reggie Bush, not the memory of David Carr -- is ever going to change that fact.

Personally, I'll take Major League Baseball, college basketball and college football over the NFL any day. And if I'm ever living in Charlottesville again, I'll take college baseball over pro football, too. That being said, going to the Texans' game is always the shit. Even if an 8-8 record in our sixth season as a franchise marks the best year yet.

I mean, come on, we're in the AFC South. Indianapolis, Jacksonville, Tennessee ... us. Three out of the four are going to the playoffs. We were in the "cellar," and still finished at .500. It's one of the two toughest divisions in the league. I never expect a playoff berth with the Texans. All that matters for me is that we win whenever I'm actually at the game.

Coming home these two weeks has been amazing. I have never had this much fun being back in H-Town, since it officially stopped being my home in August 2002, my freshman year at Virginia. Every, single, day has been great. Not a single boring hour. And with high speed Internet temporarily at my disposal, I feel like posting as many pictures from a single trip to Reliant Stadium as I post in two months from the banana groves of East Africa. Enjoy.

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My idea: to buy a No. 10 Texans jersey with the customized last name, "V. YOUNG". No offense to my boy Schaub, who I love (WAHOO WA!!!!), but Vince is my dawg. I still cry about passing on VY 'Til Ya Die sometimes before I go to bed.

Even though my little sister Garland tells me at least once a day how unattractive I am for a myriad of reasons (skinny, bad fashion sense, girl hair), I actually think she's pretty. And she's available both for rent and for purchase, provided you pass a background check and have a solid credit rating. Email me at billyparsley@gmail.com to place your bid today!

And proud of it.

I always contend that the ones who were so impatient that they couldn't wait until we actually had a roster before buying one of those, "HOUSTON 32" or "TEXANS 02" jerseys back when the logo had been first released are the ones regretting it right now. For example, this kid. Dude's dad is rocking a Mario Williams jersey, dude's kid brother looks fly in his Dunta Robinson threads, and even the mom is looking good in her Andre Johnson jersey. Meanwhile, homeboy oldest child looks like a dork in his "HOUSTON 32" shirt. Nice helmet, too. What are you, like 12? Shouldn't the LITTLE brother be wearing the plastic "Do Not Use as Protective Device" helmet?

The second one of the day!! Incredible.

Nice, Andre. Nice.

Predicted female response: "AWWWWW!!!!!!!!" (Okay, I admit it, I am "awwww'ing" right now, too. Even Jeffery Dahmer would "awww" at this. It's so cute!)

Just get off me if you're going to try and front that your state flag is better than ours. Get, off of me.

My new friend I made at the game. I love kids. He told me that "he already knew" the Texans were going to win in the third quarter. And he did. The kid knew. He wasn't kidding. That's what I love about kids. They know stuff. Life hasn't had time to throw their minds through the spin cycle yet. (P.S. we did win, 42-28).

I love Texas.

I repeat: I love Texas. "FIRST DOOOOOWN!"

So my mom, whose mother really is friends with Bush Sr., and whose father actually worked for 41 as the finance chairman for his failed U.S. senate race back in the day, told me the Bush's would know her if she said hi. I told her to prove it. When we walked by them, my mom waived, and they waived back. But it wasn't the wave of an "I know you"; it was the wave of "Hello, my fellow Americans!" Nice try, Mom.

"Cowboy taaaaaaaake me awaaaayy [from my boring life as a desperate housewife, now that I am no longer writing my Examiner column]! Fly this girl as HIGH as you can, into the .... [I admit it those are all the words I know to that song]!"

*Quick side note on my mom: the scene is me in the shower before leaving that morning, and her standing outside of it.

Me: "Mom, do you even know who we're playing?"

Mom: "Yeah."

Me: "No you don't."

Mom: "Yes I do!"

Me: "Who?"

Mom: "The Patriots."

(Note: This is the day after my dad and I openly agonized over having to miss the Pats-Giants game while at dinner with my mom's mom -- the one who George Bush actually would recognize. I mean, I must have rehashed what happened in that game for ten minutes that night when I came home. The whole story about driving around looking for a sports bar after leaving the restaurant, giving up, listening to the game on the radio in my car, alone in a parking lot full of nothing but asphalt and dark buildings, and going crazy on the Brady-Moss record setting TD pass. And she answers with, "The Patriots.")

Me: "Yep."

Mom: "I got it?"

Me: "Yeah, we're playing the Patriots. You got it."

Mom: "See? I knew."

And I went on showering, laughing until all the soap had been washed off my body.

Well, on the way to the game, my dad made another comment about the Patriots-Giants game. And here was what ole Louise had to say:

Mom: "Wait, the Patriots played last night and they're playing today?"

This is why I never sit next to my mom at sporting events.

Okay, little No. 8 is a badass because he thinks just like me. Where the word "CARR" used to rest (let us never speak of him again), he duct taped over it and wrote in marker, "SCHAUB." Nice one, kid. We should collaborate.

Oh, p.s. (this story is gross so please stop reading if you are one of those girls who gets grossed out).

So I'm in the bathroom between the third and fourth quarters. I pee, I wash my hands, I dry them. While when I entered there were only a couple of other guys in there, by the time I was done the line was at least 15 deep. That was when I farted.

Only, it wasn't a fart. I mean, it was, just not exclusively. It was a little wet. It happens, right?

Clearly, my instinct was to go right for the stall and assess the damage. But I would have to wait in line for that, and how strange would it look for the people already waiting to see this guy leave a urinal, wash, dry, make a face that says "Uh oh..." and hop right back in the line. I think it would've been pretty obvious what had just transpired, don't you?

That, and the game was about to start back up. I wasn't left with too many options, man. It wasn't gross to the point of me worrying that the people around me would start sniffing and making "I have no idea" faces to their friends, so I decided just to live with it and return to my seat next to The Bob. Of course, when I returned, first thing I did was whisper what had happened to Garland, who proceeded to erupt with laughter, to my parents' semi-annoyed amusement/confusion/desire to remain ignorant.

I checked my (white, of course) brand new boxers first thing when I got home (well, after I played a pick up basketball game with my neighbors, I checked it), and let me tell you: my fears were warranted.

This morning, Sallie, our housekeeper, beat me to the punch in grabbing the boxers off the ground. I saw that this had happened, and winced for her sake.

"Sallie, did you, uhhhh, find some.... white boxers on the floor of my bathroom?" I asked as soon as I had woken up.

"Yeah," she said, playing dumb.

"Yeah, well, uhhh, sorry about that."

"Oh I KNOW you done did something bad!"

It happens to us all .... right?