Whereas I don’t support an individual mandate in any shape or form, I do support the premise of taking responsibility for your actions, past, present, and future. That means if you’re going to own and operate a vehicle, you’d better damn well have insurance to cover the financial liability surrounding an accident.

There have been a lot of lame arguments comparing a mandate to have auto insurance with a mandate to have health insurance. That argument falls flat on it’s face after I smack it around a bit.

None the less, I’m not here to talk about insurance mandates today. Obviously, such a device will be the crux of November’s election. It won’t be the crux of today’s discussion.

Ladies and gentlemen, for the last few years, I’ve been breaking a major law here in the great state of Texas. I’m only glad I wasn’t caught, because the penalty for such an offense would have been severe.

Here in Texas, the carnivores among us who partake in vittles which at one point or another had a face, are required to own a grill. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a charcoal/wood burning grill, a George Foreman grill, or even a *shudder* propane grill.

Fines for not owning one while residing in the state tend to get progressive based on how many times you’re caught without one, and can lead up to expulsion to states like Oklahoma or even *shudders* Arkansas.

My role as a scofflaw began a few years ago when the drum grill I had purchased in May, 1998, rusted out on the bottom. I had already put plenty of liners and racks in there in order to preserve my backyard fire hazard, but there was nothing doing in saving that bad boy.

It had to go.

Reluctantly, I hauled it out one day when the city had planned a “Bring your big ass trash to the curb so we can pick it up with a nasty claw and mess up your lawn day”. Marauders armed with a pickup truck, a trailer, and a map to the closest salvage yard picked it up before the city could. That grill cried out to me as it was dragged off to it’s destiny ensconced in oblivion.

That day, I died just a little bit more on the inside.

I’ll always remember the turkey I smoked on that thing during Thanksgiving, 1999. It was a Thursday. That blue and silver wearing group of crackheads and debutantes played football on TV that day and lost. I will cherish that particular memory up there with the birth of my children. That’s saying something two, because at the first birth, Wifey made a very loud and aggressive statement which suggested that I stunk.

There were plenty of times over the years where we finished cooking a plethora of meats on the grill and would feel a sense of desperation to see the coals giving off that heartwarming glow which was sufficient to cook a package of hot dogs to a level of perfection. For the record, perfection in grilled hot dogs is just short of that of a burnt offering.

But then, it was gone.

My initial thought was to replace it immediately.

Sentimentality and respect for my lost 55 gallon friend kept me from going out an picking one up. The grill mandate could be damned for all I cared. It just wasn’t right to sacrifice vittles to a new charcoal alter.

That’s not to say I haven’t had grilled food since then though. Quite often, Wifey’s and her siblings will meet for periodic rituals at their Mother’s house where various sacrifices like sausage, chicken, pork, squirrel, and meerkat land on the grill, gets prayed over, and subsequently consumed.

Finally, after dodging nosy questions from the neighbors and eating food off a stove top grill pan for the last few years, the timing and opportunity presented itself yesterday to go ahead and live up to our responsibility as residents of the great state of Texas by not only backing our truck into parking spots, but planting a grill in our backyard as well.

While stopping at the local grocery store for a roll of toilet paper, we went ahead and procured a new 55 gallon beauty manufactured with the specific intent to return taste to our dining experience.

Last night we threw some leg quarters, chicken breasts, and hamburger patties on our new grill, right after we broke a bottle of beer over it and dubbed it the TharpSterGrill. When all was said and done and the odoriferous emanations coming from the domain hinted of pretreated charcoal and hickory, we discovered there was still plenty of molecules hopped up on meth within those coals to produce the right amount of heat to grill up a package of hot dogs.

At least twice since then, a review of the security cameras strategically placed throughout the kitchen has revealed members of the organization going to the fridge and pulling out the storage bags in which the meat is stored.

Interestingly enough, they’re not eating the food, and much as they’re huffing the aroma.