By Bradley Brownell
Published Thursday 11:30AM
Image: Buc-ee’s
The United States may not have the kinds of pre-Christian mega-structure buildings that exist in nearly every other corner of the globe. No, we aren’t living amongst the gorgeous marble altars to a pantheon of gods, or the crumbling remains of towering temples or palaces. But what we lack in vintage we’re more than making up for lost time clearing space in our lives for modern day gods. We’ll absolutely clear a couple dozen acres of pristine natural land to plop down a giant fueling depot with hundreds of gas pumps, miles-long car washing robot tunnels, and a grocery store/barbecue restaurant/junk store packed with shit nobody needs. Buc-ee’s is our Parthenon, The Automobile is our Athena, and that chubby and cheerful wood-chewing rodent is her symbolic owl stand-in.
I am currently writing this post from the passenger seat of a road trip across this gloriously fucked up nation. In addition to the amber waves of grain and purple mountains majesty, the highways and byways of America are pockmarked by the occasional arrival of the bucktoothed bastard’s concrete haven. The large yellow sign rises above the landscape to request your presence. You must tithe to your god, little one. Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been two years since my last fill up on pump 82.
“Come inside,” beckons the Buc. Whatever you desire, this miniature metroplex can conjure. No man is an island, and no road trip can go by without a pit stop for sugary drinkies, a cone of candied nuts, or a glob of molasses-sweet pig meat on a bun. Grab yourself some Beaver Nuggets, whatever the fuck that is. Don’t worry, it’s delicious. Never you mind what might be inside. Would you like a machete or a fish finder? Perhaps a t-shirt of your favorite sports team? A meat smoker?
This country is a seriously bizarre place to live, and Buc-ee’s is a microcosm of our American existence at present. This combination gas station-grocery store-way of life is a mirror we have erected to show us ourselves. It’s the highway equivalent of junk food. It almost certainly shouldn’t exist, and we are worse as a culture for having had it, but goddamn does it flip the right switches in our collective brain. It is truly junk that shouldn’t be great, but the rot at the core of America is what makes us who we are. Buc-ee’s, the Bass Pro Shops pyramid, and ordering shit we’ll throw away in a month from Temu, these are the new Gods of America, and they deserve their shrines.
Of course, being the trash bag normie all-American dork that I am, I fucking love the place. Buc-ee’s is the store we deserve. I am a beaver believer. There are cathedrals everywhere for those with the eyes to see.
Source (Archive)
Published Thursday 11:30AM
Image: Buc-ee’s
The United States may not have the kinds of pre-Christian mega-structure buildings that exist in nearly every other corner of the globe. No, we aren’t living amongst the gorgeous marble altars to a pantheon of gods, or the crumbling remains of towering temples or palaces. But what we lack in vintage we’re more than making up for lost time clearing space in our lives for modern day gods. We’ll absolutely clear a couple dozen acres of pristine natural land to plop down a giant fueling depot with hundreds of gas pumps, miles-long car washing robot tunnels, and a grocery store/barbecue restaurant/junk store packed with shit nobody needs. Buc-ee’s is our Parthenon, The Automobile is our Athena, and that chubby and cheerful wood-chewing rodent is her symbolic owl stand-in.
I am currently writing this post from the passenger seat of a road trip across this gloriously fucked up nation. In addition to the amber waves of grain and purple mountains majesty, the highways and byways of America are pockmarked by the occasional arrival of the bucktoothed bastard’s concrete haven. The large yellow sign rises above the landscape to request your presence. You must tithe to your god, little one. Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been two years since my last fill up on pump 82.
“Come inside,” beckons the Buc. Whatever you desire, this miniature metroplex can conjure. No man is an island, and no road trip can go by without a pit stop for sugary drinkies, a cone of candied nuts, or a glob of molasses-sweet pig meat on a bun. Grab yourself some Beaver Nuggets, whatever the fuck that is. Don’t worry, it’s delicious. Never you mind what might be inside. Would you like a machete or a fish finder? Perhaps a t-shirt of your favorite sports team? A meat smoker?
This country is a seriously bizarre place to live, and Buc-ee’s is a microcosm of our American existence at present. This combination gas station-grocery store-way of life is a mirror we have erected to show us ourselves. It’s the highway equivalent of junk food. It almost certainly shouldn’t exist, and we are worse as a culture for having had it, but goddamn does it flip the right switches in our collective brain. It is truly junk that shouldn’t be great, but the rot at the core of America is what makes us who we are. Buc-ee’s, the Bass Pro Shops pyramid, and ordering shit we’ll throw away in a month from Temu, these are the new Gods of America, and they deserve their shrines.
Of course, being the trash bag normie all-American dork that I am, I fucking love the place. Buc-ee’s is the store we deserve. I am a beaver believer. There are cathedrals everywhere for those with the eyes to see.
Source (Archive)
