Buc-ee’s or Bust: Why Texans Only Love Gas Stations That Could House a Small Government

Ah, Buc-ee’s—Texas’s answer to the question, How much capitalism can one beaver shove into a single building? The state’s obsession with this glorified gas station has reached such heights that we now have art installations mocking its absurdity. That’s right, folks. We’ve officially turned a roadside pit stop into highbrow satire. Move over, Banksy—West Texas has a 100-square-foot beaver shrine, and it’s deep.

But let’s talk about the real tragedy here: the small Buc-ee’s. Yes, they exist. No, they are not worthy of your Instagram story. These sad, shriveled husks of their mega-store siblings are like finding out your favorite influencer uses a flip phone. The original Buc-ee’s in Clute? A loser-tier establishment, according to one brave journalist who dared to speak the truth. One urinal. No hot food. Just the crushing realization that you drove 45 minutes for gas station beef jerky and existential dread.

Meanwhile, the real Buc-ee’s—the ones that could double as a Walmart annex—are out here breaking world records. The Luling location is now the largest travel center on Earth, because apparently, Texans need 75,000 square feet of jerky and novelty mugs to feel alive. It’s bigger than 20 of the sad, small Buc-ee’s combined, which is either a flex or a cry for help—hard to say.

So here’s the lesson, folks: In Texas, size does matter. If your Buc-ee’s doesn’t require a map and a sherpa to navigate, you’re basically at a 7-Eleven. And nobody wants that.