A One-Act Play
We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming and detour from our usual exclusion of all things Trumpesque because of the overload of issues generated by his presence at the helm. Our policy has been no avoid giving the President attention just like one would do with a mad child.
Scene: The Tower of Babble in NYC
Richard Wagner’s “Dien its das Reich” is playing in the background.
Steve Bannon: No you don’t understand! The orange hair stays. It’s all part of the distraction. He needs to keep the hair. It is such a magnificent smoke screen and it keeps too much from going over his head. I demand he keep the hair!
Will Hurd (R-TX) “The wall is a 3rd century solution to a 21st Century problem”
Jeff Sessions: I tried to dye my hair orange to match the President’s mop but it came out a kind of fool’s gold color. Now will the rest of the Cabinet and House GOP follow suit?
Kellyanne Conway: The Democtars are listening to us on the microwave. The shipment of red ties arrives in the House tomorrow. Then we will see who is loyal and who is not by color of the noose around their necks.
John McCain: What about the Russian dressing? This is blue cheese.
Will Hurd (R-TX) “The wall is a third century solution to a 21st Century problem”
Ted Cruz: What’s that? I missed it. I was talking to God.
God: “Why do you act like this Ted?
Why do you tell the sheep that you talk to me.
We have never talked. You are a hateful fake
Donald “Don’t Call Me Don” Trump: We appear to have accidentally pulled federal funding from FOX NEWS. It’s fantastic!
Mike Pence: My heart is with the GOP. I await my ascendency. My eyes are on my bank account. My soul is in an Indianapolis dumpster.
Ivanka Trump: Buy my line at Wal-Mart
Steve Bannon: Can I borrow some shampoo? I left mine in the War Room. Why is do I look like a wino? Why is my hair always dirty?
All: Trumpty Dumpty Putin and Lie, grabbed the girls and made them cry.
(Gunnison) What at first appeared to be ancient artifacts, possibly the bones of an Anasazi warrior, has turned out to be no more than petrified biscuits and gravy according to archaeologists here. The dig, centered in the area of W Mountain, will continue for another five years in the hopes of discovering more.
Scientists, who have been carefully extracting pieces of the puzzle from the rocky soil above Gunnison, were not thwarted by the laboratory findings.
“We have become accustomed to frustrations out here in the field,” said one digger. “Why just last year in Delta we thought we’d exhumed an ancient Ute canning operation but it turned out to be an abandoned Plymouth.”
Sources at Western State University insist that the dig continue adding that artifacts lend credence to theories that the Anasazi were not able to manipulate cholesterol levels and that, in short, they generally ate whatever ran across their path.
Although the quality and taste of the biscuits and gravy will not be known until the lab report is completed, conjecture here has it that the Ancient Ones made their own buttermilk biscuits and brewed a sort of gravy from buffalo milk and the excesses of smoked sausage.
After primary examination, the content of the gravy seems to match up with the consistency of a favorite trench mortar used to construct the Cliff Palace at Mesa Verde. This theory too, will be subject to the laboratory report.
“A regular diet like this may lead us to answers that have eluded us in the past,” said one scientist, “and once and for all determine the actual demise of an entire civilization.”
Tourists are asked to stay clear of the excavation site until about 2040.
– Melvin O’ Toole
(Ed note: In the following segment the reader may notice different sounds accompanying different flat tires. This could have to do with the blazing hot asphalt or maybe it’s what I remember the sounds to be.)
My Chevy pickup died in Galveston. It sounds like a country song but it was real. I had driven down here to go to the wedding of a good friend and the truck, which had been so reliable in the past, suddenly had turned on me.
There was nothing left to do but stick out my thumb in the muggy Texas heat on lovely Interstate 10. I quickly got a ride in a semi to the town of Gonzalez where Willie Nelson just happened to be having a party. It looked like a pleasant detour especially when I saw the line-up of Ernest Tubb. Kris Kristofferson. Rita Coolidge, Jerry Jeff Walker, Leon Russell, Ray Wiley Hubbard, George Jones plus Willie and Waylon Jennings and more.
After two days of beer, blood and music I left Gonzalez and headed back on the asphalt. In just moments a rough, epoxied 1970 ford Galaxy pulled over. The driver had a sizzled flat tire and we started talking while he attempted to patch it. His name was Carlos. His family came from somewhere in Sonora and he lived in San Antonio where I had hoped to stay for the night.
With the tire repaired we headed west. I had noticed that all the other tires (Carlos had no spare of course) looked like prophylactics. Soon, from my shotgun seat, everything appeared in order but that was not to be.
“Pop!” There went the rear tire on the driver’s side and the car crawled to the side of the road again. “Damn” cursed Carlos who looked at me half laughing and half crying. “I should have brought a spare.”
We removed the tire and Carlos went into Sequin, Texas to have it repaired. I sat in the paltry shade of a solitary mesquite tree, like a feeble middle finger reaching for the sky. Its’ sun-scorched limbs defiantly gasped for life while I attempted to stay out of the sun. I still had my broken down white Stetson that some woman had given me at Willie’s deal. It looked stupid this was no fashion show.
“You don’t have to stay here and wait for me,” he smiled.
“Someone has to watch the car while you are in town,” I said.
“Why?” he asked. “It’s not going anywhere. Only a crazy person would steal it”
In about an hour he returned and found me still there. We installed the newly patched tire and went on our way. Before long we were approaching Santa Clara and a distinct wobble began to emerge from under the car.
“It’s just the drive train or maybe the transmission,” said Carlos. “I’m not too worried. We are almost there.”
As the skyline of San Antonio came into view another loud Whop was detected over the blasting radio. Now Carlos was pissed…Three flats in 120 miles! We went through the same charade as before with Carlos taking the flat to a gas station on Yucca Street near Artesia.
I waited, keeping an eye out for the many thieves that would love to steal his beat-up wreck with bad tires. He returned in the company of a mechanic he knew from high school who frowned and lent him a spare. We were then in San Antonio.
“Do you like enchiladas? he asked.
“Yes, very much I replied.
“Good. We we’ll go to my parents’ house for dinner. He pulled over to a phone booth and called his family to announce he was bringing a guest to dinner.
Arriving at his home I met his mother and father and feasted on chili rellenos, refried beans, fresh tortillas and cheese enchiladas. He told them of our adventures and they shook their heads and stared at him like he was nuts. His mother insisted I eat more and, not wanting to create a negative cultural incident I downed another enchilada. It was now dark.
“I will give you a ride to the river where you can find a hotel,” he said. “This neighborhood is no place for you after dark.”
To my great relief he borrowed his father’s car and drove me downtown to the San Antonio River. In just moments I heard “Where y’all going?” sweetly sang out. That’s when I met two exotic dancers who invited me home, but that is another story.
(Wimpton) He prowls the coops of the processing plant dressed in his white linen suit, a cadaverous, ghastly smile across his pasty face. His goatee is death-white too and almost starched, his glasses slip down his nose as he makes his nightly rounds.
He casts no shadow as he monitors the last hours of the feathered inhabitants.
Sightings have become almost commonplace here with reports of this Kentucky Colonel’s intrusions.
“We saw him one dawn after a night of plucking,” said Andrea Capone, who has worked at the processing plant since flunking out of Lee Harvey Oswald Middle School back in 1966. “He was real creepy and didn’t touch the ground. He just drifted through walls, clucking to himself.
Para-psychologists say the appearance of apparitions such as the Colonel are rare but do occur often in places linked to traumatic memories and unresolved guilt.
“We’ve had almost 300 reported sightings since summer,” said Dr. Wince Ardvarke, of Cal Amari College. “Certainly all of these witnesses can’t be crazy.”
Ardvarke, Professor of Macabre Economics at the well respected Pacific Coast institution gained fame after recording a posthumous conversation with the ghost of Jean Laffite on the River Road near New Orleans in 1980. He is author of the best selling novel Phantoms in the Pudding (Testosterone Brothers, Boston) in which he clearly states:
“Why are people so surprised at the presence of ghosts like these roaming around after dark. Do they think the afterlife is so glamorous? Imagine sitting around playing cards or dominoes with a bunch of pale riders all morning then shuffleboard with more spooks in the afternoon. Anyone would want to break free of this bond and do a little exploring.”
Ardvarke laughed when asked by one cynical reporter if ghosts were dangerous.
“No more dangerous than eating a diet of grease-fried chicken and instant mashed potatoes,” he said.
Local police have promised to increase patrols in the vicinity as well as around the nearby turkey processing plants buzzing with pre-holiday activity.
“Who knows,” cackled one officer, “we might even see Miles Standish or that Longfellow character out for a stroll looking for giblet gravy.”
– Gabby Haze
(Washington) A controversial new bill, which would legalize outright lying on the part of elected officials, has passed by a slim margin in the House of Representatives. Dubbed the Call It Macaroni Bill, referring to a line in the popular Yankee Doodle Dandy song, the legislation would allow the blatant stretching of the truth in situations involving national security, fiscal conflicts and romantic encounters.
“We don’t perceive any drastic changes from the accepted mode of behavior that has existed since Manhattan was wrestled from the Indians,” said Senator Oral Noise, Unitarian-CA, the sponsor of the bill. “We simply want to get the truth out of the closet and stop dealing with petty guilt at the expense of the public good.”
A supporting caste of sponsors, including the Pentagon, the nuclear industry, the tobacco lobby and Gunnison (Colorado) Rod and Reel Club, were said to be elated by the outcome.
“It’s about time our governing bodies got their heads straight on this lingering issue,” said Melvin Toole, a corporate spokesman for the pro-Macaroni alliance.
“For years they’ve been riding on their ponies with feathers in their hats, stepping on their noodles. I just hope the Senate wakes up and realizes the potential for the expedient justice that goes hand in hand with this progressive viewpoint.”
The benefits of “calling it macaroni” seems simple enough that even the weekend voter should be able to comprehend its effects. In the first paragraph, the bill clearly stipulates who can be the legal victim of benevolent mistrust and protective exaggeration.
“We have pinpointed a general constituency that will most benefit from Congressional lying,” said Noise from a phone booth at a former suburban Maryland Savings and Loan. “This includes wives, husbands, reporters, campaign workers, caddies, hotel clerks, embassy personnel, clergy, long-distance operators, household pets, bar patrons and members of the Supreme Quart.”
Insiders seem convinced that the bill will stroll through the Senate and become law just before the elections reach the limelight in 2018. This should provide a comfortable setting for Congressional campaigns and should filter down to the state level.
“We expect the question of prescribed dishonesty to be decided in state houses from Maine to Mexico before long,” added Noise,” as deception is not strictly a national issue. A formulative policy will facilitate practices that are not in conflict with any existing approach to governing the masses.
“In short,” he continued, “we have done away with the smokey back rooms and legitimized outright deception without all the baggage.”
Already, backers of the bill have lobbed an arsenal of shells onto the Senate floor. One lobbyist suggested that if the bill dies, elected officials will be forced to begin telling the truth.
“What kind of a precedent are we setting for the generations to come?” she asked.
“Who will pick up the torch if all the millionaires are busy misleading the public in the private sector. We must keep politics interesting if we plan to entice the well-to-do. Imagine the mundane cocktail parties thrown by a new breed of honest politicians extracted from the working class!”
Other more aggressive ploys conducted outside the Senate chambers included a high stakes, members-only liar’s poker game held at the Lincoln Monument. (Readers may recall that it was Abraham Lincoln who hurled the Union into a devastating, yet lucrative civil war under the guise of ending slavery.)
“My favorite ballyhoo has got to be the long noses,” said Noise referring to the distribution of over 1,000 Pinocchio noses to members of the voting body. “The senators who ditched today are going to kick themselves in the pants when they find out what they missed. I really liked the noses. Some of the legislators even took two.”
Noise stopped short of suggesting that the noses would turn the tide in the voting.
“I think the Macaroni Bill would have passed anyway,” he smiled. “The noses just created a festive atmosphere.”