All Entries Tagged With: "Silverton"
TRUMP TO GRACE $10,000 BILL
(Florida White House) President for now, Donald Trump, may grace new United States currency as early as summer. Due to an Executive Action on the part of the besieged Commander in Chief, his familiar sneer with orange hair is perched to don the newly minted $10,000 bill.
Along with Trump’s mug the bill will be decorated with In Wall Street We Trust and feature an engraving of Trump Towers in Manhattan on the back.
Poster boy in front of The Towers of Babble in NYC
Most of his middle class supporters, former and current, will probably never see one. Conversely many are behind the move saying their boy deserves the honor of joining Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln on American currency.
Mount Rusmore was not discussed.
What’s in it for me Republicans and gelded Democrats mumbled approval while telling their constituencies that they were fighting for their rights and freedoms. Most appear anxious as to whether they, as contractors, will be stiffed by Trump come pay day.
Whether or not the cumbersome, almost worthless penny will finally be discarded was not discussed according to unreliable sources on the scene. Sources in the House confirmned that it would act on the penny as soon as Obamacare is replaced.
Detractors chimed in saying that maybe the President can cash a few of these new notes in to pay for his lavish vacations charged on the taxpayer’s tab.
One vocal critic of the current administration told The Horseshoe that National Security Advisor, Steve Bannon had been considered for a newly proposed $100,000 bill but considering his covert role he has declined the offer.
“We see a day,” said House Whip, Rich McGrovel, “when the rich will use bills of this denomination for debts public and private, while the rest of the peasants will clutch the same old fives and tens trying to survive inflation.”
Although nothing is certain, the White House has seen a parade of cosmetologists and photographers since the plan was announced Friday.
In a related piece, Education Secretary Betsy DeVos plans to ban the Spanish language from public schools. DeVoss who consistently earned straight As in penmanship while in high school, explained her position in that “I can’t understand a word that those people are saying.”
Readers are warned to keep seat belts securely fastened as turbulence is likely to occur.
“Incompetence is it’s own reward.” – Uncle Pahgre
Another Wall Story III
(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.
MY WALL STORIES (continued)
I remember Los Ticos from years ago when I was visiting my Colorado friend, Rex Jones, in LaPalma, Costa Rica.
One resident in the small town had a tall skinny mustache reminiscent of the most hated man in the world. And of course the locals called him Hitler. The nervous, 90-pound, mustachioed stand-in was the local pharmacist and he sold cocaine to the few tourists that wandered into town. It quickly appeared to me that he may have had a thirsty nose too.
He scampered around the town from his Garcia Pharmacy to the local bar (called the Machete Club by some). One day he got careless or neglected to pay off the right people and was arrested for trafficking and an assortment of lesser crimes.
When the people told me about his demise they were neither happy or sad. It was in the stars.
Rex and I then headed back to his place because “We got it going on.” The rest of the day we spent chasing monkeys away from his banana crop. Later we visited a friend whose son had just returned from a year-long student exchange in Minnesota. We asked if it was cold for him up north. He smiled and said You betcha!
These days Costa Rica is overrun by American tourists and the people are probably less friendly due to the invasion. As always it’s a mixed bag with some natives benefitting from the growth and others not able to keep up with rising prices.
My Latino Wall Stories
I remember once when my daughter and I traveled to Mexico to visit some friends who had moved there from Colorado. As we passed the border we both let out an individual sigh of release then looked at each other laughing at the simultaneous relief. We were no longer in Babylon.
Sure Mexico was no paradise. One had to keep an eye out. There was chaos on the border but not inside the heads of the residents like in the other America. We drove to the Immigration Office to show our papers. The local kids were fascinated with my German Shepherd who had gleefully enjoyed the ride from the Rockies from her optional shelter in the back of my pickup.
The kids were afraid at first but then when she started licking them they squealed in joy. They were ecstatic at the presence of this fury visitor. I let them feed her and give her water. They were in heaven and so was she with all these little kids around. Sweet girl.
Meghan went in first and I stayed behind the watch things around the truck. It would make a few minutes to get her passport stamped. It was taking longer than it should and I shot a few glances at the tin office while I played with the kids.
“Come se llama? I said. Que bueno! Me gusta su nombre.”
When my daughter returned she was laughing and looking back at the office. She was obviously pleased but blushing ever-so-slightly. She greeted the kids.
One of he immigration men had told his compadres that she was his next wife. Thinking she was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed gringa and didn’t speak the language he had gone on and one to the delight of his friends. The she dropped the hammer.
“Tiene una casa, señor? Donde nos viviremos después? No necesito mucho pero yo quiero muchas ropas y un caro simpatico.” (Do you have a house? Where will we live? I don’t need much just a lot of clothes and a nice car)
It blew his shorts off. His friends were stunned and then exploded into laughter. Like all civil servants the world over they deal with boredom. They were well entertained.
When it came my turn to go to immigration I walked in and identified the prime suspect saying “Hijo!” and attempted to embrace my new son-in-law much to his dismay. It brought the place down. Meghan said she could hear the laughter from the parking lot. They got so carried away I had to twice remind them to stamp my passport.
Clown strike threatens very social fabric of the nation.
Although unreported in the mainstream media the bitter clown strike has reached another plateau at 2 months without laughter, a cheap bit, a slapstick fall, even a smile. Clowns all over the Western Hemisphere and in Grand Junction walked off their jobs back 61 days ago, seemingly unnoticed by of the woolgathering public.
The clowns have released a list of grievances against humanity all of them the condemning the anger and sadness permeating the globe. They are currently holding an abandoned warehouse complex in the bad part of town where a coquette government has been inhabited by strikers with giant feet, red noses and flowers that squirt water at people.
“This comes at a bad time for humor on the planet,” said a grease-faced youth named Zippy. “People don’t always need money, or cars or bombs or breakfast linen but they damn sure need clowns.”
The power void left by the baggy-panted comics ripples forced smiles at a time where we need loud laughter. Scabs are expected to be employed by early next week if the various parties do not come to some agreement. One major stumbling block appears to be the defunding of Jester State, the once prestigious college that has been training clowns since the Depression. The feds say the school is no longer accredited and has therefore forfeit its fiscal support.
The clowns say the school is valid if only for the affect on children and dreamers. They say the nation will suffer without them.
“Who will set laughter in motion? Who will take the funny fall from the tightrope into the net? Who will run from the rogue elephant? Who will smile at just the right time to let the kids in row one know everything is really all right?” asked one orange-haired bumbler.
Both sides expressed concern that nobody will be laughing up his sleeve if the conflict goes to the Supreme Quart. They agree that the damage has been done and that a whole lot of hugs will be needed to set things straight again.
– Betsy Guffaw
