In the saloon sipping ice tea. Brother Jack of the old GOP is down and out on the floor. Sister Jill’s head is in her fourth shot of whiskey. All around our table there is sobbing and loud weeping. The Teabaggers are outside in the street. The windows are down. The doors are locked. The crowd outside can’t get in, but their noise does. They are singing, “We shall over throw. We shall over throw. Deep in your hearts, you know. We shall over throw you someday.”
Jill throws up. The saloon staff has run out of towels to wipe the mess off the tables. Jill has to do the best she can with her sleeves. And she does, while whining, “Do you think they’re going to get in?”
“I replaced all of the old windows and doors with ones made from strong, hard materials, ” Fred, the saloon owner, answers. “Frankenstein’s monster couldn’t beat its way in here.”
“They aren’t Frankenstein’s monsters, they’re vampires, ” Jill shudders. “They already have bitten and turned half of the leadership.”
A little man shouts from the corner, the farthest from the windows and doors. “They won’t get me!” He sounds scared.
Jill whispers to me, “Who’s he?”
“Isn’t he the chairman?”
“Of what?” Jill asks. She looks at the little man, who looks as if he is just a loud shout away from panic. Another shout from the street and he may slip under the table.
“Why don’t they just go away?” he mumbles.
The saloon owner refills the little man’s glass with the strongest whiskey in the house. The small man lets it sit on the table while he shakes.
Then Jill gets an idea. She goes to, and jumps atop the table in the center of the saloon, and shouts, “We need to bring back Goldwater! He warned against flirting with the loonies. He will know what to do?”
“How are you going to bring back Goldwater? ” a man in a gray suit, a grumbling old grouch, spits in his beer and sneers. “He’s dead.”
An older white hair, seated on the far right side of the room, laughs. “You are going to re-animate the dead?”
“A seance, ” answers Jill. “We are going to have a seance and hear what Barry would do.”
“A seance?” I ask.
“Stay out of this, ” Jill glares. “You went over to the Dems, what you’re doing in here, I don’t know.”
I am the only customer in the saloon who is not drinking intoxicants, so my head is clear, while the other customers’ heads are fuzzy. (Well, this is my story.) I sit back in my chair, and while they stare at me, I say. “If we are going to have a seance and get some real help, call on Nelson Rockefeller, Everett McKinley Dirksen, Jacob Javits, Margret Chase Smith.”
This is followed by a long silence. Then the saloon owner, red-face, and angry, as if a bee has stun the back of his neck, grabs my arm, pulls and pushes me to the back, and as he shoves me out the fire exit, he says, “I can’t have you in here, you will ruin my business. I need to sell liquor to my customers. If they listen to you and start calling on those old, dead farts, they will have no need to get drunk, and I won’t have a business.”
END
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{ 8 comments… read them below or add one }
That wasn’t even directed towards you Laura. Why do you think everything is about you? And perhaps you should read it again. I didn’t call him a name. This is the same game you always play Laura, and I thank you. Again it makes my point all the more.
“Drink and blog?” Yeah, that really sounds like a request for clarification. Sorry, sounded like an insult to me, but then again that’s my intolerance speaking while I’m on my high horse….
Maybe your observations about what I think or my writing would be valid if you actually read what I wrote instead of taking your own mental cliff notes… And if you could actually comment to what anyone who disagrees with you writesd without calling names and insulting them, then getting bent when someone calls you on it…
Again, cast your dispersions all you like. As anyone with an open mind can see from what I’ve written that is not true. But I am glad to know that I get under your skin. It means I’m doing something right. Your intolerant attitude is evident in your writing as well. You talk about black and white, for you it’s the same thing, your way or the high way. Anyone who doesn’t agree with you is ignorant and marginalized. Careful, that horse is really high.
And paint your picture in black and white. Shades of grey and color don’t register either.
Dfunzy,
Still doesn’t answer my question as to what exactly your point is. If you are interested in making one I would like to know what it is. Otherwise it doesn’t make sense to me. Stories are pretty and all, but if there is no point then I would call it fiction.
Laura,
Just because I don’t understand his point doesn’t mean I am trying to degrade his contribution. But I am glad to see you marginalizing me again as usual. And asking for clarification is not a rant, except maybe in your twisted view. For someone who claims such compassion you sure act really intolerant of others. Tsk, tsk.
Dfunzy,
Consti never reads what anybody has to say. Just finds the points he wants to find so he can rant. Pay no mind…
Ha! Ha! Friend, I’m only drinking tea. Nice, sweet Lipton tea.
Thank you for your response. I see you saw my article. Scanned it? But I regret to say, not carefully.
- dfunzy
Err… no personal offence but you shouldn’t drink and blog. Just what exactly is your point? Goldwater? Dead white republicans? I don’t see how your article adds to the debate.