With the race for Wyoming governor a mere two short years away, dusty drovers sat around the ol’ campfire and pondered their roles as political pundits.
“Hey, I know,” said Sourdough, “Let's form a focus group an’ help that li’l Secretary of State feller get elected. You remember him, he tried to murder Cookie’s big cauldron.”
“What’s a focus group?” asked Rimrock with some confusion in his voice.
Cookie answered as he stirred the frijoles, “Buncha folks who sit around trying to come up with good ideas. Just like you lazy bastids.”
Joe the Wrangler perked up, “Yeah,” he said, “If we help get him elected, we might all get cushy state jobs! How do we start?”
“Welll…” Sourdough mused, “We jes’ advise him on what he needs to do to win the election. Like get another ton o’ money from his dad...stuff like that.”
“First off, he needs to look more like a governor an’ less like a muppet,” offered Joe “Iff’n he wins, it’ll look like Kermit the Frog is governor of Wyoming.”
“He should grow a mustache.” said the Kaycee Kid. “An’ wear a wig. Hair sure makes a feller look important.”
Latigo Lou from Lingle drawled, “An’ guns. He needs to show folks in Wyoming he likes guns an’ huntin’ an’ such.”
“He ain’t much of a shot,” Cookie grumbled, “He couldn’t hit my big cookin’ pot t’other day. He needs to improve his skills with a shootin’ iron.”
“Hey, I know!” said the Kid, warming to the task, “We can get him invited to the South Dakota Governor’s Annual One-Shot Puppy Hunt! I hear tell ya don’t need to be much of a marksman to score big.”
“This is good stuff.” The Trail Boss had sauntered into the circle of light around the fire. “Is anyone writin’ this down?”
Panhandle jumped to his feet, suddenly inspired. “Iff’n he wants to be all manly an’ prove his cojones, he should snowmobile up to Union Pass, kidnap a grizzly an’ tape its mouth shut. Hell, I’d vote for someone who could do that.”
Sourdough scribbled furiously with the stub of a pencil, capturing these pearls of political wisdom.
“Endorsements from other successful politicians is always important.” This from the Kaycee Kid who had spent a year in community college and was the best educated among his crusty peers.
“He needs to get his picture took with that Reid Rasner fella whose runnin’ for Senate. All the bigwigs is don’ it. Voters love that sorta stuff.”
“Maybe,” Panhandle queried, “Iff’n that li’l feller does all this stuff, he can finally get a gal. You know, his very own Miss Piggy...someone to campaign with ‘im, ride in parades an’ such.”
The circle of dusty brushpoppers sat silently in the firelight, contemplating for a moment the deep and treacherous waters of politics in the Big Empty, and the dedication required to snag an election certificate.
“My head hurts,” said the Kid, “I ain’t thunk this hard since shop class.”
Stetsons nodded agreement in the smoke.
As if to lighten their burden, Cookie approached the brain-weary cowboys with affection in his gaze and a steaming pot in his hand.
“One o’ you sonsabitches type this up an’ get it to that li’l feller pronto. Supper’s almost ready. Who wants covfefe?”
Rod Miller can be reached at: rodsmillerwyo@yahoo.com
