Our tired, dusty trail crew sat around the campfire out in the Red Desert, working on their football pool for the Splendid Bowl. Ever since shootin’ up towns and lynchin’ desperadoes had become illegal, it seems like football was the only outlet left for these tough hombres to vent their aggression.
“Put me down for San Fran to beat the spread.” growled Sourdough, “I’ve always favored the NFC ‘cuz they don’t have that gol danged designated hitter rule.”
“Naw," retorted Greasewood Gil from Guernsey, “K.C. has that Mahomes fella, an’ he’s from Texas. Them Texians is slippery an’ mean. He’ll slice up them Niners ‘til they ain’t no more than Eighters.”
Denver Bob stayed silent, staring into the embers and nursing nostalgic memories of John Elway.
“I’ll take the Niners and the points,” said Rimrock, “Unless Taylor Swift flies in from Japan to watch the game, then all bets are off! If that happens, it’ll be the Chiefs by two touchdowns.”
The flickering campfire light revealed confused glances among the gathered cowboys. Sourdough spoke for almost everyone when he asked, “Who the hell is Taylor Swift?”
Cookie, the wisest and worldliest among us, wiped his hands on his apron and spoke up. “She’s that purty li’l dancehall gal from Hollywood who has a billion dollars. She’s courtin’ some studhorse tight end from Kansas City. Ever’ time she goes to a game, the Chiefs win. She’s...I dunno, like a lucky penny or some such for ‘em.”
Stetsons nodded in the circle of firelight, as if to say, “That makes perfect sense.”
“But," Cookie warned, “Trump hates her right down to her glittery little thong. He’s sicced all his MAGA alpha dogs on her ‘cuz more people like her than like him. I guess he’s only okay with populism iff’n it applies to Trump.”
Cowhands grumbled and muttered that Trump couldn’t be much of an hombre is he was scared of a girl.
At this point, a cowhand on loan from the 4Chan Ranch across the river chimed in enthusiastically.
Aluminum Foil Stetson Stan jumped up with fire in his eyes. “My President Trump ain’t skeered of nobody!” His voice wavered, then he went on.
“Taylor Swift is Satan’s spawn! She’s just a tool o’ the Tri-Lateral Commission sent here to seduce our chillun an’ drain our vital fluids!”
On a roll, Stan (a true son of MAGA, dorky red hat and all) frothed and said, “She’s the Anti-Christ in sequins! Read your goddam Bible! The Seventh Seal broke and here comes Taylor Swift. Use your brains!"
"Right after Jewish space lasers, devil-worshipping pizza pedophiles, Cuban mind-control particle beams, zombifying pharmaceuticals and hidden Sumerian messages in dirty books, who comes down the pike? Taylor Swift, sent by George Soros and Bill Gates. Wake up, people!”
The rest of the crew scooted away from Stan as he ranted, giving him plenty of room. “Blood and Honor, boys...stand up like men! Repeal women’s suffrage and reclaim your manhood! Resist Taylor Swift, an’ make the world safe again for Lawrence Welk’s Champagne Ladies. Trump’s Army is doin’ our part, join us!”
Stan began to weep uncontrollably, so Cookie laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.
Little Joe looked up at Cookie and asked if it was true, if Trump and his MAGA folks were really goin’ to war with a girl.
“Relax, pard”, Cookie reassured him, “them drugstore cowboys won’t do nothing but mope around the far end of the barnyard like fresh-cut steer calves and wonder what happened to their gonads. Gimme the Chiefs by a TD. Who wants some coffee?”
Rod Miller can be reached at: rodsmillerwyo@yahoo.com
