What looked like a little black tornado twisted across the distant western sunset like an ol’ Blue Norther that had been milked dry. Tuckered cowboys sat around the campfire munching beans as they watched the GOP convention in Milwaukee.
“What in hellfire does that li’l secretary fella have on his noggiin?” Panhandle asked the question on every broncpeeler’s lips.
Joe the Wrangler squinted at the screen and mused, “Looks like one o’ them pre-stressed bent-up straw hats fer dudes that they sell under the stands at Frontier Days next to the funnel cakes. I bet that thing set him back a couple or three hundred bucks.”
Sourdough chuckled through his frijoles and said, “He’s gonna need a pair o’ Daisy Dukes an’ a halter top to finalize that look.”
“An’ a screamin’ eagle tattoo, an’ a fanny pack an’ a pair o’ pink Miranda Lambert boots.” added Joe, who was widely recognized as the fashionista of the outfit. “An a big ol’ Hawkey Henson feather in his hatband.”
“I wonder what sorta vibe he’s goin’ fer,” queried Latigo Lou, “looks like somethin’ halfway between Urban Cowboy an’ Kermit the Frog in Muppets Take Milwaukee.”
The Trail Boss sauntered up to the circle of firelight and got the drift of the campfire chatter. “I’ll tell ya one thing fer damn sure, if Chris LeDoux was watchin’ this horseshit, there’d be an ass-whuppin’ in store fer that pint-sized drugstore cowboy. An’ LeDoux would use a skinned rattler fer the job.”
At the mention of LeDoux’s name, Stetsons were doffed all around the circle and, when they were put back on, not a one looked out of place.
Cookie stopped washing dishes long enough to say, “Some folks can wear a cowboy hat, an’ some purely cain’t. That’s jes how God made the world, and there ain’t nothin’ that li’l sumbitch can do about it.”
Cookie sloshed his pruney hands in the dishwater and continued. “It ain’t hard to tell when someone ain’t all that comfortable wearing a cowboy hat. They get this embarrassed look on their mugs.”
“He shore don’t look at home in it,” said Joe, “he looks like a cow wearin’ Mardi Gras beads.”
“Looks like a poster boy fer a dude ranch in Jackson.” countered Panhandle.
“Maybe iff’n that hat was smaller……” Sourdough scratched his chin in thought, “Naw, ferget I said anything.”
“Hell,” said Latigo Lou with an indignant look in his eye, “I bet that li’l bastid even sets his hat down on the brim.”
“He probably throws it on the bed,” added Rawhide Ricky from Rawlins, “an’ don’t take it off when he’s dinin’ with a lady.”
“Now, now, don’t go judgin’ too hasty.” The Trail Boss said sagely. “Maybe his daddy made him wear that hat for his big speech. Maybe daddy is pimpin’ him fer governor. Walk a mile in his boots ‘fore you criticize.”
Cowboys stared down at their feet wondering how their big clodhoppers would fit in such tiny boots.
“Well, the Marlboro Man he shore ain’t.” mused Rawhide Ricky. “Just maybe, he oughta pursue a career that don’t require a cowboy hat. Iff’n he’s governor an’ wears that hat, the whole student section’d giggle at him first time he walks into a U.W. game.”
“A man’s gotta know his limitations if he aims to bulldog the Mississippi an’ pin its ears down flat.” Cookie said and hummed the song softly as he dried the last dish. “Who wants coffee?”
Rod Miller can be reached at: RodsMillerWyo@yahoo.com
