It was a dark and stormy night. Cowboys huddled in a miserable circle, as wind blew the sputtering campfire sideways, and blew snow down collars. The beans and coffee had been cold, and there was nothing but a blizzard for dessert.
Panhandle grumbled in his most desultory voice, “This sucks.”
“Lighten up, pard,” said Sweetwater Slim, “Things may look bleak now, but them Freedom Caucus legislators in Cheyenne is gonna make ever’thing great again.”
Puzzled glances regarded Slim from beneath snow-crusted eyebrows. Mutters of “bullshit” could be heard above the wind.
“I’m serious, fellers.” Slim explained, “I read it on the internet. They’s gonna take ever’thing we think is bad now, an’ turn it into somethin’ good. Jus’ by passin’ a law.”
More mutters of “bullshit” from the shivering cowboys.
Slim proceeded. “Fist off, they’s gonna pass a law sayin’ carbon dioxide is actually good for us. It’s s’posed to help the coal miners, or somethin’. Ever’body thinks it’s bad for ‘em now, but that’s just deep state propaganda.”
Glendo Gus brightened, and said, “Well, carbon dioxide makes beer fizzy, so that’s a good thing. Nobody likes flat beer.”
“Nobody like beer that tastes like coal either, an’ that ain’t no snowflake propaganda.” Panhandle was still in a dark mood.
“Lemme get this straight,” queried Hoolihan, “Them Freedom Caucus tin-horns will just pass a law, and things that was bad before are all of a sudden good?”
“That’s about it.” said Slim, as if the matter was settled.
But Hoolihan wouldn’t let the matter drop. “So next years, these goddam blizzards’ll be a good thing?”
Slim nodded his Stetson in the affirmative. “They’s gonna Make Blizzards Great Again, cuz that’s what folks want.” Slim followed this with his exhortation about Freedom Caucus populism, the wishes of the grassroots folks of Wyoming, and how the legislature has to respond or lose their seats to somehow who sill get the job done.
The encircled broncpeelers thought deeply.
Rawhide Ricky from Rawlins chimed in. “Last year I caught a dose o’ social disease down on Front Street, so the Freedom Caucus is gonna Make The Clap Great Again?”
Slim nodded.
The mood around the campfire brightened at this welcome news.
Latigo Lou from Lingle offered, “Used to be I hated it when that bronc o’ mine planted my ass in the cactus. I hope them folks pass a law to Make Buck-Offs Great Again.”
“I purely hate Post Malone’s music,” growled Panhandle, “we need to Make Disco Great Again. Sounds like the Freedom Caucus is just the folks to do it.”
Energized by the possibilities, the trail-weary cowboys started compiling a list of all the bad things the Freedom Caucus could Make Great Again with a stroke of the pen. Years of frustration and frostbite bubbled to the surface. to be offered on the altar of this political miracle.
Bankers, rustlers, stampedes, drought, cattle buyers, cold-hearted women...and the list grew. There was catharsis around the old campfire as old scores were settled and demons purged. The blizzard was forgotten, melting away in the heat and light of this glorious new imaginary world where what was once bad is now miraculously good.
“Somebody write this stuff down,” urged Slim, “we need to send this list to Cheyenne!”
Just then, the Trail Boss shuffled through the snow to the edge of the campfire. “What are you lazy sumbitches doin’ sittin’ here jawbonin’ when there’s night herdin’ to do? Saddle up, dammit. Let’s Make Misery Great Again.”
Rod Miller can be reached at: RodsMillerWyo@yahoo.com
