Rod Miller: Goat Ropin’ In Gaza For Trump – A Campfire Parable
Rod Miller writes, “Well, since Trump took this place over, an’ chased out all the Philistines, there ain’t nobody to tend these here goats. We just got drafted, that’s all. It’s called geopolitics, pard.”
The sultry Mediterranean night made the cowhands sit waaay back from the campfire. The hot hamoun wind made them swap their Tony Lamas for sandals, and their sweaty Stetsons for sweaty keffiyehs. All in all, they were not pleased to be herding goats in Gaza.
“This place is a shit hole,” griped Goshen Gus. “There ain’t a bottle o’ whiskey to be found in town, an’ good luck roundin’ up a pork chop. The Big Boss needs his noggin examined fer sendin’ us here.”
Sourdough took a delicate sip of tea, and answered, “Well, since Trump took this place over, an’ chased out all the Philistines, there ain’t nobody to tend these here goats. We just got drafted, that’s all. It’s called geopolitics, pard.”
Cowboys detest being used as pawns in anyone’s game, geopolitical or not. So, hackles were up around the ol’ campfire.
“Why in hell would Trump want this place?” queried Rawhide Ricky from Rawlins. “It ain’t nothing but rocks an’ sand an’ snakes. Sorta makes me homesick fer ‘Dobe Town. What the hell happened to America First?’
Panhandle shot back, “This here’s the Holy Land, you infidel, read yer Bible. God gave it to his Chosen People, Trump annexed it to America, an’ we’re here to herd the goats. We’re fulfillin’ prophecy!”
Our saddlesore broncpeelers digested this news, as they swatted Biblical bugs that landed on their necks to suck their blood.
“That ain’t what I heard.” Latigo Lou offered. “I heard tell that we got sent here ‘cuz Elon Musk convinced hisself that there’s weapons o’ mass destruction here, an’ we got drafted to clear the place out.”
“Horseshit,” said Sweetwater Slim, “them ain’t WMDs out there, them’s big piles o’ camel dung. But, just the same, don’t step on ‘em if yer wearin’ sandals.”
“Speakin’ o’ camels,” grumbled Gus, “these sumbitches are plumb hard to ride. I keep fallin’ off mine cuz I ain’t got spurs. Not actually bucked off, y’unnerstand, I just keep fallin’ off. It’s embarrassin’ as hell.”
The Trail Boss sauntered up in his sweeping desert robes, and informed the crew, “Y’all been payin’ too much attention to what ya read on the internet. The real reason we’re here is cuz Trump is gonna turn this sand-patch into the Riviera of the Mideast, an’ we gotta keep these damn goats from eatin’ the tires offa the construction equipment.”
Puzzled looks greeted the Trail Boss, and the unspoken question on every lip was, “What’s a Riviera?”
Rawhide Ricky worked up his courage, and asked, “Riviera? You mean, like a Buick?”
“Naw, like a resort,” corrected the Trail Boss. “Think of Vegas, but bigger. Miles of whorehouses an’ titty bars. Mud wrestlin’ an’ monster truck shows. High stakes gamblin’ ‘til hell won’t have it. Rich folks from all over the world, comin’ here to blow their cash. Kid Rock is gonna be the headliner. It’ll be YUUUGE!”
Visions of lapdances and cheap buffets teased the cowboys’ brains.
“Maybe it’s worth dealin’ with these stinkin’ camels an’ goats fer a dream like that,” mused Sourdough. “An’ then again, maybe not.”
“We’re getting’ off easy,” said Rawhide Ricky. “Trump annexed Greenland, too. An’ my cousin’s over there herdin’ polar bears an’ penguins on a reindeer. He’s freezin’ his cojones off.”
Panhandle interrupted the discussion by saying, “I’m so hungry, I could eat the runnin’ gear off a moose. What’s fer dinner, Cookie?”
Cookie wiped his greasy hands on his burnoose, and replied, “Hummus an’ cous cous, same as last night, same as tomorrow night. Y’all wash yer hands, say yer prayers an’ dig in.”
Rod Miller can be reached at: RodsMillerWyo@yahoo.com
