No More Straight Shooting

No More Straight Shooting
by Jean Carnahan

In a matter of months, Sheriff “Cowboy” George (not to be confused with “Curious George”) will hang up his pistols and mosey on back to the ranch.  He’s hoping to hand his badge over to “John Wayne” McCain a.k.a., the “Arizona Straight Shooter,” once the most trusted hombre in these parts.

Once upon a time, the crusty, ol’ gunslinger with the tall, white hat and gleaming spurs struck fear in the hearts of evildoers throughout the Potomac Territory.  He bravely fought tax cuts for the big mining and railroad interests, preferring, instead, to stand up for harness makers, buggy repairmen, and dry goods merchants. 

But, "Shooter" appears to have lost his straightness after ingesting large quantities of Potomac River water, which has been known to pollute others who drink too freely.  Recently, he was seen wandering around town, squinting one eye, and starring into the noonday sun while muttering senseless platitudes.  

But, don’t let the old geezer fool you just because he keeps falling off his horse or because his aging facial muscles have relaxed, forming a creepy smile. He’s still meaner than a skillet full of rattlesnakes.

            He once tarred and feathered “Brimstone Jerry” Falwell and “Pious Pat” for cattle rustling and for leading their flocks astray.  Now, he's hanging out at Miss Vickie's "K" Street Gentlemen’s Spa, singing old Beach Boy ditties in exchange for a few coins.

            Two local do-gooders are aiming to run “Shooter” out of town before he gets the drapery measurements for the little white house on the corner with the tall, picket fence.

  One smooth-faced, upstart is “Kid Barry,” the lanky newcomer with the pearly teeth and fast-draw.  The other is a steely-eyed, know-it-all, schoolmarm, Miz Rodham, who has vowed to jerk a knot in “Shooter’s” tail come fall. 

In view of the threat level, a local sportsman, “Cheyenne Dick,” who specializing in the decimation of small fowl, has volunteered to lead a posse to root out the do-gooders, water board them in the horse trough, and swift-boat the pair of ‘em down the Potomac.  “Cheyenne” says it’s all good, clean entertainment and more fun than shooting fish in a barrel.

Another player in this cow town drama is “Parson Chucklebee,” whose annual Kool-aid and Squirrel Barbecue attracts the area’s spiritual elite.  His slogan, “Yes, We Shalt,” is thought to be plagiarized, though nobody seem to give a hoot.   Still, he is likely to sway a few of the good folks to his “faith based” tourism plan that includes building a full-size cathedral in Hope, Arkansas, using nothing more than Styrofoam and Popsicle sticks.

            “Shooter” says it may take him a hundred years, more or less, to run off all the bad dudes:  libruls, peaceniks, long-hairs, welfare-queens, witches, same-sexers, evolutionists, protesters, nosey reporters, bloggers and their ilk, but he vows to get it done before his eightieth birthday or he will step down.

            I gotta tell you, those who love “Cowboy George” are going to be ecstatic over the new “Non-Straight Shooter.”  The two wear the same brand and yodel the same tunes.

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