THE GUNSLINGER

He was a gunslinger, the son of a gunslinger. He rode into town on a black horse painted white to match his ten gallon white Stetson. The Stetson was new. It was gift from his daddy who he always called "My Daddy" to replace the Texas Rangers cap he had quickly sullied when he became Ranger One. But already the Stetson was beginning to show the signs of misuse. Its proud crown was drooping, its brim was curling, and its prideful stenciled name that spelled     "S T E T S O N" was doing its best to fade in shame in recognition of who was sitting under it.

Yet the gunslinger was oblivious to all of this. He was on a mission sent by God to make this town into a God fearing one. So, he rode tall in the saddle sure in his "born again" Christianity and "compassionate conservatism."

Buoyed by his sense of entitlement and destiny, he knew he was above the law. After all “My Daddy,” Congressman George W. Bush, who was the son of former Senator Preston Bush, had put him on the top of the Texas Air National Guard list so he could avoid being called to war in Vietnam. However, he went AWOL for one year of his service but his service record is conveniently "lost." “My Daddy” also made sure his drunken driving record in Massachusetts was "lost." With “My Daddy” as the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), making a couple of records disappear was child’s play to protect his child. After his [honorable] discharge 10 months early for refusing to take drug tests, he bankrupted the slam-dunk millionaire's dream of owning his own oil company “My Daddy” had bought for him but sold it for a huge profit days before the bottom dropped out leaving investors to lose their money. He took his ill gained profit from the sale of his oil company and bought the Texas Rangers Baseball Team but as Ranger One he nearly bankrupted the team as it finished last in its division each of the years he owned it. As a reward, he was given the governorship of the state of Texas. 

But what he was most proud of was his record as a gunslinger. In 152 shootouts he did not endure so much as a scratch to his conscience. Then again, it is easy to be the Shootist when the person facing you isn't armed and has already been condemned to death.

As he neared the hitching post of his new White House he couldn't help singing to himself, "It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood when its High Noon, the street is cleared of critics, and I can send another non-believer Axis of Terror Terrorist to Boot Hill." Then he chuckled to himself, "That's why if your itch'in for a fight, ‘bring it on' is my motto."

As he walked into the foyer of his new White House it felt like he was a little boy again. There to greet him were “My Daddy's” old friends Dick, Rummy, and Wolfie. They held out their hands in greeting, slapped him on the back, and assured him everything was now in their hands and under control just as they did when comforting him as a child. And comforting he needed when the girls teased him calling him, "Back Door George" and complained that in the swimming pool he ducked under water and grabbed their breasts and crotch from behind. Then Dick, Rummy, and Wolfie took his gun and told him to go outside and play.

It has been seven years and as the gunslinger thinks back to that first day in his new White House, he can't stop feeling the warm glow of success - or is it the hot fire of shame - as he returns to his favorite game in the sandbox. He quickly stands up holding the toy bomber high in the air as he makes the shrill whistling sound of smart bombs shrieking toward their target in the sand.

As Dick, Rummy, and Wolfie look out the window they turn to each other and smile. The gunslinger is happy playing war in his sand box. He is so happy that just as his bombs hit their target, Dick, Rummy, and Wolfie see him jump with joy as he flashes the V for victory sign and shouts, "Gotcha, Saddam! Gotcha, Saddam! That’s what you get for tying to kill ‘My daddy!’ Na-na-na-na-na-naaaaaaaaa.”