Two economists walk into a bar...

Metaphorically speaking, I’m torn between delving back into identity politics and riding my little pony off into higher plateaus. Actually, I do have a little pony. Her name is Keesha. What I lack is higher plateaus. Hemmed in by Shoal Creek and mounds of crushed commercial rock, the best Keesha and I can do is gallop about Chow Acre’s dormant pasture grass and pretend we’re delivering mail. My wife would rather I get a normal job…but that’s like the wisp of smoke from Sanford and Townsend’s distant fire. I’ve evolved beyond simple cash transactions. I give of myself freely. My only condition is that those wanting something first make an appointment. Just because I rarely answer the phone, door or e-mail doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m avoiding interaction.

Hint: If wishing to engage my presence in the flesh, please sit beneath the ornamental pear tree…and bring a cooler. The tree is small and ugly. It faces the hovel’s northern entrance. The petitioner should dress ala David Carradine circa 1973. This rule is transgender. From time to time the petitioner should reach into the cooler, produce a bottle of Red Stripe, and wave it around. This indicates the visit is serious in nature. Do not be discouraged if I leave without acknowledgment. I’m probably out of Blend Number One and may or may not return. An enlightened being, I’m attracted to whimsical tangents unenlightened drones too often deem as sinful behavior.

Of course, I’m warming up to an educated guess as to what type of training is required for someone to call themselves an economist. From my red-eyed perspective, the average economist bears marked similarities to a friend who could legally marry people because he paid the Universal Life Church twenty bucks. I should say used to know. The person in question died four years ago. Please join me in hoping that the twenty bucks helped paved the way for his eternal reward somewhere over the Rainbow Nation. He was a good man and a fancy dancer. (The second to last sentence in this paragraph would have created discomfort if mouthing Palin-ese…paved the way for eternal reward somewhere over the Rainbow Nation also). But let’s not be distracted by old Star Search runner-ups. However, it is appropriate to be distracted by her sledding partner, Joe the Jack of All Trades. Currently a singing journalist, Joe is enjoying downtime in Gaza bird-dogging what’s left of the vacation hotspot’s Cocktail Waitress Corps. Although I personally find bald men unattractive, perhaps a large, white hairless skull is considered sexy forbidden fruit among women accustomed to dodging better-looking terrorists. I once dated a dwarf named Sunshine. Please don’t think that I’m drawing a comparison between homely bald men and the average female dwarf. My former therapist helped me work through why I craved a lot of physical intimacy with Sunshine. Surprisingly, neither the naughty id nor the Boy Scouts of America were contributing factors.

Hint: Do not share psychological breakthroughs with members of your family; my father and I have not spoken for years.

Well, my Charm phoned (we have a secret signal…if she calls, I answer) and requested antibiotics. It appears her least favorite molar is practicing black magic again. And I was so hoping to place economics under the microscope.

Juan