Juan is embarrassed to say that he didn’t know the Lone Star state had broken free (yet again) from the U.S. of A. For someone who likes to believe he keeps up with current events, missing this development exposes serious flaws in his web surfing routine. Chuck Norris is a captious celebrity and obvious frontrunner to replace Sam Houston. After watching the martial artist test the outer limits of overpriced exercise equipment, Juan took a deep drag and thought: This old bearded guy has potential. Jasper the Roofer, Juan’s income tax preparer, is pleased Norris has thrown down the nunchucks for a running Kin Geri at public office -- even if the office doesn’t exist.
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Placing a tarry hand under chin stubble, Jasper’s translucent baby blues took on an otherworldly sheen. The last time Juan had witnessed the roofer, free-lance gynecologist and tenured Cato Institute Fellow lapse into a trance was when he prophesized that the IRS would overlook Juan’s attempt to claim nineteen dogs as dependents. They didn’t, but it was nevertheless a gallant Hail Mary.
“Chuck Norris will lead his people out of bondage before starting another war with Mexico. Texas will become a beacon of light for white Christian paramilitary cults and Air Force Academy graduates. Perhaps this last vision is redundant…”
Before he could squeeze another prediction out of Kamadhenu’s teat, a flash of sunlight broke through the hovel’s swirling squalor: the ethereal utter slipped away. Juan had wanted to ask a few questions while Jasper was milking sacred moo juice. Although marginally interested in the changes President Chuck would bring to Texas (would tourism suffer if roaming bands of vigilantes engaged in impromptu street executions?), Juan was curious what Kamadhenu thought about replacing her bald oracle with Turbo Tax. Dipping his index finger into Keystone Light, Jasper concluded that he was running late for his weekly Joplin Globe editorial board meeting. As he drove away, Juan wondered if the newspaper knew his unpaid input was occasionally inspired by an invisible Hindu cow.
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Michele Malkin has turned her attention away from hectoring sick kids to marketing Objectivism. “Go Galt!”, screams the diminutive loony tune. What better way to protest President Obama’s outrageous ‘tax the wealthy’ scheme than deny liberal loafers the dried fruit of Rand’s literary genius? Imagine the economic fallout should bloggers quit blogging or Heritage Foundation shills stop pandering for face time on Fox News. If the worthless poor think they’re fucked now, just wait until literally tens of little Galts put away their Lego blocks. Labor unions call what Malkin has in mind a strike. Since labor unions and strikes are anathema to the entrepreneurial investor class, there must be another word or phrase Ayn Rand used to describe sleeping in.
Alan Greenspan might know.
Juan
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