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Mr. SCV: Obama wants my cowboy shirts

How beige was my valley

Posted: November 15, 2008 9:53 p.m.
Updated: November 16, 2008 4:59 a.m.
 
My Dearest Sister-like substance Lisa,

Delighted to get your e-mail earlier in the week about the family Christmas drawing and happy that you are recovering after what you called "your November 4th accidental Prestone antifreeze overdose and wrist-slashing suicide attempt whilst hysterically sobbing."

Honey. Share your feelings. Are you sad?

I'm guessing you're sad because of You-Know-Who getting elected, not because of the passage of Proposition 8.

Not to insinuate you're gay, like our brother Willie, although Willie's gay in that old-fashioned gosh-darn hard-working American way. Willie's just happy. At least he was, before the election.

Es una lastima. So close to your birthday, amigita, and look at you, brave thing Alecia Claire Boston, typing with those skinny little tiny wrists of yours, now dangling helplessly above the keyboard.

Our brother Hondo and I have a bet: How long before doctors say you can wear a watch? I don't mean to be morbid or anything, but if something as catastrophic as this happens again, like Nancy Pelosi marrying into the family (or, double-worse, marrying our sister Tweedie) and you attempt once more to take your life, may I have your pool table?

I'll even drive up in the truck to get it, so long as your husband isn't passed out atop it in a puddle of his or someone else's drool.

Again.

This presidential election thing certainly has played havoc amongst our clan, hasn't it, Lis? We have had our own Civil War.

Half of our family for Obama.

Half of our family for that grumpy John "Hey You Damn Kids Get Off My Lawn!" McCain.

I feel your pain, Sissy.

I actually found myself wincing at the ballot box, voting for the senator from Arizona. What a choice. I've got Barack Obama, whose only experience is that he has the stage presence of a Spice Girl, and John McCain, who got that noggin rash from the asteroid hitting the Yucatan.

Did not man have hats 65 million years ago, Sis?

I'm a little to the right of Genghis Khan and would have been a lot more enthusiastic if it were Lucas McCain running for the Oval Office instead of John McCain.

Remember? Us being kids on Cross Street? Watching Lucas McCain as "The Rifleman"?

I always had trouble figuring out what Lucas McCain actually grew on his ranch. You'd see him at the Western's opening, shirtless and sweating.

He'd be swinging away with a pick, smashing into alleged farmland hard as concrete. There was never a darn chicken on his spread. Not a pig, cow, rutabaga, apricot orchard, carrot patch or even cages for housing mink.

All Lucas and his son, Mark, owned ala a farm theme were two horses on which to ride to town to purchase cheeseburgers.

But boy howdy, could he settle problems. Villainy visited. Lucas McCain didn't ask to sit down for unconditional dialogue. He didn't wow the bad guy into surrendering by showing him GQ Magazine with his puss splashed on the cover.

He didn't offer the outlaws: "Here. Take my neighbor's ranch and subdivide it amongst the autoworkers and the homeless. Just don't hurt me."

No.

With that fancy repeating Winchester, Lucas McCain shot people.

Fatally.

By the hundreds.

And for conservatives like us, here is a wellspring of refreshing clarity.

Someone does something bad to you.

You shoot them.

You bury them.

And then you have pie.

I like pie, Lisa. Can we have pie over the holidays?

Believe me, Sis. It's not the race thing. I don't care if Obama was an Anabaptist Eskimo. But I'm worried.

Does this mean we're now Socialists? I just know around March, members of the all-powerful California Teachers Union will be showing up at my doorstep.

"Hmmmm. Boston. Boston. John Boston," a pursed-lipped former third-grade instructor who is now a colonel in the Politically Correct Police says, glancing over my dossier via her monocle.

"We understand you have close to 200 great cowboy shirts. Hand them over so that we may redistribute them to really corny Democratic nerds like SCV activist Bruce McFarland so that he too might know style.
Your clothes. Give them to me."

Lisa? Are you and I and all the other Republicans going to have to all start wearing matching one-size-fits-all Chairman Mao green muumuus? I worry for you, Sis.

I've got the legs to pull off something like that.

You don't.

With Obama as president, I'm not really worried about the country.

I mean, I can get another country.

This dreaded election has already torn us apart and is starting to unravel our family.

I know this because I'm going to kill Joe.

You know.

Our brother? The one we used to say looks like the North Korean shot putter and there aren't any North Koreans nor shot putters in the greater Boston tree?

The guy who kidnapped Grandma JoAnn's talking Ronald Reagan doll and reprogrammed the voice box?

I mean, a joke's a joke, but Joseph didn't even have the decency to use someone decent, like Hubert Humphrey.

Joe somehow monkeyed with the doll so that when you pull the string, it grabs its crotch and the Rev. Wright starts screaming at her about her hens coming home to roost. The woman's 80. I thought she was going to have a heart attack.

Lisa. What happened to Our Joe? Why is he wearing a berka?

He's never been the same since he joined a union. I mean, we'll be on vacation, in the middle of a conversation, he'll look at his watch, hold up his index finger and say: "Hold that thought. I'm on a coffee break."

I cannot, for the life of me, understand Democrats. Granted. I'm not big on alleged Republicans these days, either. Buck McKeon has been in Congress for 118 terms and all he has to show for it is a hair transplant.

But Democrats? They can't seem to hold a rational discussion without blowing a whistle, removing their clothes, contacting beings from another planet or spewing granola on you when you say something like:

"Maybe the military might come in handy some day. ..."

I can understand our niece, the lovely and talented Stefanie, voting for (making actual quote marks with my fingers here) "a Community Organizer."* Stef's evil. And she lives in San Francisco.

But our nephew Rio? Did Martin Sheen bite him in the neck? I mean, I never much liked the kid and we both went to your sister Leslie asking that she not have him, and that's when Rio was three.

Him with that 6.8 GPA and big Charlie Brown head stuffed full of book learning. He just stares at you like he's one of the big-eyed mutant children from that 1950s British science fiction movie "Village of the Damned."

Rio voted for Obama. Twice. He's 11, which is okay. Rio's in Acorn.

I know. I know.

We're GOP. We're supposed to be better than that - take the High Road and all.

But, Lisa, if I hear that they've replaced "Hail to the Chief" with the theme to "The Omen," I'm kidnapping a nun with low self-esteem, throwing a gallon of holy water into the back of the truck and racing to Canada.

Well. Hang in there, sweetie. Don't slash your wrists. You made $250,001 last year and maybe you'll be able to keep some of that.

Listen, Sis. I think before the big Christmas (it's still "Christmas," isn't it?) get-together and there's more ill-will, we should plan a family meeting.

There, united under a single happy roof, one by one, we kill the Democrats (because you know they don't fight back) and take control of our country, one vote at a time.

*a Harvey Krishna

John Boston, aka Mr. Santa Clarita Valley, has earned 117 major national, regional and California awards for writing excellence. His column appears Sundays and Fridays in The Signal.

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