Satire: Ah, For the Good Old Days! Me and Cliven, Rounding Up the Negroes!

You probably don’t know this about me, but there’s a bit of the cowboy in my blood.

Yessir, I was borned in Ioway where pigs and corn is all they got as far as the eye can see. But when I was a young rascal of 15, our daddy hauled our carcasses up yonder to North Dakoty, where the men is men, the women is women, and the coyotes will git yer babies at night if ya ain’t careful.

Paw, he didn’t allow no sittin’ around. So during the summer months when we wasn’t in the school house gettin’ learned up good (English was my favorite class, by cracky, and the one I was goodest at), he farmed out his boys and put his girls to work around the homestead.

Bein’ one of the boys, I’d git farmed out to a farm. Which was about all there was to do there in Oliver County, northwest of Bismarck, other than explore the mysteries of tryin’ to get a real live actual honest to goodness girl to let you touch her in her most secret places, which I admit, I was generally less-successful than most.

But I learned a thing or two about ranchin’. And minorities.

North Dakoty was a poor state at the time, so we couldn’t afford them big city Negroes like what they got in Chicago. No, we had to settle for Native American Injuns to mock and hate and flaunt our whiteness at.

Those were the days.

I think of those days now as I consider Cliven Bundy, defending America out on his ranch in Nevady. Sittin’ there in the face of all them guns which never weren’t pointed at him none in the first place, standing up fer his right to graze his gosh durn cattles wherever they had sage brush growin’. That fedruhl gubbermint got no business tellin’ nobody where they can graze their cattle… or their Negroes, as long as we’s on the subject.

I figger one of these days, if my Parkinson’s disease lets up a little bit, I might just move my livestock out of this here fascist state of Mareland and herd them out to Nevady. Oh, we gots us a nice little herd here at the Schmalfeldt Dog Ranch. Two head. Border Collie and what we useta think was a German Shepherd until we saw some kinda dog on TV called a Chinook that looks just like Shiloh does, so we figured that’s what she is and she don’t care none as long as someone throws the gosh durn ball once and again.

Yessir. I can see it now. My herd and Cliven Bundy’s, mergin’ and minglin’ like God’s lesser critters is spose ta! Cattles, Dogs, Negroes, it don’t matter. As Cliven pointed out, ya gots to give them there Negroes somethin’ to do or else they get all lazy and want to eat food and make babies.

So, ah figger here’s what me and Cliven will do. We’ll saddle up the broncs and head on down to Vegas, round up as many of them Negroes as we can corral, march ’em up to the ranch and put ’em to work. We won’t pay ’em, but we will let them live in the barns and other outbuildings. And they’ll git all industrious and muscular and make babies just like the other livestock (exceptin’ my doggies what is spayed). And then, they can hold jamborees and hootnanny’s and tap dance and play them gosh durn banjos and me and Cliven will sit there with the militia in the front yard and drink beer and clap our hands in time with that happy Negro music.

And if the feds come a-gunnin’ fer us, we kin use them Negroes as shields instead of hidin’ behind the kids and women folk, as was the original plan.

See? God has a purpose for every livin’ thing. Even the Negroes.

By cracky!

By: Bill Schmalfeldt

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