Perot Offends Obama!!!!

"This just in from our Springfield, Missouri correspondent Jack Pribek: "Go ahead Jack..."
texas
Thanks Moo; "I have received the following text from an anonymous source (I think it was this steel guitar player I worked with in a band called "Fo' Screamin" Crackas, that collected Hummel figurines) regarding something on your site that had to do with Ross Perot-Barack Obama?"

"Jack: Would that have been Dimebag Darrell?"


"Can't remember Moo, but here it is, as I got it:"


Wow, this is spooky man-you know what I mean?
I was on my way to a gig at the Best Western way up in Otterbutt, Minnesota one time (mid 80's??) and I stopped off, as I was in the habit of doing whenever I was in that particular neck of those particular woods, at a place called Zap's Tap, somewhere near the Wisconsin Dells for some onion rings and Jagermeister. It was late and the place was empty all except for one table full youngsters. The guys were wearing cardigan, knit sweaters and the girls were sporting pleated skirts. There were half-eaten burgers, left on plates, strewn about the table, somebody evidently thought that the paper napkin in the water glass gag wasn't passé 'cause there were two or three of those.


A couple of them were smoking. I saw a crumpled up pack of Newports that someone had knocked to the floor and didn't have the courtesy to pick up. Newports, for the love of Pete! They were acting really rowdy, had a "Up With People" on a caffeine jag going on.Sally, the waitress with the scrambled yellow hair, winked, in a salacious yet, for some reason, to me, a repulsive manner. Clearly, she had fond memories of my last visit and the afternoon we spent Riding the Ducks, that were not mutual. I decided to change the subject before the subject was brought up.

"What's the deal with that bunch", I said, glancing at but not turning towards, the table in the corner.
"Oh them", she said, her eyes showing subtle disappointment. "There's a big youth group, up from Chicagoland (a boorish term that furthered my mood of contempt, I mean, it's ridiculous, Chicagoland-makes the noble hog butcher to the world sound bush league; you don't ever hear Omaha land or, Bakersfield land do ya?) staying at [Picture left: one of the hog butchers's daughters, Norma]old man Hanacek's place over by the marina. I think this crew must have separated from them."

Then she cocked her head and whispered, "I just bet ya' they're breaking curfew".

"Bring me the usual Sally, and don't stop to sniff the daisies, I got places to be."

[Picture right: Banacek's Place]

"You got it Big Daddy", she made a crisp turn and headed for the kitchen with her smile returning. Some broads like the rough stuff, I guess.

I turned my attention to the corner table, something just didn't add up, ya' know?

There was a tall and lanky black kid that was obviously the ring leader. He was holding a Carlos Castaneda book, up high, in his left hand and reading aloud to his adoring audience."Look at every path closely and deliberately, then ask ourselves this crucial question: Does this path have a heart? If it does, then the path is good. If it doesn't, it is of no use.", he read, and the boys grinned sheepish, the girls twittered.

[Picture left: a busking bagpipe player]

"A man of knowledge lives by acting, not by thinking about acting." He said slightly louder now and the girls started to swoon. One young man laughed out loud as if gaining some confidence.

"It's better to get something worthwhile done using deception than to fail to get something worthwhile done using truth.", he stated, his confident baritone voice now booming, and the whole bunch of 'em erupted in uproarious laughter, like it was the funniest damn thing they ever heard.

One more, and pandemonium will break out; one more and there's gonna be a riot goin' on. I can feel it, I thought in utter, amazed silence.

Just then, behind me, the door swung open and a gust of icy Wisconsin air blew forth silencing the mob. In walked a 6'9" man of Samoan heritage, with an unsteady gait. Our paths had crossed before. Horst, the cunning and openly gay chauffer/ bodyguard of none other than Ross Perot.

I don't know why but, I sensed trouble.

As if on cue, the jukebox fired up of it's own accord and started playing "Celluloid Heroes" by the Kinks.

"Don't step on Greta Garbo as you walk down the Boulevard... She looks so weak and fragile that's why she tried to be so hard"

The walking, living, breathing, entity of a Napolean complex that is Ross Perot made his entrance. Now, you know that R.P. and I used to rub shoulders back in the day, moopig, before that business with the Canadian Customs Official, before the falling out. And, you also know that the little munchkin usually had half a bag on most of the time. This time though, was different. This time, moo; he was ripped to the tits and wasn't making any effort to conceal that fact.

"If you covered him with garbage, George Sanders would still have style", the old Seeburg box blared before being censored with a well placed and swift shot from Horst's right Doc Marten.

As Sally dropped her sampler platter full of battered mushrooms and mozzarella sticks, that she had every intention of packing away during her 15 minute break, behind the steam table, Perot let out a whoop and in a nasal, shrill, abrupt speech pattern normally attributed to those native of Odessa, Texas shouted; "Woohee, what the hell is going on around here? Can't a billionaire get some biscuits and gravy?"

[^Picture right: this is our waitress Sally^]

"How the hell do y'all live around these parts? Don't you know there's a whole planet down there that's warm"?

He was pissed as a potter. I checked the table in the corner. Total silence and wide, unblinking eyes. The cocky young man, the ramrod of the bunch, was now meek and confused. Perot must have seen me looking over there because; he fixed a wobbly gaze on the young alpha.

"Dammit," I thought, "I should have done something, created a diversion. These kids may be unpleasant to me, even rash but they don't deserve this."

Perot stepped forward, towards the youth group refugees. As he sauntered, he looked around the table, winking at the heavy-set plain girl with the colorful, thrift shop beret in her mousy, brown hair; she shuddered. The pint-sized over achiever, stopped abruptly, focused his attention on the tall, lanky, young man with the once confident baritone, and eyed him from head to toe, as if he were sizing up an opposing corporate raider who was foolishly plotting a feeble and fruitless power play. "What you reading there son?"

"It's a book". The young man attempted sarcasm but fell very short and came off intimidated.

"Let me see that", said the diminutive baron as he grabbed for it, displaying quickness that defied his besotted state."Well lookee here, Carlos Castaneda; good old Carlos. You see this Horst? Carlos freakin' Castaneda. Well, I'll be horsnwaggled and dipped in shit!" His reedy voice lower now and staring into the young, future Senator's eyes, the mini mogul said;

"Guess what son, I know all about ol' Carlos. And, I know you kids think he's cool and all that, like to stare at the stars don't you boy? Y'all like to take your mescaline and howl at the moon, don't ya' son? Like to see vapor trails and such. How about this one Sparky? Vision quest my ass! What do you think of that, you pinko? Yeah I know old Carlos, and guess what? I even sold a car one time, it was a damned Buick. Want to know something else, he didn't make the last three payments. He still owes me money but, hell, that ain't no thing. Half the freakin' world owes me money, don't they?"

Almost in a whisper the tiny, pecunious tyrant said, "don't you know who I am, son? Don't…you…know…and, his face started turning beet red. Louder now; "I'm Ross Perot-Ross…Freakin'…Perot. Got that? And, I'm going to enlighten you, kid. Your hero here, your darling, the author of this piece of crap, my old pal Carlos was queer as a football bat!!"

Jack, excuse us, so that is as queer as a five-legged, two-headed heifer, with a nut sack?"

"That's right, you hearing me! Let me clarify it for you."

At this very moment, the prosperous dwarf threw the book back on the table and stomped on the ground with one foot. He reared back, took a deep breath and let loose with a shrill, deafening, trumpet fanfare that came from the icy depth of his blue norther of a soul: "Carlos Castaneda was a FOP!!!"

The young man looked beaten, suddenly wearied by the world. Out on his feet. Trembling and frightened; what could he do?

[Picture left: Obama's Kenyan rite of passage portrait]

There comes a time once in every man's life when it's put up or shut up, feet to the fire, do or die. It was a turning point. He did what he could to gather himself. I could tell that it took more fortitude than he knew he had in him. He slid his chair aside and took a few shaky steps toward his abbreviated adversary. In a tone that was now shaky, he looked down into the eyes of evil and said; "You sir, have offended me."

Time froze but, only for a moment. Horst leapt to his feet, the top button of his, short sleeved rayon shirt festooned with the "native birds of Paraguay" popped off and slid across the tile floor exposing the freshly graying and matted hair of his brawny chest. Unbelievable how fast the big man could move. Perot shouted; "Hold it there, back off sport".

"Nothing to see here, no cause for alarm." He looked at Sally, looked at me and concentrated once again on the young man from Chicagoland.

"You know what, Horst? I kinda' like this kid. Yeah kid, I like you. You came up hard, like me. You got some grit. Why don't you come over here and join me for some biscuits and gravy."

[Picture right: Dramatization of the event]

It was one hell of a Wisconsin night, I'll tell you that, moo. I never seen the like before or since. It was a night when the gauntlet was thrown down and young man stood at the crossroads. And, I'm here to tell you moo, that that young man answered the bell in the 13th round. Yep, I knew right then, that this kid has a real future. So, bottom line, the legend is true moo. For, I was there to witness it..." fin

"Ross Perot and Barack Obama have been in the same room, indeed they have and; it was a night to remember."

So we have received this report via Jack Pribek. Thanks Jack, that's one RAK for you: and, MooPig editors have posted an altruistic donation to the loving memory of Dimebag. They cannot start to thank this young man enough for his bravery in coming back to meet with you there in Blue Cut, Missouri, to present this historic report posthumously. >ed