Can It, Mister EastwoodMaureen Thorson
Everybody thinks the West was won with bullets and bravado, but really it was penny-pinching and rubber chicken dinners in honor of the Secretary of the Interior – still is. Rassle me up that bolo tie, girl, I’ve got to polish a speech to the Rotaries, see if I can’t get the Senate to back me on a million-dollar shooting range to lull my constituents into thinking it’s still the past and that the past is like the movies— they all want to star, be the ranger that hustles the rustlers back over the wrong side of the Rio Grande, but I’ve never met a one who wasn’t better cast as a cowed druggist, the bit part with one line: “I don’t want any trouble, mister.” Nor do I. But peace on decent terms isn’t peace, and you’ve got to plow your way through a billion chickens to get shit done. You’ve got to bank cent after cent, fenced mile by fenced mile. You’ve got to fence those little cowards in as they congratulate themselves. Christ, you ought to see them smile.
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