JOE COORS REPUBLICAN FOR CONGRESS

                                                                                                                                                                   

Well, now----I have had this old beer ad for a long time.  It pretty well speaks for itself.  I have been saving it for the right occasion.

 votesmart.org/candidate/135695/joe-coors-jr

 Can a leopard change its spots?

www.corporations.org/coors/

THE SHADOW SAYS: VOTE YOUR CONSCIENCE NOV. 6

THE WATERMELON MAN

when I was a lad in the ‘50’s living on a farm in

Bindweed County, Indiana we would grow melons, both watermelons and muskmelons.   

(I have been informed that no one calls them muskmelons anymore, but that they are referred to as cantaloupe.)  No matter.

In the summer when they were ripe we would stack them along an embankment beside the state highway which made a natural display area.  People from Jimson City would drive out on a Sunday excursion to buy our melons.

This usually coincided with a visit from my Aunt Vida and Uncle Esthel.  Aunt Vida was my mother’s older sister who had had the good sense to marry Esthel Fish.  My father and Uncle Esthel would sit outside on a bench all day and talk until someone drove up.

At this point Uncle Esthel would go into action.  When he got up to walk over to their car he would be sizing them up as they parked.  This guy was half merchandiser, half manipulator, half Jew, half con man and all salesman!  He would pick up a melon and totally deadpan say “Now this one here is a Dixie Sweet.  It is a deep yellow with a firm flesh and a sweeter than normal taste.  And that is a Mississippi Mellow.  The flesh is a little greener but the taste is indescribable, kind of a sweet, buttery........” and so on until you could smell the magnolias. They thought they were buying a fine wine.  Of course he was making up the names as he went along and improvising the whole thing with what he thought he could get away with.  He would do twofer’s and threefers.  He would offer to, and indeed would, plug a watermelon if he thought it would make a sale.  Then he would throw in a freebie to an already inflated price and everyone was happy.

It has been said that the measure of a great speech is to make them laugh and to make them cry and to thank them for it.  I learned a lot from him.  He was great!

TO SERVE AND PROTECT

 

A few years ago……five, six, It’s hard to tell.  Time blurs after a while.  But it’s a fine, fair Saturday morning and I am standing on the 16^th Street Mall, the pride of Denver.  A ‘Great City’ by all accounts.  World class.

A well dressed matron approaches me and asks directions to a nearby hotel.  Old money, I take her to be.  Very refined and indeed a pleasure to be of service to.  I give her directions, she thanks me and goes on her way.

As I turn to leave another woman stops me.  This one is about 35, blonde and wearing a powder blue plaid wool skirt.  She looks like she should be teaching Freshman English in a high school.  Then it gets a little strange.  She propositions me.  Me!  Jesus, I’m an old man.  (Well, not that old.)  I am standing there thinking, “Look whores do NOT work the 16^th St. Mall.  Ever! And particularly not at Ten o’clock on a Saturday morning”  I ask her why she picked me and she says because she had seen me talking to that lady.  I am starting to think I have been catapulted into the Twilight Zone.  Anyone with any sense would have fled for their life at this point but nobody ever gave me credit for having much sense.  So I think I would like to run with this.  I invite her into a nearby McDonalds.  (What McDonalds isn’t nearby?)

   I buy the coffee and we take a booth.  I ask her why she is hooking.  She says she is doing it to make the rent.  This is at least plausible.  All of this without agreeing to her proposal.  So I ask her how much she wanted.  She says $150.

Now, unless you are into schoolteachers, there is no way that this broad is worth 150 bucks.  No!  Nyet! Nada! Never!

   This is going nowhere.  I am looking at her purse which she had placed on the table.  The fashion police comes out in me.  It does not match her outfit at all.  It is a cheap little square box with a hinged lid and a handle, like a school girl’s lunch pail.  It is just big enough to hold a snub nose .32 and a badge.  I made her for a cop about a minute after she stopped me but I like to play with fire.  I can usually spot a cop or a whore.  Little difference, really, at times.

  I am about to ask her to open the purse when she bolts.  I think she knows she had been made.  She went out the door.  A few minutes later I follow her.  I spot her a half a block away with her head stuck in the drivers’ window of a patrol car of the Denver Police Dept.  It is time to go.

About six months later I am again walking on the mall.  I walk past the horsie patrol.  This is something the city does to promote good will and photo ops for tourists and conventioneers.  And there, in a blue uniform and a cowboy hat and holding the reins of a horse, stands my whore.  There were many things I thought of to say to her but for once prudence dictated that I keep my mouth shut.

True Story.

Citizens, do you wonder where your tax money goes?

THE SHADOW KNOWS