Posted on 09/24/2011 10:57:53 AM PDT by Brian_Baldwin
Sometimes nicknames are fun, and you may have a nickname for some of your favorite Republican candidates. Usually there is a story to go along to help make fun of others along with ourselves and our favorites. And sometimes it's just fun to piss folks off. And in the tradition of America -
Gary “Sock Monkey” Johnson
Dinner time was approaching in the town of Corn Nuts, Kansas. Mom was busy in the kitchen, and Dad was drying his socks on the bedroom lampshade. On the T.V. was a debate! Suddenly little Tommy cries out – “Look mom! There’s a Sock Monkey on the Television!” …
Laying her wooden ladle down, Mom peeked around from the very large kitchen into the very small living room. “Why Tommy, there IS a Sock Monkey on the television! – How cute!” …
“Yeah Mom! – does he have a name?” ….
“I don’t think so, Tommy. He’s just a Sock Monkey”, said Mom as John, the Dad, walked into the living room to join in on the family communion.
“You know son, Sock Monkeys don’t have names. But they sure bring a lot of joy to boys and girls all over Kansas…”
“But Dad – why isn’t he smiling?” asked Tommy. “Well son, Sock Monkeys, that’s just how their mouth is. Just a straight line. It’s, well, just part of being a Sock Monkey. It’s a long, very old, tradition son ….”
“Well – ok. But – he sort of scares me,” Tommy said as he reached into his pocket nervously for his prized blue marble. “You mean like Chucky?” asked Dad. “Well son, he’s not Chucky. He may look sort of dead eye, but if you hold him real close, you can hear him say ‘I promise’.”
“Yeah Dad – I guess a Sock Monkey is really cool,” said Tommy. “And very practical, too!” chimed in Mom. “He’s made out of a sock, how clever!”
“Will he ever have a name, Dad?” asked Tommy.
“No son. He won’t ever have a name. But America will always love the Sock Monkey. Hey Tommy! Why don’t you give him a name!” said Dad.
“ …. Hmmmm …. No, Dad. I think I will just call him Sock Monkey,” said Tommy.
“Good boy, son. Now turn off that T.V. and join us in the kitchen. Mom whipped up us some corn on the cob, mashed ta-toes, and a pigeon. You know, the economy has been tough, thanks to that S.O.B. Obama. But thank God for all the white millet and corn kernels we got, to attract those pigeons” …
“Dad, what’s S O B mean?” asked Tommy. “Oh, it means … Save Our Barn” said Dad.
Ron “Space Trash” Paul
Destiny is like an invisible force. It is all around us. Whether it be the realm of Science, or Science Fiction. And destiny was what was probably commanding the hands and fingers of that Pittsburg, Pennsylvania scientist as he worked late into the night in his bunker-like lab under the Science Museum of War – a non-governmental, privately funded (through Church donations) bunker in 1935 designed and operated as part of the “Defeat the Japs” effort of the mid-30’s.
In the mid-1930’s, too many Americans simply didn’t understand the threat from the National Socialist German Workers Party, and the threat posed by Imperial Japan. But there were intelligent beings among us, among everyday Americans.
These friends, they came from Outer Space. But unlike most illegal aliens, they applied and were granted citizenship according to the laws of America by President Coolidge.
Yes, they looked like humans … because, as it would be revealed to the shock of the entire world in the year 2012, all over the Universe intelligent life progresses under the hand of God to the same face, verily the same form – eventually into what we think of as Cro-Magnon. A brain, two legs, two arms, a neck … and so on.
Except they might look – though almost indistinguishable - a little different from the rest of us. Different in shape, and in particular voice. A voice that some would call “sounds like someone is talking from behind a tin foil mask or something” …
The hands of this scientist were busy – creating the first satellite almost 22 years before Sputnik 1 was launched by yet another Socialist threat since the NAZI’s in the form of the Soviet Union.
“I will call this satellite ‘RON’”, said the scientist (Outer Space being whose earth name was “Dick” but his true name was “Luna”).
And so this satellite was born to Destiny, within its design pure genius of circuitry and purpose. Our space friends loved America, and indeed the Earth, and they were here to save and help as much as possible.
But even the space people are not perfect. And, they also have their enemies. On the dark side of the Moon is a military base operated by the Silk Worm Beings. They also have their ill-designs for Earth, and ill-designs for our friends the space people. But not only would this satellite help in the War, it will be a way to act as a “trip wire” if you will to send alarms to all the other space people that the enemy is approaching and is at the gates of the Republic.
“Why ‘RON’?” asked the wife of the scientist, aka space friend of America.
“RON – it stands for Reagan Or Newt … this will become more clear in a few decades,” replied the scientist.
The satellite R.O.N. was launched into space. A journey. Far above the rest of us. And, it served us all well. In fact, there is a much longer, more important story to tell about how this very satellite served, and saved us all. But that is a story for some other time, when there is more time to reveal the full legend.
Eventually, our space friend and scientist who created this satellite left this world. And eventually, after serving purposes which will one day be told to our children, the engines within this satellite depleted, but even to the last it was to shine a light deep into space.
Then it floated. Space Trash.
In one way we are all space trash in the end. It was in the year 2011 when pieces of this space trash fell from high up in space and back down to Earth, back down into a back alley of some putrid town in Pakistan, killing four operatives of yet another enemy of America – removing from this earth four bearded Islamic terrorists, along with the fleas that lived in the beard of each one of them.
Good riddance. And thank you RON.
Mitt “Got Milk?” Romney
The first time he came into Dodge City, that was years ago. Dodge City was a city of six guns, bad men, rustlers, women of ill repute, but in the middle of the town was a Bank.
His real name Willard. He was called “Willey” when he was just a young buck, but he would later be called “Mitt” because, well – he invented baseball before Babe Ruth became a legend. But in those days, times were different. There was no time for games.
An Irish financer had arrived in Dodge even before the real bad times, before Mitt, to startup his own business. He started a Bank. Folks wanted him to be sheriff.. “Naw …. I think I will stick to banking,” said “Fidget” McCain.
They called him “Fidget”, because – well, no one was quite sure why … but he had this fidget thing. Some say, it had to do with the Civil War. And something about almost saving Lincoln. But that is another story.
Fidget liked guns, but he had lost his touch. His true touch now was banking. He put down the fast draw, and picked up the top hat. And if you needed the money, or wanted something done in town, folks came to him.
But over time, even though he was a good man, he started to become corrupt. Good folks came to him, but so did bad folks. He became involved in “committees” and “gang of” type meetings in a cigar filled room which was an adjunct attached to the back part of the saloon run by “Billy” the “Kid”.
Then came “Mitt”. The funny thing was, even though Fidget liked guns but put it down because he couldn’t hold steady a trigger, Mitt hated guns, but he picked one up. The story on that is to follow.
But first, it was very apparent to Mitt that he figured Fidget wasn’t that good for Dodge City. But that wasn’t his concern. Firstly, he had to deal with Boog.
Boog was a bad captain of a murderous cattle rustling gang. When Boog came into town to drink, well folks just let him drink.
Mitt was a tall, handsome man. Women loved him. But he was good, and his true love was that gal back in Salt Lake whom he would never betray. She would always be waving this bible at him, and being good in heart he did his best to go along to get along. Back in those days, an invasion of locusts came into the Salt town, and Mitt picked up a gun.
Now shooting a six-shooter at locusts, well that may seem sort of odd to some folks. But one thing for sure. He learned to shoot. And shoot good. One bullet – one dead locust. Every time.
Mitt walked into Billy’s saloon on high noon that day. A couple of the girls, they sort of blushed – which really ain’t natural considering what was their normal affairs. Mitt moseyed up to the long, oak, counter and put his boot on the bar.
“Got Milk?” he says.
That’s what caught Boog’s ear.
“Milk! MILK? - you says got milk!” an ugly frown on Boog’s face, Boog’s voice coming from a corner of the room.
Boog was sitting there at a small table, and Fidget was sitting playing cards with him.
“You mus’ be one of ‘em sissy asses from Utah, ain’t it?” says Boog. “We don’t take kind to sissy milk drinking boys around here… but – you look like a fella’ who can hold his own goat, so, … how about if I buy you a glass of whiskey?” said Boog, wiping the potato salad from the side of his mouth.
“I see you like potato salad,” said Mitt. “I am glad to see that. Potato salad has healthy grits in there to help your body grow. And a glass of milk, well, that might help you with that bad rash you have on your neck” ….
Just above the red kerchief Boog kept tied around his neck, there was this ugly, pimply rash.
“What you say?” said Boog almost stunned. “I think I’m going to put a bullet in your boot,” says Boog.
Boog then threw some whiskey from a bottle that was sitting on the small table towards Mitt’s face. Fidget gets up – “Now both you boys calm down here, we don’t need any more bullets putting holes in this saloon, Billy boy don’t need any more expenses since the patio roof of the whore house collapsed the other day …”
Boog missed Mitt’s face by a good margin, and Mitt simply wiped off the whiskey from his trousers.
Being a good Christian, I don’t need to go into all the details of what happened next. But we all known the outcome. Boog made the biggest mistake of his short life. Fidget and one of the ladies carried Boog’s body, boots on and all, out of the saloon and loaded his flesh onto a wagon.
As the wagon rode off to “boot hill”, Fidget turned to Mitt.
“We can use a sheriff around here, Mitt! You sure can shoot a gun!” says Fidget. “I would be sheriff myself, but I got BIGGER plans. Way bigger. Like Presidential, if you know what I mean. Financials is my way to the great happy trails that I’m planning for …”
“Yeah – this town can use a sheriff … Maybe I will stick around a bit,” said Mitt.
Two of the gals in the saloon fainted.
There were a lot of changes ever since Mitt “Got Milk?” Romney came to Dodge City. That’s right – from that time on he was known as Sheriff Mitt “Got Milk?” Romney. And, not only did he bring some goodness to the City, he even organized a health and sports event where athletic types from all over the territory came and did stuff like boxing, juggling, and shooting cans. They even had hayrides.
But the story of Dodge City didn’t end there. There was another guy who came to Dodge a few years later. His name was Rick “Russian Roulette” Perry. That is another story in volume two of the best selling Western series “Milky Way Trails”.
Rick “Russian Roulette” Perry
The Milky Way Trails is a place in time which had forever struck like a hammer on the hot iron of America as the Land of Guts and Glory, of Guns and Poker, of Sweat and Tears, and open trails for any cowboy or cowgirl willing to Ride Free, for any prospector with loyal donkey by ones side to hunt for that gold, a land where one day, thanks to folks like Mitt “Got Milk” Romney, will play baseball.
But just like every town and Petticoat Junction in this great land, sometimes it’s those moments in time, for whatever rhyme or reason, that seem to capture our attention and become legends in their own twisted way. Like a pawn shop, that becomes famous, but only because the owner has some interesting, albeit dumb, sons, and plays upon our fascination with rust and junk. A gal belting out a tune in front of a panel of misfit judges, the gal forever more known as the “Spider Woman” and loved in the hearts of boys across saloons of every nook and corner of the lower 40-something. The sound of that crack of the bat, that homer in the bottom of the ninth, at some brew town championship, that turned the tide. A satellite Made in the USA that falls down from space and onto the head of four Pakistani Islamic terrorist in some stinking hell hole on the far end of the world.
Sometimes, it’s those sort of moments that stick in your mind – that even in your last day on this dirt you think back to. “What a moment,” you say.
That day, that hot, dry, thirsty day – was one example.
The bank president of Dodge City was out of town that day. Good thing for it, because if Bank President Fidget McCain was there, he probably would have been sitting at that same table along with Rick “Russian Roulette” Perry. And who knows who would have taken it that day.
Sherriff Mitt “Got Milk?” Romney was at the Billythe Kid saloon, at his usual place next to the tender, drinking milk.
That’s when the tall, chest parading, swarthy Texan walked into the saloon. A typical, but not so typical, Texan, he had most of the normal threads, but something was odd about him.
For one, he didn’t wear leather boots like most did. He wore gator boots, like from the swamp boys style. And he tied his jeans around the thigh with a snake skin strap. He wore the usual leather, sleeveless breast jacket, but instead of leaving it unbuttoned, it was buttoned up with copper buttons from one of those confederate soldiers uniforms. The day, well, it was just too hard, too thirsty, to be buttoning up that jacket.
He had his gun slung on the left side instead of the right. The gun barrel on the six-shooter, well – it was just too long, too long to be a fast draw.
Oddest of all, he didn’t sport the normal cow hat.
Instead he wore a sombrero.
The sombrero thing sort of reminded folks of another cowboy who was sort of a big shot in town years ago called George. Like George, the new guy in town also had a regular cow hat tied and hanging by a leather string from his belt. He would did this odd thing – he would be flipping his sport between the sombrero and the cowboy hat every 30 minutes or so.
“This guy, he’s sort of good lookin’ like Mitt – but he’s also sort of weird,” said one of the gals.
“What’s he sticking his chest out for?” says one of the other gals who put a plug of tobacco in her mouth. “He want some action?” she says.
The new guy goes up to the tender and says, “What sort of food you have around here? I’ve been riding in from out of town, and am sort of new around here. I’ve been down at the border peeking around, and rode hard and fast to Dodge City when I heard about this guy named Mitt who is some sort of sheriff who may be the next Mayor. I’m hungry, and beside, I’m your guy. Rick for Mayor,” he says.
Then he turns to everyone in the saloon – “Ya all hear that? RICK FOR MAYOR! – you’re all gonna’ vote me Mayor, got it?”
One of the gals in the saloon moseyed up next to the shiner who had now positioned himself right in the middle of the long, oak counter, his gator boot on the bar and was caring for his glass of apple cider.
“You sure stick your chest out, you handsome hunk of a man,” she says.
“Why – sure I do,” says Rick. “And I can speak a little Spaniard lingo, too”.
“You don’t say,” says another of the gals pulling up a chair next to Rick.
“Why sure I do,” says Rick. “And I got me this pistol, it’s special … Wanna’ see it?”.
“Why I sure do!” says Bessie, the best lookin’ of the gals. So Rick pulls out his six-shooter – “See, this here barrel is like a cannon.”
“You been in the war like Fidget?” she asks. “Sure I’ve been – I was a Captain for the Flying Horses and I’ve been trained to shoot from way far away, sort of a long distance shooter …”
“Don’t say,” says Bessie … “Why don’t you use a rifle, if long distance is your way. You know Mitt? He’s got a Winchester Rifle. He can shoot long distance, too!” …
“Aww … this barrel of my pistol is long distance enough for me,” said Rick as he walked over to the card table and laid down his gun. “Anyone up for a game?” says Rick.
“Why Captain,” says one of the gals – “You a gambling man?”
“I sure am,” says Captain Rick. “I’m handsome, I’m brave, I got me the sportin’ suit, and I got me the lady luck! --- Say! I hear there is a cowboy here in town called Mitt. Would he be around to play a hand of cards?” ….
Sherriff Mitt turned, and still holding his glass of milk says, “No partner – I’m not a gambling man. Lest’ not right this moment. But you are welcome to play your game with any gentleman so willing … just so long as you follow the law …”
There happened to be several boys at the saloon that hot, dry, thirsty day. There was Herman “Pepper Corn” Cain for example. Now there was one strong fellow. A few other honchos, too. But they were too thirsty to play any game with the new guy. Because, besides always doing this chest sticking out thing, they, well, thought he was sort of funny in the head, like he had too many punch drunk swallows of rot gut in his time and it sort of effected him.
No one would play any cards with him that day other than make a few comments about his sombrero. “These bastards don’t like me,” Captain Rick says out loud after about the shadow of the sun moved a few notches to the West. “You’re all yeller’,” he says.
Some guy in the saloon, who was sporting a yellow kerchief and was known as Jon “Yeller Tie” Huntsman, replies back – “Say partner – yeah I’m yeller. See this yeller tie around my neck? The gals think it looks good on me. But, I’m just good looking in general, tie or no tie. But I ain’t yeller in the way you think. But I like yeller. I like it a lot. Yeller is a nice color. And maybe I will sit down with you and play a hand or two …”
“I think you’re a sissy,” says Captain Rick. “Forget the cards …” he says, as the Captain picks up his gun and empties the chambers as all the bullets fall to the floor. Then he picks up one bullet and loads a single round into the six-gun. He then spins the cylinder and lays the pistol back down onto the card table.
The saloon is now all looking at him. No one is interested. Captain Rick seems to fidget even more than Banker Fidget McCain. Suddenly, seemingly angry, Captain Rick switches from his sombrero to his cowboy hat. “Looks like you all don’t have the heart for this,” he says. He then shoots up from his chair, hitting the edge of the card table.
The revolver spins off the card table, and a bangs down on the floor as the table falls, and folks back off this way and that.
The revolver shoots – bang! – the bullet goes right into Captain Ricks right gator boot.
“Owch!” he yells… “Get me a doctor!” he shouts.
Lucky for Captain Rick, there is Doc Newt, also known as “911” Gingrich, nearby and drinking his usual, who somehow bandages the Captain up and even manages to save his foot, all the while Rick “Choir Boy” Santorum was hovering over the Captain ready to give him his last rites.
The next day, Captain Rick was still alive – though now walking with a limp. As he was leaving Dodge City, folks in town were giving him the hard case. “Hey! ‘Russian Roulette’ Rick! Where ya’ heading for? “
“No place,” says the Captain. “I am going to stick around and heal my boot. No reason to leave Dodge City. There are some nice gals here, and besides, I sort of like that Mitt anyhow. Why, I may even offer him to partner along with me … I can be Mayor, he can be Sheriff … think he will like that idea?”
“Don’t know about that,” says Bessie. “But I think you may want to meet up with one of my girl friends coming into town this Sunday … Her name is Michelle. She says she’s coming up from behind you fast on her pony called Pirate Party, being that you just missed boot hill by inches, she wants to deliver some heavenly letter to you from someone named Ronald ‘Star Wars’ Reagan … seems your reputation has spread far and wide now, and the letter is something about how a gun is a tool not a weapon. You may have heard of her. They call her Michelle ‘Pony Express’ Bachmann. “
That hot, dry, thirsty day, really seems like pretty much any other day in Dodge City. But for some reason, folks far and wide still remembered it. And from that day forward, Captain Rick was forever more known as Rick “Russian Roulette” Perry. And you know how those nicknames can sort of stick sometimes. Especially if you shoot yourself in the boot.
Tippecanoe and Tyler too.
Tough and Ready
John Huntsman
Obama’s hand Puppet
Gary “Spiccoli” Johnson. Because he always looks stoned.
Rick “Open Borders,” Perry.
The revolver spins off the card table, and a bangs down on the floor as the table falls, and folks back off this way and that.
The revolver shoots – bang! – the bullet goes right into Captain Ricks right gator boot.
HA!
Jerry Doyle called Perry — Arlen Specter in cowboy boots.
I always refer to Mitt as “Guy Smiley” because he looks like the Sesame Street character.....and sometimes acts like him. If I knew how to post side by side photos of them I would.
She of the Immaculate Convention.TM
Cheers!
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