Archived Story

Congress covered in garage [UPDATED]

Published 9:39am Wednesday, July 3, 2013 Updated 11:42am Wednesday, July 3, 2013

I went out to the machine shed to get John Dear the Gay Riding Mower out. It’s been a long winter for him, him stuck out there in the shed, parked beside Black Blazer, The Snow Plow Truck. You have to feel kind of bad for him. Blackie was out many times this past winter, what with all the snow we had gotten. John Dear wouldn’t have gotten 10 feet.

He perked up a little when I got his battery voltage back up. He perked up even more when he found out about the recent gay marriage changes. Incidentally, I was reading him the newspaper; that’s how he gets caught up.

“Wait,” he said, “did you just say something about the immigration bill?” I had, since the U.S. Senate just finally produced some kind of bill making I don’t know how many people now able to legalize their presence here.

“You know what that means, don’t you?” he asked me. Nope. Didn’t have a clue. I was crawling around underneath him looking for his oil drain plug. I was poking and prodding. John Dear was giggling and hiccupping. He was ticklish, apparently.

Black Blazer got in on the fun, and said to John Dear: “It means we can send you to Mexico, right, Boss?” It’s been a long winter. Blackie was pretty tired of being cooped up with Johnny, it seems. The only way these two would get hitched would be with a log chain.

Johnny still didn’t catch on, and got more excited: “No kidding? I can leave the country? See Europe?” I wish Blackie wasn’t so keen on aggravating John Dear. He’s pushy that way, being a plow vehicle. And John Dear is way too susceptible to Blackie’s macho behavior. I wish John could have seen Blackie about last February, after 10 inches of snow, his heavy blade on one side of a rock-hard snow bank, the rest of him on the other. It took me two hours to dig him out, him pretty angry at me. “Well,” I remember him saying, “you’re the driver, it’s your fault.” Yeah, I told him, but a little help wouldn’t have hurt him.

Alice Chalmers The Tractor Mower jumped in now. She was parked perpendicularly to both of them. There’s no doubt about her sexual inclinations. She’s asked me to park her closer to Blackie, but I’ve been afraid to. They get together out there over the winter, I’m not sure what the result would be, something black and orange, no doubt. Anyway, to aggravate Blackie, she said: “I’d go with you, John Dear, it would be fun.”

I bet she would. About now, I pulled John’s oil plug to drain his oil. “Psssst,“ he whispered, “can’t we do this somewhere more private.”

I briefly considered somewhat meanly whether or not to put oil back in him. Good thing he mows. Of all the machines around here clamoring for attention, he’s the fussiest.

Blackie chipped in, said: “Can I go south and be part of the new border guard between us and Mexico?” Oh, good grief. What next. I replied: “I don’t know if I have enough money to send anyone anywhere.” Really, most of my money goes to a weekly trip to the gas pump. Cars, truck, tractors, mowers. I told all of them I’d work on it, but also I explained that insurance on them was becoming very expensive.

So there you have it. Immigration reform, gay equality, border guard militia, price of fuel, insurance costs, budget problems. Sound familiar?

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