WHIP OUT THAT MEXICAN THING

Whip out that Mexican thing?

What is that?

(No, NOT that)

Burrito?

Taco?

Churro?

Two more “debates” remain between Hillary and Donald.

They're not exactly Lincoln-Douglas debates.

More like cat and dog fights.

Or cock fights.

Hillary, no more coughing and feinting.

Donald, no more mocking and tweeting.

This presidential election year should be called Let's Make A Deal:

You show your emails and I'll show my tax returns.

And forget about the size of your hands and that other thing.

Let's hog tie and gag all surrogates for both candidates.

Oh no, that won't happen, because then CNN, MSNBC, FOX NEWS, etc., would go out of business.

Build the damn wall now so Donald will shut up.

(Actually, I'm not for building the great, beautiful wall.)

IT'S ABOUT RENEWABLE RESOURCES AND THAT MEXICAN THING

DREAMS

One night, I dreamed that I flew all the way to Colorado from Kabul to visit my mother.

 

When I came back to Colorado I told her. 

She said, "I know. I saw you!" 

Of course, I know that dreams last for a very short time, but I swear it took me a good twenty-four hours to get to Colorado from Afghanistan. 

I've never had so many lucid and beautiful dreams as I did in Afghanistan.

 I would wake up at anytime and groggily step to my typewriter, just inches away, and start tapping down my dreams in the darkness and silence of my bedroom, not caring about spelling, just getting out the news of my strange dreams. 

Unfortunately, my dreams and other writings were destroyed when I lived in Juarez. 

Not on purpose.

They were inside a metal chest, covered with plastic; but rain, beautiful rain, found its way into the chest, and macerated my thoughts and dreams.

 I recovered only one old notebook, containing notes from books I've read.

 The other notebooks contained only inky blurs.

IT'S ABOUT RENEWABLE RESOURCES AND DREAMS