Mexican Standoff

In a panicked effort to put out a five-alarm fire on our border, our confused friend from Mexico mistakenly applied gasoline today. Normally this results in a quick flare up that serves more to startle and perhaps to singe eye brows than anything else. Such an act typically flames out quickly and does not alter the course of the burning. Unfortunately in this case, with the House of Cards in attendance, a few equally disturbed but well meaning idiots joined in the fray, fanning the flames with applause, cheering the Disgrace, fomenting the Discord.

The problem of course, is that the Gift Horse was spooked in the process-- having been looked in the mouth one too many times over the past decade. This docile creature is responsible for planting and harvesting the fields of the American economy. Typically, The Gift Horse would rather peacefully chew on its cud, paying no heed to her Government Master's perpetual encroachment on the Harvest. Normally she would head back to the field more determined than ever to do a better job with less. But this time She looks to be more than a little spooked. Perhaps The Gift Horse, (otherwise known as the American Tax Payer) may actually bite back this time! You see, the weight of plow has tripled during the course of the past 2 years, leaving her stuck in a quagmire of debt and unfunded mandates, while the field of Opportunity has been left Fallow.

Yet all the while, her Government Master wildly and desperately spurs her on-- madly cracking its whip while adding to the weight of her plow, picking up slackers from Mexico and Greece along the way. "Why aren't we getting ANYWHERE?" he cries out, shaking a fist at the sky. For a moment there is a pause. The Gift Horse's frantic struggle to pull the plow comes to a sudden halt. The Gift Horse, for the first time in 150 years, actually stops working and looks its Master in the Eye.

The Master, startled and frightened by this development, sends out a well placed lash on the Gift Horse's back. She doesn't flinch, her hide having been toughened and calloused by the abuse. She no longer felt the sting of the whip.

"Racist!" screamed the panicking Master, redoubling his efforts.

Still nothing from the Horse.

"Hate monger!" he cried. Now it was the master who found himself foaming at the mouth. But still nothing from the Horse who was looking back with an almost quizzical expression. The Gallery that had been assembled on the plow began to echo their Master's cries. And what a motley crew indeed! It was comprised of politicians of all ilk-- people that believe themselves to be Journalists; Union Bosses and an alphabet soup of failed Insurance companies, Bankers, Automakers; and two morbidly obese mortgage loan sharks innocuously named Jack and Jill. They were alternately pleading with and insulting the Gift Horse but again to no avail.

Finally, in a rare moment of leadership, the Master gathered himself, wiped his sweaty brow and motioned for the Gallery to be silent and then turned back to address the horse. "Can't we work something out? For the benefit of the Children? For the Poor and Oppressed? What about the innocent Victims of Capitalism? For the Listless, the Uninspired, and the Incompetent? Now is not the time to neglect your Patriotic Duty! Come now... what say you?"

The Gift Horse noticed that his Master had relaxed his grip on the reigns during the excitement and took the opportunity to spit the bit from her mouth. Liberated from her bit, She took a moment to enjoy her Freedom and carefully assessed her Master and the Motley Crew that she had been dragging along.

"This," she said, "is not what I signed up for."