July 26 2008
Well gang, there’s bad news this week. This past week, the Houston Astros got swept by what used to be the last place team in their division: the Pittsburgh Pirates.
Everybody in the world knows that the Astros are a rotten team except the owner, who speaks in very positive terms about their chances of being in the hunt, not only now, but in September. In fact, he’s almost evangelical about it. And in a way, you can’t blame him.
If he can convince people to have faith in the team, and get them to file into Cool Aid Park, why, he can sell them tickets, beer, soda, hotdogs, and God knows what all, with all those tickets.
The attitude of Astro’s management is very similar to George Bush refusing to say the "recession" word.
"Don’t mention that the monster is at the gate, and maybe he’ll just go away."
Maybe a miracle will happen.
Maybe you can hypnotize the people.
At any rate, Hank Wilson and Ray Spalding were sitting at a watering hole the other day discussing politics, when they suddenly realized that talking politics was just too damn depressing.
They stared at each other for a moment, and then Hank said," How ‘bout those Astros?"
There was a half a heartbeat, and then they both just burst out laughing. A little at first, and then beating on the bar, tears in their eyes, fighting to get their breath.
Clancy the bartender watched the two, who were now holding their sides in pain, with the sympathetic eye of a practiced diagnostician.
"I’ve seen this kind of thing before," he said. "There’s only one thing to do."
He reached under the bar and drug out a hog leg .44 cal. Colt.
Clancy pulled back the hammer and proceeded to blow another hole in the large portrait of Richard M. Nixon on the other side of the bar.
Except for the ringing in everybody’s ears, the bar was dead quiet.
At last, Hank Wilson spoke up. "Thanks Clancy," he said. "I was ready to pass out, and I think I may have actually busted a gut here." He rubbed at his side.
Clancy punched out the used brass from the old Colt’s cylinder, put in a fresh round, and put the gun back in it’s place under the bar.
"Hell," said Clancy, "Every once in a while, I need an excuse to put another round in that portrait, and it just turns out that a .44 Colt is a sure fire cure for hysteria.
Yes, and a lot of other things too.

Till next week
Helga Biermeister
Secretary