V.W. TO YUMA……..

20 Dec



Screaming down the open highway at what isn’t even close to the speed limit, I feel as free as a bird. My wings are spread as I soar and swoop regardless of the world and its woes beneath me. Life is filled with burgeoning opportunity and I’m wearing sunglasses because my future is so bloody bright.

The smell of the engine blows through the air vents accosting my nostrils whilst some inane pop-crap on the radio melts my brain. The kids are playing up on the back seat and I’ve been whistling the same tune for the last fifty miles as the local Spanish language radio station only appears to have two records in their entire discography; Mucho Mariachi part three and the Hernandez family with their 100 greatest trombone riffs of all time. Not so much culture shock, more a lack of!  All the while the battle of the back seat is in full swing; blows and insults exchanged over bubble gum rights and side-of-the-vehicle property conflicts. A Kodak moment if ever there was one.

 The wife is asleep and I am left to deal with the internal struggles of the minor former east bloc nation revolting behind me, forced to arbitrate over such burning issues as.

 “Is the arm rest in the centre of the back seat truly the line of demarcation, or has it shifted by 15 degrees due to the Christmas effect on magnetic north?”


Luckily the Smurf’s were on hand to save the day….


 After a few calming words, the intervention of the United Nations and a multilateral peace keeping force to assist with the enforced insertion of ear buds, both antagonists disappear into Apple-land, and I am once again left to myself. The wife snores rhythmically beside me as field after field of absolutely nothing whizzes by. They may have written a book and produced a movie about a train to Yuma however, believe me that’s about as exciting as it gets. The fact that Yuma is used as a bombing range by anybody and everybody with an aeroplane and a bomb should tell you enough. If not the arm pit of the world it is definitely reminiscent of the flabby bit by the bicep! Vistas of rock and dirt, interspersed with vistas of rock and dirt; the Grand Canyon state at its very finest. I pass cars driven by fellow zombies and wonder how they are holding up to the onslaught of family and abject boredom.

I look up as a brief item of interest flashes by. As far as the eye can see there are fields filled with sheep. Thousands of the furry little buggers! Now, this isn’t interesting in the biblical sense, simply strange. I haven’t seen anything representative of life for the past two hundred miles.



The sheep could only stand and watch as shepherd John fondled his crook… 

Ah sheep, wondrous beasties that they are. I question the reason for them being there, as lamb isn’t exactly on every menu in every restaurant. I decide its quid pro quo. The cartels send us drugs and we send them sheep. Whole populations addicted to the taste of mutton and the soft feel of wool against their skin. No wonder they are outlawed south of the border! One can barely imagine the destruction the white four legged scourge must reap on southern society. Truckloads of pills and powder make their way across the border everyday to poison American neighborhood s and to enslave the weak. Using their obvious hiding places of petrol tanks, roof liners and body cavities to smuggle their deadly cargo hoards of Mexicans surge daily across the desert. Quite cleverly on the northern side smugglers simply walk their contraband across the border and nobody is any the wiser. Absolutely fiendish; worthy of the genius that this great nation was founded on.


The expense incurred both financially and morally by local governments in their attempts to educate the populous on the dangers of snorting sheep and smoking lamb is astronomical. Wooly madness portrayed in black and white movies and shown to cowed audiences in school halls across Mexico.

Just one taste and you will be hooked for life. Just say Baa!

 The monotone voice goes on to list the evils of the four legged creature as grainy images of diabolical farmyard abuse are forced into young impressionable minds. A dinner table appears with what would appear to be a happy nuclear family sitting together; the epitome of familial bliss about to tuck into Sunday lunch. All the kids are church-dressed and freshly showered; mother has a ribbon in her hair and wears a pristine apron, whilst father surveys the idyllic scene over horn rimmed glasses. The vegetables are handed out and dishes are passed from hand to hand. The wine is poured and the auspicious meat carving moment has arrived. Father picks up the twelve inch blade and with Psychoesque methodology rasps the edge against a steele. The time has come and the stainless silver cover is raised from the meat dish. Steam fills the screen and the imagined opiate of freshly roasted meat wafts from the speakers.


After hours of beating, John’s meat just fell apart in your mouth…


 The clouds clear and the cameras pans closer to the dish. It is only then we realize the true horror before us.



At the time, the viking helmets had seemed like a good compromise…


Mother screams and pulls at her hair, Pedro and Matilda run for the door as father looks desperately into the camera lens. The meaty steam condenses on his glasses and the open mouthed camera shot reveals the finest in Mexican dentistry.

 Its lamb its bloody lamb, run for your lives, run for the border, save yourselves!

 Run, run! Go north young man where you will be saved, educated, medicated, and facilitated with social housing.

The horror of the sheep can only be wondered at. We should think ourselves lucky that the four legged beast isn’t the addiction of choice north of the border. By contrast crack cocaine, heroine and those little pills with the happy faces on, are a walk in the park.

Beware the sheep my friends, beware the sheep! Do not succumb to its fluffy cuteness nor to its marvelous taste. Be strong, stand tall and resist temptation.

Just say no to sheep!


Samantha looked coily over her shoulder;she knew how Daddy liked it…..


Suddenly the border wars break out in Back-seat-istan and I am forced to administer a tactical blow in order to silence the natives. Unfortunately my surgical strike knocks the wife who is now suffering from collateral abrasions. Released from her dream state she joins the melee of abuse and thrashing limbs. I don my helmet, tighten my flak jacket, and hunker down in preparation of the coming assault.

 Only two hundred miles to go before San Diego……just two hundred miles!


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