When I’m sorely vexed by the vicissitudes of life and fear that my being on a choppy sea might likely develop into a full fledged case of mal de mer—my first reaction is a sojourn to my guru Buford.  He has an unlisted address, deep in the cedar breaks of the unmapped portion of Pale Pinto County.  His foodstuffs are delivered by helicopter, he owns and operates a biting dog and has scant compulsion to participate in social intercourse.  Our unlikely partnership was forged by capricious fortune and is almighty difficult to explain.  So I won’t.

Anyways, I felt compelled to sojourn to Buford’s Place the other day and seek his counsel on the ongoing millennium of our choice for our forty-fourth American Idol  Jefe Grande Spectacular.  I sat patiently in my vehicle as he affixed a logging chain to his dog Terminator.

“Hello the house!” I greeted him as I picked my way through the saw brier lawn decor.

“Rise and light,” he responded.  “Come set on the gallery and we’ll have a smoke and a snort of head-cracker.”

As I mounted the steps he fished out a Marlboro and ignited the filter end as he took a sizable inhalation.  He believes that tobacco is a detriment to a man’s health, but that the filter is actually beneficial to man or beast.

“What’s on your mind?” Buford said as I sat on a nail keg instead of Terminator’s rocking chair.  I had sat there before and discovered that fleas abounded thereupon.  As a matter of fact they yet abound in my car seat and seem to be content with their accommodations.  As near as I can cipher they are now in their tenth generation.

Buford’s television screen dwarfs the one that once stood across the highway from De Leon’s Weeping Oak.  The volume was always cranked to the max, and Wolf Blitzer was holding forth from CNN’s Situation Room.  Buford’s home generator could be heard out back of the house as it converted butane to electricity.

“I’m troubled by this campaign and our choice for President,” I said.  “We’re getting down to the Championship Bout and I can’t make heads or tails of the direction I should take in the upcoming election,” I admitted.  “I’d value your opinion.”  A volley of coughing ensued and Buford flipped the tobacco end of his Marlboro into the saw brier thicket.

“I’ve give it a heap of thought,” he admitted, “and the way I figger it’s straw votes, raw votes and nominations by plain old delegates—that don’t amount to a hill of beans.  Some count, some don’t and skullduggery runs rampant in the whole process!”  He paused and fired up the filter on another Marlboro, gasped for oxygen and wiped the tears from his eyes.  “Man, that’s a good cigarette!”

“That’s the way it looks to me too,” I admitted.  “What course of action do you favor?  Are you leaning toward the Super Delegates choice in our anointing procedure?”

“Yet, I rekkin so,” Buford said.  “If that’s our only two options, I guess they’ll have to do.”

“Two options?  What do you mean?”

“Well,” he paused for another draw on his Marlboro, “if I have a choice in the matter I’ll take the soup and whoever wants them, can have them deli gates,”

“I’ve got to go.”  I took my leave, and considered myself fortunate.

Let me hear from you.

My phone number is 254-893-5063.

My postal address is 333 W. Ayers, De Leon TX 76444.

You can e-mail me at Charles@CharlesChupp.com.

By Charles Chupp, Copyright ©2008 Charles Chupp