Barry on the High Road

Barry on the High Road

Barry swung a long leg over his horse and dismounted. An acrid smoke hung in the air, the stench of blood and decaying flesh.

“Be careful!” Joe hissed. “You’re approaching a tragedy of a mockery of a sham of a farce.”

The pile of animal remains towered above them, hydra-headed and still steaming. Barry calmly put a rubber glove on his right hand and reached in. “Some of these entrails are really old – in fact, I smell EnRock at the bottom of all this. And Keating 5.”

He stood up and reached a lanky arm way up into the carcass. “Bank of Amerocka ate Merrill’s lunch.” He extracted a handful of long, blue glass shards which appeared to have come from a New York skyscraper.

“No more thundering bulls or stern bears,” Joe said. “And Freddie should never have left Wilma and run off with Fannie Mae.”

Barry continued his reading of the entrails. He pulled out the remains of a domestic automobile industry. “Whatever excreted this is a true force of nature. Even Ike didn’t do this much damage.”

“CNN hardly knows where to send the Wolf Blitz first,” Joe agreed. “Note that no one will ever again use the phrase “I like Ike.”

Barry walked somberly around the towering carcass. He picked up his binoculars and looked south. A lone cave stood on a shore of splintered wood, rock shards, twisted metal. Waves crashed against the coast. “Even Smith Barney never saw this much rubble.”

“I really wouldn’t want to be Paulstone or Bernankrock right now,” Joe continued. “Not that it’s a piece of cake being us. Even Bush came out of his burrow, smelled 6 more weeks of winter and asked for a new copy of “My Pet Goat.”

Barry dusted off his hands, removed his glove and took a long pull on a tall drink of water. “We’ve got miles to go before we sleep.”

“No, Barry, no!” Joe said. “This is no time for quoting poets. Football analogies, dude, or Nascave.” He slid his feet into the stirrups of his donkey.

“Joe, I’m not going to talk about being in the red zone. This is not about red caves and blue caves.”

“I know, I know, Barry, it’s about change we can believe in. But we’re standing in front of something nobody can believe. No one has ever seen this particular animal. No one even knows what it is.”

“Just don’t call a Palintologist, Joe,” said Barry “You’ll never get a good diagnosis that way.”

Joe’s infectious laugh echoed throughout the Rockies. “You can be funny, Dude, I’ll give you that. Just don’t put it in Lehman’s terms.” He chortled.

Barry climbed back on his horse, riding around the carcass, studying it from each side. “A rough beast slouches towards Bethlehem, waiting to be born.”

“You’re a poet and your feet show it, they’re long fellows,” mocked Joe. “Let’s go, you’re going to be late for your meeting with Rubin, Rock, Reich and Volcker incorporated.

They rode east through the Rockies, along a clear stream, aspens quivering in the brisk wind.

“Have you talked to Hillary lately, Barry?”

“She saddled up the sabre-tooth and went to Florida for me.”

“What about Bill?”

“Bill said ignore Sarah and don’t take Hillary’s pack for granted. I think he’s still mad at me.”

“What do you expect, Barry? You kept quiet when he was accused of being a racist.”

“Wasn’t it enough that I let Billary hog the stage at the convention? How many more times do I have to hear about 18 million cracks in the cave ceiling?”

“Until you admit she would have made a fine Veepstone, like I did. You are such a stubborn son of a rock. Besides, having Bill and Hill ride the tiger in Denver drove our TV ratings to the moon. Not that anybody even remembers Denver at this point.”

They rode along, munching on trail mix and arugula. “Why don’t you campaign with Hillary?” Joe asked. “Take the Pterodactyl out with Oprah or Bruce Springstone! You’re the celebrity candidate, brother – don’t let Sarah get away with being Princess Dianaslab.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I need some company on the high road.”

“You need to find the middle road, dude. Or in your words, the path not taken.”