Slim Randles

“This whole election process just doesn’t work for me,” Dud said, sipping his coffee. “There’s no way we can tell who is best for the job.”

Doc, being the senior member of the Mule Barn truck stop’s world dilemma think tank, looked kindly at Dud. “Well, haven’t you been reading what each candidate stands for, Dud?”

Dud shrugged. “Sure. But I firmly believe they only tell you what you want to hear. They’re the best, and the other fella is going to take you straight to ruined aspirations.”

“Ruined aspirations?” piped up Steve, the cowboy with the owlish look of pure bowlegged intellectualism. “That’s why I’ve always thought we need a contest. A real contest. Have them put their aspirations where they’ll do the most good.”

“A contest?”

“Bull riding,” said Steve, nodding sagely. “Just set their aspirations on a bull’s back and the first one to fall off loses.”

“But what does bull riding have to do with taxes and warfare and education and all that stuff?” asked Doc.

“Nothing at all,” said Steve, “but you can bet it will separate the serious candidates from the oh-what-the-heck guys.”

“Makes some sense to me,” said Dud, with a grin. “Only problem is, if they ride bulls, one of them might get killed.”

Steve grinned, “Simplifies the selection process, doesn’t it?”

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