By Rose Pedenko and Tanya Simon

Howdy, folks!

We’re sittin’ here in our rockin’ chairs on the front porch thinkin’ about what new surprises them crazy presidential candidates will have for us come first light tomorrow. Word is the Texas state primary is as close as down on a duck, and the war camps of “Calamity” Clinton , “Tenderfoot” Obama, and “Maverick” McCain are in full whoopin gallop (or Gallup , dependin’ on if you’re ridin’ over the left or right side of the ridge). Bettin’ parlors are split as to who can rustle up more dirt on the others, and who has enough verbal buckshot and can cuss louder, longer and downright nastier. So far, Calamity’s hit the bull’s eye with arrow-splittin’ accuracy.

It shouldn’t take a school marm to see that these here primaries have become so durn wild, wooly and lawless that they make Deadwood and Tombstone seem as tame as “Little House on the Prairie.”

Calamity and her sidekick, Billy “depends on what the meaning of is, is” Clinton , uh, Clanton, with their posse are burnin’ the candle at both ends. Their plan: to cut Tenderfoot and Maverick off at the pass to keep them from squattin’ on their spread down the avenue called Pennsylvania . We’re bettin’ anyone a plugged nickel whether they have the firepower to get what they think they’re entitled to, or if they can put a spoke in Tenderfoot’s wheel.

Maverick is an odd stick and the biggest toad in the puddle, and he’s got every right to be. The man was noosed, tarred & feathered. And he proved he’s got a tough hide -- came back stronger and meaner, and maybe a little more spooked than we like, but still someone to ride the river with. When it comes to fightin’ the enemy of this here land, we’d rather have a grizzled veteran than a wet-behind-ears whippersnapper.

Tenderfoot gets a boodle to listen to his bazoo flap but we’re wonderin’ if he ain’t plain buffaloed when push comes to shove. Why he’s between hay and grass standin’ next to Maverick who’s waitin’ for the boy’s ballyhoo to wind up come Super Tuesday. The debate atween Maverick and Tenderfoot will sure ‘nuff test the kid’s ability to stand the gaff. If his knees buckle under the pressure, then Tenderfoot’s just going to have to skedaddle back to Chicagee. Everyone says Maverick’s too old. Mebbe. But for an old cur he’s still got plenty of horsepower in them britches of his to show the shave tail that all that soft solder will get him only as far as he can toss his purty missus, Michelle .

Speakin’ of the missus, we all got to give credit to Calamity. That little lady has packed a wagonload of piss ‘n vinegar in her six-shooters. She ain’t goin’ down easy, you can bet your eyeteeth on that. Scuttlebutt has it she kin fling a mean dish of grits in Billy ’s direction. And speakin’ of Billy , Grandpa says he’s whipped like puddin’ and only wants to get back to some unfinished business in the Lincoln Bedroom. That’s where flannel-mouth did his best work. Thems is Grandpa’s words. Not ours.

For Tenderfoot the chant “Oh-bah-MAH!” is echoing far and wide, across the plains and valleys. He’s seems a nice enough fella – tall, dark and to a manor born. He talks… and talks and talks. We’re still waitin’ for him to take a breath. But he is doin’ a bang-up job on the trail, though Grandma says he’s got about as much sense as a lemon. After listenin’ to Grandma we got to thinkin’, that we’re havin’ serious doubts about a passel of his ideas. They’re what that nice Boston gent, Mitt, calls naïve. For instance, Tenderfoot says he wants to end the war in “Eye-rack” after he’s elected. That’s fine and dandy. But the plain-as-day truth he’s ignoring is, those varmints that attacked and killed so many of our kin back in ‘01 will be sure as shootin’ ridin’ roughshod to damnation in Eye-rack iffin Tenderfoot orders the cavalry home. Grandpa says that’s like pickin’ up and movin’ the chicken coop instead of killin’ the fox.

Meanwhile, Maverick is tryin’ to mend fences with conservatives hopin’ to roust support. The logjam he’s facin’ with us is, we’re a tad skeptical about whether or not he’s “speakin’ with forked tongue”…again. And you’d better hightail it when he doesn’t get his way, ‘cause he’s as ornery as a rattlesnake with a toothache, t hat’s for darn sure.

When is this range war goin’ to end? Not any time soon, pardner. We reckon the high noon stage will be carryin’ even more bitter feudin’. The end of the trail for all this bad blood ain’t nowhere in sight. And it’ll be eight more months a’fore we’ll know if it’s goin’ to be Maverick, Calamity or the Tenderfoot countin’ sheep in the Lincoln Bedroom.

Yes indeedy, summer’s a comin’ and the primaries are already gettin’ hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night.

And y’all thought politickin’ was dull.