Alrededor de la vieja fogata (Around the ol’ campfire)

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It was a motley looking crew that sat cross-legged around the ol’ campfire in their gaucho finery, munching on Cookie’s frijoles. They were tuckered after trailing a herd of bony cattle from the pampas of Argentina to their new home in the Big Empty. In the darkness outside the firelight, cattle bellowed and mooed in a south-of-the-border accent.

Sweetwater Slim broke the smoky silence and said, “Fellers, I’m not too sure all this MAGA stuff is working out fer us cowboys.” Slim’s face was bruised, and there were lumps on his noggin from practicing with his South American bola, since the drovers were forbidden, by executive order, to use their King ropes. The gauchos made it look easy, but Slim kept wrapping the braided leather cords with wooden balls around himself instead of the cattle. 

“I hear ya, Slim,” said Sourdough as he tried to adjust the sash on his balloony gaucho britches, “When Trump said ‘America First,’ I thought he was talkin’ ‘bout NORTH America.”

Panhandle had a pained look on his weathered face and spat a stream of Copenhagen juice into the coals. “Worst part was swimmin’ these cows ‘cross the Panama Canal, dodgin’ freighters. But I figger we all gotta do our part to Make Argentina Great Again.”

Goshen Gus shook his head and said, “I dunno what these cows is gonna eat. Mosta the good grass on the winter range is paved over with asphalt fer that Qatari air base. I tell ya boys, the cow business is in a helluva fix these days.”

The Trail Boss strode into the campfire light to try to ease the sour mood among the sullen drovers. “These is the cards we been dealt pards,” he explained. “Trump is replacin’ Wyoming beef with Argentinian beef fer some reason. He has smart folks advisin’ him.”

Little Joe the Wrangler looked up from his copy of “How to Cuss Cows in Spanish for Dummies” and said, “Hell, they took away our Quarter Horses an’ made us ride these dinky Argentinian Paso Finos. That ain’t right. An’ we gotta use them goldarned bolas cuz ya cain’t rope offen a Paso Fino. Soon as ya dally up, a good-sized calf is gonna topple that midget cayuse over an’ drag ya both through the cactus.”

As Joe went back to his reading, he was heard to mutter, “What’s next? Change the name of our football team to the Vaqueros?”

“Look at the bright side, Joe,” comforted the Trail Boss. “At least we all got VIP tickets to tango at the grand openin’ of Trump’s new Eva Peron Memorial Ballroom. I hear tell that Kid Rock’s gonna headline. Should be a helluva shindig.”

Silence descended around the ol’ campfire, as the trail-weary crew fiddled with their new and unfamiliar gaucho paraphernalia. Usually, it took a disaster like an uncontrollable stampede or a white-out blizzard to dampen the spirits of these stalwart cowboys. But this new turn of events in favor of the homeland of Che Guevara had them all on edge.

Hoolihan grumbled, “Ya know who I put the blame on fer this mess? Our congressgal an’ senators, that’s who.”

Sweaty Stetsons nodded in the smoke.

Hoolihan continued, “Hell, they’s all in the same party, an’ they’s s’posed to be good pals with Trump. So, why didn’t they raise a fuss when he picked Argentina over us?”

Stetsons nodded more vigorously at Hoolihan’s observation.

Cookie banged on a skillet with the butt of his six-shooter to get the crew’s attention. “Don’t ferget that them politicians gotta put in appearances at the Stock Growers convention, an’ answer some tough questions from the cowbosses about it. That’ll be a livelier show than a Kid Rock twist contest in the White House. Thank you for your attention to this matter.”

“Now,” he said, wiping his hands on his greasy apron, “who wants coffee?”