My four o’clock consultation on Wednesday was with one Austin Houston Crockett Bowie Bonham III. Mr. Bonham is a tall, rangy, handsome fellow, and very fit. As is their custom, Southerners usually spend the first few minutes of their consultations with me making small talk. From that, I learned that he has a home on the range where the antelope roam, loves to sleep out under the stars on the lone prairie, wears two six guns with his chaps while punching cattle on his hundred thousand acre ranch, started riding horses before he could walk, and is married to a former Miss Yellow Rose of Dallas whose maiden name was Bluebonnet Travis. He showed me her picture, and I can therefore readily attest that she’s sure enough pretty looking, all right. And, unlike these women up here in Washington, DC, Bonham assured me, “there ain’t a uppity bone in her body.”
“How interesting,” I averred. “By the way, what brings you to my office this afternoon?”
“Oh, yeah,” Bonham drawled, “I better see to it my membership gets their money’s worth for them first-class plane tickets to Dulles Airport and a suite at the Washington Hilton, else I’ll catch hell. What I’m here about, Mr. Collins, is your advice on the best strategy for Texas to leave the Union.”
“Leave the Union?” I replied. “As in, secede from the United States?”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, sir,” he solemnly affirmed. “You see, Mr. Collins, I happen to be president of an organization called Texans With an Interest in Total Secession.”
“My goodness,” I remarked, “I don’t think I’ve heard of that before.”
“It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if you hadn’t,” he commented, “since we founded it just six months ago.”
“And what,” I inquired, “was the, ah, original impetus for your action?”
Bonham cocked his head toward the window, which offers a nice view of the White House. “The election of a [expletive] liberal, socialist [expletive] [expletive] fascist [expletive] to sit in the Oval Office over there, takin’ away our liberty, trampling on our freedoms, and depriving us of our God-given, inalienable rights to… ”
“Pardon me,” I interjected, “but, while maybe Barack Obama is a [expletive] [expletive], he can’t really help that, can he? I mean, that’s the way the Lord made him, isn’t it? And although I suppose an argument could be made that he’s a liberal of some kind or another, how do you figure he’s a socialist, much less a fascist?”
“Well,” Bonham explained, “the Lord made Mexicans and put teats on bulls, too, but that don’t necessarily mean [expletive], Mexicans or bull teats are good for much of anything, now does it?”
“The Lord,” I admitted, “often moves in mysterious ways.”
“He sure enough does,” Bonham agreed, “and it ain’t up to you or me to question His handiwork, neither. And as far as Obama being a socialist goes, well, he made the government buy out all them banks, didn’t he?”
“Actually,” I observed, “it was George W. Bush who started doing that.”
“Yeah,” Bonham nodded, “but he did it the right way. Bush just gave them the money and accepted preferred stock in return for it. Obama wants to convert that preferred stock to common so’s the [expletive] federal government can vote on their corporate boards and tell them banks what to do. And when you got that kind of [expletive] goin’ on, and the national government is right there in bed with the banks and big companies like General Motors, tellin’ them what to do, then that’s exactly what Mussolini did, ain’t it? And Mussolini was a fascist, right? That’s what he called his political movement, wasn’t it – Fascism – isn’t that what it was named? So we figure behavin’ like Mussolini did makes Obama a fascist, too.”
“Okay, assuming, for the sake of discussion, that all those things might be true,” I asked, “how will Texas’ secession from the Union change any of it?”
“It probably won’t change nothin’ goin’ on up here in Washington,” Bonham acknowledged, “but it’ll keep the evil that [expletive] [expletive] and all his [expletive] homo liberal buddies in Congress are doing from spreadin’ down into God’s Country like [expletive] on buses invading from New Orleans after that there hurricane, or a boll weevil epidemic hoppin’ the Arkansas border or somethin’.”
“I see. And speaking of hopping the border,” I extrapolated, “I guess you folks have worked out the final solution to the undocumented worker question?”
“’Undocumented worker?’” Bonham snorted. “Is that how you folks up here in Washington say ‘wetback’? You bet your life we have.”
“Which is?”
“The same thing that there actor feller told Senator McCarthy he thought Texans would do with Communists.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “You mean, Adolphe Menjou, who said ‘shoot them on sight?’”
“That’s what he said,” Bonham repeated, “ain’t it? ‘I think the Texans would shoot them on sight.’ Now, you’ve spent a lot of time here in Washington, Mr. Collins, so one thing I definitely need to ask you is this – when Texas secedes – and notice that I said ‘when’ and not ‘if,’ – when the Texas Legislature votes for secession from the United States, what do you figure that [expletive] over there in the White House and his [expletive] [expletive] socialist, fascist buddies up on Capitol Hill, will do about it?”
“Mr. Bonham,” I carefully intoned, “based on the body of my many years of experience here in Washington, I guarantee you that the President will nationalize the Texas National Guard, order its commanding general to arrest the Texas Legislature and impose martial law throughout the state until further notice.”
“See?” Bonham proclaimed with an air of triumph. “Isn’t that exactly what a fascist like Mussolini would do?”
“I think,” I offered, “that it’s exactly what an American president like Abraham Lincoln would do, actually.”
“Just suppose for a minute,” he requested with a wink, “that the Texas National Guard decides to defend Texas instead of obeying Barack Obama. Then what?”
“In that case,” I advised him, “I would note that the question of secession from the United States was pretty thoroughly settled during what I believe you folks in Dixie call ‘The War of Northern Aggression,’ and the rest of us either call ‘The War Between the States’ or ‘The Civil War.’ So I would expect suspension of habeas corpus, followed by a military invasion.”
“But what,” he slyly inquired, “about all them Texans in the United States armed forces?”
“What about,” I countered, “a lot of capital courts martial on charges of high treason?”
“So,” Bonham mused, “it sounds like it would be a true patriotic struggle. Maybe Texas could use an ally in a situation like that, partner. Who you reckon could stand up to Washington on our side of a fight?”
“That’s a very short list, sir,” I cautioned. “The Russians and the Chinese are the only ones on it.”
“Well,” Bonham shrugged, “obviously not the Chinese. They’re still Commies, after all. But the Russians ain’t Commies no more, are they? So what do the Russkis have in common with Texas?”
“The answer to that,” I told him, in a matter-of-fact tone, would be petroleum.”
“So maybe Texas could work out something with the Russians,” Bonham speculated. “What kind of deal do you think they would go for?”
“This conversation,” I warned, “is verging on a transition from the acceptably hypothetical to the dangerously illegal consideration of methods to overthrow the Constitution by violent means. And that latter subject is one upon which I am not prepared to offer you, or anyone else, my services. But really, Mr. Bonham, isn’t it a fact that a recent poll reported that over seventy-five percent of Texans reject secession?”
“Which means,” he pointed out cheerfully, “that one in four of them think it’s a good idea!”
“I’ll remember that,” I assured him, “if I ever see a Texan barbershop quartet.”
“Oh, if it’s a white barbershop quartet from Texas,” he chuckled, “I’d bet that all of them are in favor secession. That there poll you’re talkin’ about included plenty of [expletive] and pepper-bellies, you know, and they ain’t goin’ for secession ‘cause they know the first thing a free Texas is gonna do is get rid of ‘em!”
“Nevertheless,” I insisted, “I find it very difficult to fathom that you believe there is sufficient popular sentiment in Texas to actually accomplish a secession.”
“Not now, maybe,” he granted, “but, just like Ron Paul says, when the Dollar collapses, things are gonna change real big, real fast, and Texas will be out of the Union faster than a Juárez whore chasing a drunk cowboy.”
“So even you still envision a role for… certain Mexicans,” I gently needled.
“Sure,” he smiled, “just as long as they stay out of Texas.”
“Your remark about Representative Ron Paul’s prediction,” I pressed, “is particularly intriguing. Tell me, if the Dollar collapses, what in the world with Texans use for money?”
A look of frank puzzlement spread across Bonham’s face. “Now that you mention it, I don’t reckon we’ve figured that part out yet. But hell, I know that in some foreign countries, like in South America, for instance, they use US dollars, don’t they?”
“Ecuador does,” I confirmed.
“All righty then, that there Euro is pretty strong,” he murmured, deep in thought, “and Ron Paul ain’t said nothin’ about it collapsing. What do you think? Could Texas declare the Euro its official currency? Come to think of it, that might get us a whole passel of sympathy from them there Europeans. I mean, a whole [expletive] load of them hate the United States as much as we Texans do, don’t they?”
“Mr. Bonham,” I politely demanded, “have you ever seen any Euros?”
“Nope, can’t say as I have,” he confessed.
“The Five Euro note has classical architecture.”
“Classical? You mean, like the buildings out there on the Mall?”
“Sort of,” I let him know. “And the Ten Euro note features a style called ‘Romanesque.’ There’s Gothic architecture on the Twenty, Renaissance architecture on the Fifty, and the Hundred Euro features Baroque and Rococo…”
“’Rococo?’” Bonham gasped. “What the hell is ‘Rococo?’”
“An eighteenth century style associated with elegance, intense ornamentation, shell-curve motifs and extensive use of the decorative arts, especially painting and textiles.”
“Well,” Bonham grunted, “I guess my grandmother might like it; but I sure would feel mighty funny payin’ a call girl with something as faggoty as that.”
“Perhaps you’d prefer the Two Hundred Euro note, then,” I suggested. “It’s got nice examples of Victorian iron and glass architecture.”
“Victorian?” Bonham shook his head, incredulous. “You mean, like that there fat old woman, Queen Victoria, the one on the Bombay Gin bottle who’s uglier than a sow’s rear end?”
“That specific Hanoverian monarch,” I confirmed, “is the one with whom that particular architectural style is associated. Then, there’s the Five Hundred Euro note. Perhaps you might find that more appealing. It features Bauhaus Modern.”
“’Bow – House?’” Bonham leaned forward, squinting.
“B-A-U-H-A-U-S,” I spelled out slowly. “Ever heard of Mies van der Rohe? He was a famous proponent of the style; the man who said ‘less is more.’”
“There ain’t no way,” Bonham blustered, “any Texan is going to agree with that!”
“He also said, ‘God is in the details.’”
“God,” Bonham loudly announced, “is in church on Sunday morning where He belongs! And no sir, I don’t think Texas will be using the Euro.”
“Well,” I persisted, “the other big international currencies are the Japanese Yen and the Chinese Yuan. But practically every denomination of Yuan note has a picture of Mao Zedong on it…”
“Absolutely not!” Bonham interrupted. “I’d rather stick my pecker in a hornet nest hole than use money with pictures of him on it.”
“Well, based on your reactions to the Euro,” I surmised, “I think you should know that Japanese Yen bank notes often feature birds and flowers.”
“Birds and flowers?” Bonham moaned. “What’s the matter with those Japs, anyway?”
“There’s always the Swiss Franc,” I proposed. “Their money’s not too effeminate, I guess – pictures of authors, composers, artists, philosophers, and so forth.”
“Why the hell,” Bonham fretted, “does foreign money have to be so God damn, namby-pamby, pantywaist queer?”
“I don’t think it actually is,” I opined. “You must realize that, upon visiting nearly anywhere in the United States, much less Texas, the average European male is mistaken for a homosexual nearly eight-seven percent of the time.”
“Okay,” Bonham shrugged. “Anybody can make a mistake, I guess; so what? That there Swiss money might work.”
“Before you decide on it, though,” I alerted him, “you should know that the Swiss change their bank note designs regularly. They hold a competition and choose a new one every decade or so. The latest one, what they call the eighth series, entered circulation in 1997 and 1998. In 2005, they held another competition and awarded the new designs to a guy named Manuel Krebs.”
Bonham’s face fell. “Manuel? That’s Spanish!”
“No, he’s Swiss,” I corrected, “he’s from Zurich, but the designs might not go over too well in Texas. The Ten Franc note has pictures of human blood cells…”
“Blood cells?”
“The One Hundred Franc note has a picture of a human embryo…”
“[Expletive] Swiss [expletive]! What are they [expletive] insane or something?”
“Well,” I replied, “the public reaction in Switzerland was sufficiently similar to yours, so as to halt actual printing and circulation of the first-place winner’s note designs. Consequently, the Swiss government went with the second-place designs produced by Manuela Pfrunder…”
“A woman?” Bonham demanded, “and another Spanish name?”
“The designs,” I pointedly claimed, “are much less controversial, featuring as they do, themes involving sport, nature, science and evolution…”
“You call a picture of evolution, whatever the hell that’s supposed to look like, ‘more acceptable’ than a picture of a [expletive] fetus?” Bonham was clearly irritated at the idea.
“Well,” I sighed, “that’s why I thought it was important to tell you about the latest series of Swiss francs.”
“Okay,” Bonham grumbled stubbornly, “we’ll print our own money in Texas – money with pictures of Texas heros and Texas landscapes and Texas stuff like the Brahma bull and the Alamo on it.”
“If you’re going to do that,” I posited, “particularly after the Dollar collapses, I’d say you’d run a very good chance of ending up like Zimbabwe, with a huge inflation problem.”
“All right then, what else could we do instead?” Bonham sat back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, waiting.
I took a deep breath. “You could use Mexican money.”
Bonham turned red as a ripe radish. “No [expletive] way am I gonna base the economy of no new Texas Republic on the [expletive] Peso!”
“There aren’t too may other viable alternatives,” I concluded.
“Okay, God damn it,” Bonham muttered, “maybe those flitty pictures of buildings on the Euro aren’t all that homo after all.”