Letter: A dubious Dubian dream | VailDaily.com
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Letter: A dubious Dubian dream

John Watson, Avon

The word “boink” has many meanings depending on your demographic.

To a 52-year-old it always meant getting hit with a baseball.

But I’ll tell ya what getting boinked is now.

Today in the High Country it was too windy to take my bike to work so I walked.

After a harrowing winter in which I wore out a pair of chains for my boots, a Christmas gift from my darling daughter Juli and her mountain man Ryan, I am prepared for spring and the sudden changes in the weather at 8,000 feet.

I have a breathable spring rain coat, $20 at the thrift store in Edwards, in my backpack along with a stocking hat and a pair of cotton gloves, all of which came in handy today when a breezy 65 degree day turned within a heartbeat into a thundering squall.

At the time I was immersed in a leisurely two-mile stroll to work, thinking of what it would be like to be a citizen of an Arab emirate like Kuwait or Dubai.

I wouldn’t pay any taxes, in fact, my government would give me $100,000 a year. And all I would have to do for that is to keep my women quiet and wrapped in black linen.

The more I thought of it, the better it sounded. No money worries. Free gasoline.

Subservient women. And total protection from any of our nasty poor neighbors in Iran, Iraq or Pakistan from the American military, paid for entirely by American taxpayers, so that I could sleep peacefully at night.

I think I would love America even more than I do as a native son if I were a Dubian or a Kuwaiti, or from any of the United Cheney Emirates.

The American public would send me most of their earned income and never blame me for taking it. They would blame the oil companies instead, not understanding that they are just the middle men. And whenever things got tough, their Congress would put on a little dog and pony show or divert attention elsewhere.

I would start a stock trading company, always a dream of mine, and call it “Dubai or not Dubai.”

It was just then, in the midst of my Dubian day dream, that a thundering cloud came roaring over the mountain behind Buffalo Ridge Apartments, where I live in partially subsidized employee housing with many nice people from Mexico.

And because the clouds are so high up here, I guess the water doesn’t have time to melt in a thunderstorm, so the hail came hollering, the size of milk duds, “boinking” me in the head all the way down the hill.


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