It is the year 2248. We live in what some would call a perfect world. There are no diseases, or hangovers. There is no fighting, except between women, for entertainment purposes. If you hear about a party, they have to let you in. It’s the law. And they can’t kick you out, no matter what you do.
But there is a dark side to our world. There is no funny cowboy dancing. It is forbidden by the High Council. No one wearing a cowboy hat or cowboy boots may get up in front of others and do a dance that could be considered “outlandish” or “unserious.” This includes funny spinning, funny stomping, and funny sashaying. You don’t even have to be wearing the cowboy boots on your feet; moving them with your hands is also a crime.
It’s no longer safe to wear a cowboy hat at all. Especially a cowboy hat that is comically large or small. A friend of mine was arrested for walking down the street with a tiny Mexican sombrero on his head. He was never seen again.
The secret police are always looking for the slightest sign of people doing a funny cowboy dance. If you fall down on a slippery floor, then get back up, then fall down, then get up, over and over, you will probably be beaten with billy clubs. Spin around once, you might be O.K. Spin around twice and they set the dogs on you.
Even the language has been changed. Officially, the word “yee-haw” no longer exists. Nor does the phrase “Watch me go!”
Those found guilty of habitual funny cowboy dancing are either executed or banished to the Desolate Zone, where they are forced to get jobs and raise families. Some have to undergo state-sponsored “dance therapy.” When you come out, they say, the only kind of cowboy dancing you’re interested in is cowboy ballet, which nobody likes.
Despite the perils, there are those of us who have vowed to keep funny cowboy dancing alive. We have learned to recognize one another. When I meet someone, I might cross the room with an exaggerated swing to my arms. If he says, “Why are you walking that way?,” I know he’s not one of us. But if he approaches me with a little prance, holding up his hand as though he’s twirling a lasso, I know he’s O.K.
No single one of us knows the entire funny cowboy dance. It would be too dangerous. One person might know the bowlegged forward scoot. Another might know the fake off-balance running-in-place. Yet another could be an expert at the agitated-leg-while-the-other-leg-is-straight. Under torture, you might be forced to reveal the cowboy peekaboo, but that’s it. That’s all you’d know.
How did our society, so enlightened when it comes to things like free telescopes if you live near a girls’ college, or mandatory drunk leave, come to this? The terror can be traced to Don, the so-called chairman of the High Council. Many years ago, he was giving his annual Big Speech at a mass rally. The speech was not going well. It was long and boring. Don sensed this, and suddenly announced, “Hey, everybody, want to see me do a funny dance?” Without waiting for an answer, he launched into a desperate, flailing flurry. It went on and on, becoming more and more pathetic. When it finally ended, with Don panting and sweating, what is now known as the Great Silence occurred. For nearly an hour, there were no sounds—no laughs, no cricket chirps, no ticking of a clock. No one even coughed, lest it be mistaken for a laugh. Finally, someone yelled, “The funny cowboy dance is a lot funnier!”
Don vowed, then and there, to crush funny cowboy dancing. He even sent a killer robot back in time to kill Leonardo da Vinci, the genius who first conceived of the funny cowboy dance. Leonardo showed the robot his sketches of various moves for the dance, and even performed it himself. The robot was laughing so hard he could not kill him.
Upon returning to the present, the killer robot was executed. He was placed, standing up, under a huge hydraulic press. It is said that as the press squeezed down upon him he began doing the funny cowboy dance. He continued dancing until he was only two feet tall. Then his lights went out.
Perhaps one day a man will once again be able to get up and do his funny cowboy dance. Or any kind of dance he wants (within reason). He’ll be able to throw his cowboy hat on the floor, stomp on it with both feet, then put it back on his head and get a goofy look on his face. He’ll be able to pretend to strike a match on his buttock, light an imaginary cigarette, then notice with alarm that his rear end is on fire. All while galloping and tiptoeing and high-kicking to his heart’s content.
I don’t blame Don. He was my friend once. But he got corrupted by being such a moron. And, to be honest, not everything he’s done has been bad. After all, he did wipe out Shakespeare. ♦
