Mudbone

I'm not the type of guy who usually ends the evening driving an aging, drunk flamenco guitarist named Roberto (or was it Alberto?) home, and yet here I was, mini amp under my arm, guitar in hand, while he waddled in front of me carrying the rest of his equipment towards the Toyota Paseo (undisputed king of the road). Short, bow legged, long greasy hair, euro-style peasant shirt and all, he was too tall to be a dwarf, but somehow looking like someone had taken a larger man and squished him down about 3 feet, hands like big hamhocks and a face like a battering-ram. This is not who I would have getting into my car after a night out, if I had anything to do with it, but the man needed a ride home, and I was going his way.

Fear not, gentle reader, for the story doesn't end there. No, next I got to hear Ralberto's drunken pontification on the merits of practice vs. being lazy, drinking vs. drugs, getting saved by aliens politicians and Jesus and, my personal favorite, his Grand Scheme to Fix Everything. Pablerto's brilliant idea was that we send everyone who has a physical address a new address, every 30 days. The new address is in a new city, in a new country, and they have to move there for the next month. They can take nothing with them, including family and friends. Once there, they will receive the same job that they had in the old place, this the PoTUS (President of the United States) would be the PoTPRoC (President of The People's Republic of China) and then of Chile, Then Cuba, Then Iran and so on and so forth. "And who would stick around to oversee this master plan?" I asked him cunningly?

"A computer. A giant computer."

Of course. He seemed to have a pretty water-tight theory going here until, this morning when I told her about it, Stephie B. shot it down with one magic bullet: "Thirty days? It takes longer than that just to find a good coffee shop!"

Coffee shop, indeed. Raulbert, there you go.