My Idiotic Lone Ranger - 1. My Idiotic Lone Ranger

“Hi ho Silver. Away!”

“My name’s not Silver, Tonto.”

“Tonto’s horse was Scout.”

“I’m not a horse.”

“You are from the waist down.”

“Fine. I’ll hi ho when the ’William Tell Overture’ starts.

“Ta da dum, ta da dum, ta da dum dum dum.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Mr. Director, cue the orchestra, please.”

“Director? What director?”

“Hey, if you can pretend we’re in a TV show, so can I.”

“Oh, fine. Giddyup Hermes.”

“Where are we going, Clayton?”

“That’s Carlton.”

“If you want to be the Lone Ranger, I’m calling you Clayton. Besides, Carlton was the doorman.”

“Whatever. Just start trotting.”

“As painful as it is to do it all the time, I’ll repeat myself. Where are we going?”

“To that oasis up there.”

“That’s no oasis, it’s a mirage, Bonehead.”

“No it isn’t. It’s a beautiful city. It has skyscrapers, hotels, I see a stadium, and an airport.”

“We’re in the middle of the freaking desert.”

“If you didn’t have blinders on, you’d be able to see it.”

“I didn’t put them on myself. I don’t got no thumbs. I lost them in that calf roping accident, remember?”

“There, look. A directional sign. Las Vegas, twenty-one miles.”

“Yeah, yeah. Los Angeles, two hundred sixty-seven. Phoenix, three hundred twenty-five. Like I said, at the risk of repeating myself once again, the middle of the freaking desert.”

“Well, now that you know where we’re going, will you finally giddyup?”

“Fine.”

I finally started trotting. A little over five hours later, after a stop at Panera Bread in South Las Vegas, for bread bowls for both Clay…er, Carlton and me, we arrived on The Strip. It was shortly after sunset. The bread bowls were to go. The manager wouldn’t let me come in. I guess I should have expected that.

“Wow, look at all these lights.”

“Yeah, it’s a good thing you’re sitting on my back, your rhinestones would be blinding me.”

Carlton looked down at himself, “Hell, I am shiny, aren’t I?”

“I’ll take your word for it. Like I said, behind me.”

“Look around for a saloon.”

“You forget I was kicked out of kindergarten. No schooling, I can’t read.”

“Look for neon then.”

“You’re kidding, right? The whole fucking place is neon.”

“Hmm, good point. I’ll check my phone... Ah, right around the corner, ‘Rusty Spur Saloon’.”

I cantered over to the front door, Carlton thought he was going in alone, “Hmmm, no hitching post.”

“Screw that, I’m thirsty too. I’m going in.”

The bartender had other ideas, “Whoa there. We don’t serve, um, whatever that is, in here.”

“I’m a centaur.”

“It speaks. This ain’t no strip club. No shoes, no shirt, no service. Damn, that should include no pants too. You’re hung like a frigging horse.”

“Duh. I have horseshoes on. If Carlton here gives me a shirt, can I stay?”

“Well, I guess so.”

Carlton helped me put on one of his shirts and we walked up to the bar.

Carlton ordered, “Whiskey!”

“We have thirteen types, you gotta be a little more specific.”

“Shit, I don’t know. Every old western I’ve ever seen, they just order whiskey.”

The bartender pointed them out behind himself.

“Well, there are a lot with names. Let’s try a Jim Bean.”

“One Jim BEAM, coming up. And for you, first horseman of the apocalypse?”

“Johnnie Walker Red, double, neat.”

“Neat?”

“Your horse is smarter than you. Straight out of the bottle.”

“Oh. Let me have mine on the rocks. Hold the pebbles.”

“What?!?”

“Cubes, no chips.”

“Everybody’s a comedian, even rhinestone cowboys.”

“You gotta admit, I do look good.”

“No comment. This ain’t a gay bar either.”

The guy next to us spoke up, “He shore is purty, though.”

“Why thank you. Care to go for a ride after this? Sorry there’s no saddle, we have to go bareback.”

“I got me some condoms.”

“What? No, I didn’t mean…”

“Is you a top, or a bottom?”

“I ride on top.”

“Cool. You got a nice ass, though.”

“He’s a centaur. But yeah, he is pretty nice.”

“I didn’t mean the beast. I meant you. Your hiney.”

“Boy, George, haven’t I told you to stop hitting on the other customers? This guy doesn’t even have a clue what you’re talking about.”

Meanwhile all this double entendre made me horny, “You into beastiality, George?”

“Wha…? Get the fuck away from me you freak. Why ain’t you in the circus or something?”

I couldn’t resist, “That’s funny. We’re actually planning on trying out for Cirque De Soleil. The new one is going to be a gay western. Maybe you should come along. You can ride me bareback too. Although, it might be more fun if I ride you bareback.”

“Oh, hell, no.”

George couldn’t get out of the bar fast enough.

Carlton threw a seventy-five cents on the bar.

The bartender was confused, “What the fuck’s this for?”

“The drinks. Two bits for each, two bits for you.”

“What century are you from? The drinks are twenty-five dollars, not twenty-five cents.”

“You’re kidding?”

Pointing behind him, “Nope. Price list is right up there. Single, ten dollars, double, fifteen.”

“I don’t have that much. I do have this Egyptian coin, I think it’s worth at least that much. I found it on the street a little while ago.”

The bartender looked at the coin, thinking ‘this guy must be some kind of super idiot.’ It was a $5000 chip from the Luxor Casino, practically around the corner.

“Yeah. I guess that’ll cover it. It’s nice. Feel free to come back anytime if you find any more of these.”

“Thanks, we will.”

Outside, Carlton suggested we find Madame Tussauds Wax Museum, “Maybe they got Roy Rogers and Trigger there.”

“I was lucky enough to get into that bar. No way they’re letting me into a museum. And I don’t think Trigger’s there anymore.”

I was right, obviously. The last reported location of Trigger’s remains are at RFD-TV.

Later that night, the Rusty Spur’s bartender was banned from Luxor for trying to cash in a counterfeit chip. They threatened arrest, but when he explained how he got it from some idiot who came into his bar with a centaur, he was forcibly removed and sent to a psychiatric hospital to be treated for his delusions.

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Hopefully you all picked up on the subtle references. In order:

The Lone Ranger - Clayton Moore.

The Pony Express - Hermes was the messenger to the gods.

Rhoda - 1970’s TV show. “Hello, this is Carlton your doorman.”

Ron White - Sluggo was his dog, who claimed he had no thumbs.

Oasis Musical group - Paul "Bonehead" Arthurs, guitarist.

Glen Campbell - Rhinestone Cowboy

Boy, George - Culture Club

Gabriel Iglesias - “Oh, hell, no.” The sixth level of fatness.

The end