Inspired by this
Gus adjusted the mask to make it fit more snugly over the bridge of his nose, across his cheeks to his ears, and under his chin. It was going to be a dusty day. Dust, flies, gnats, and assorted pests would exploit any opening and make your life miserable. He had too much work to be fooling with that.
But he was on a tear to his longtime girlfriend Chiquita, as they saddled the horses and got ready to check the herd in the upper range.
“Gosh darn guvmt got me smokin mad,” Gus growled. He wanted to use language that came closer to his annoyance. He was seething into anger bordering on range. But Chiquita hated it when he cussed, so he reined it in. Besides, this is a family blog. Mostly at least.
“Every time some smart alecky scientist”—he hissed the word, which would have produced visible spittle were it not for his mask—“doesn’t like something we hear about one of them studies”—same—"that proves whatever the godd— the heck he and his buddies want to prove.
“I’m sick and tired of it.”
Chiquita just listened. She knew better than to interrupt when Gus was on a rant. No good could come from it. Years ago it was tobacco, even the chewing kind. Then coffee. Then—she thought Gus was going to burst a vein in his forehead—red meat.
She could see this one coming when the Cattleman’s Association posted on its site that the government was trying to enforce wearing hats.
Neither she nor Gus was sure what part of the government it was. Gus was sure it was the “federals.” It could have been the governor, which means it was the state. It might have been both. Or some other. But it didn’t matter. To Gus, government was government, or as he would say, “guvmt.”
Gus was a grizzled old cowboy, but he knew some stuff, and he loved quoting Jefferson: "That government is best which governs least." End of story.
Now, apparentlly, scientists had discovered that the sun could cause skin cancer. They were urging everyone, especially people whose work required long exposure to the sun, to wear wide-brimmed hats to shade their heads, necks, and faces.
They even—and Gus was supremely annoyed at this—wanted people to rub lotion on their skin, something they called “sun screen.”
“Lotion,” Gus snarled. “Next thing you know they’ll want me to wear panty hose.”
The government (whichever level) was taking these scientists’ advice and requiring hats and sunscreen for anyone receiving price supports for beef. Beef prices had taken a hit as demand cratered. Gus couldn’t affort to lose the supports.
The sweat beaded on his shiny forehead and balding pate. Chiquita couldn’t tell if it was the hot sun or that Gus was working himself up into a lather. Probably both.
Their horses saddled, Gus barked—not too gruffly, just to let Chiquita know how displeased he was—“Come on babe, we got work to do.”
As Gus rode by her, heading to the upper range, Chiquita noticed another blister on his red mottled neck starting to ooze.