They didn’t get to see each other but once, maybe twice a year, some people thought that was once or twice too many. They were cousins, cut from the same cloth, tougher than nails and more contrary than a pair of mules. Their senses of humor were drier than the southeastern Colorado prairie, and being the brunt of that humor was beyond exasperating, particularly to those of the female gender. It was all their wives could do to tolerate them when they got together; so the best course of action was to get involved in something the men had no interest in whatsoever. Separate activities were usually clandestinely planned to exclude them at almost any cost. Luckily, it was what the cousins wanted, so it was usually easily accomplished.

When the pair visited each other they commonly stayed up all night, deep in conversation about usually one or two topics, horses or politics. To them, horses had much more sense than politicians. The men referred to all those involved in government service as one-eyed mules that keep their eye so exclusively on the road they can see nothing else. That factor wouldn’t be so bad in itself, they reasoned, if the headless horseman weren’t driving the carriage.

On one occasion after a long night vigil of discussing government follies, a particle of wisdom was reached. It was a modest solution to the political woes of the nation.

"They ought to line all the representatives and senators up in a row and shoot every other one," the visiting cousin reasoned, "that would make the rest of them think twice."

"That’s not a half bad idea," the other cousin said.

"What do you mean by that," the first relative questioned.

"I mean they should shoot them all," said the second.