Reid: Cowboy Poets Rely On Government Funding!

Once again, truth is far stranger than fiction:

File this under: Did Harry Reid just say that?

In the middle of his tirade against House Republicans’ “mean-spirited” budget bill on the Senate floor Tuesday, the Senate Majority Leader lamented that the GOP’s proposed budget cuts would eliminate the annual “cowboy poetry festival” in his home state of Nevada. (See also: Reid’s prostitution lecture bombs.)

Reid clearly has a soft spot for the Baxter Blacks of the poetry world and thinks Republicans don’t.

“The mean-spirited bill, H.R. 1 … eliminates the National Endowment of the Humanities, National Endowment of the Arts,” said Reid. “These programs create jobs. The National Endowment of the Humanities is the reason we have in northern Nevada every January a cowboy poetry festival. Had that program not been around, the tens of thousands of people who come there every year would not exist.”

These people would not exist, Harry? You mean that if this bill passes, tens of thousands of people would just vanish in a puff of brimstone-scented smoke?

Of all the silly ways Harry could have picked to rally opposition to H. R. 1, this has gotta be the silliest. Of course, now that I’ve said that, I’m sure tomorrow he’ll find a sillier way.

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About Conservative Wanderer

Conservative Wanderer is currently Editor-in-Chief of That's Freedom You Hear! That means anything that goes wrong can be blamed on him. Previously he was a contributor to the PJ Tatler.

One response to “Reid: Cowboy Poets Rely On Government Funding!”

  1. thebardofmurdock says :

    Dear Harry,

    To the Senate’s sole protector of the noble rhyming set,
    The patron of our poems, the bard’s own baronet:
    In hand I take my laptop, to pen a piffling plea
    For your assistance, Harry, in setting my art free.

    I know I have a talent. I know I have a gift.
    But how am I to versify amidst the graveyard shift?
    My foreman is a hater, who’s never heard a rhyme.
    He cares but for production, and works me double-time.

    My wife has found a lawyer, my income to divest;
    I’ll soon be old and single, alone and dispossessed.
    I haven’t slept a wink at night for nigh on thirteen years,
    My writing surely suffers; I’m shunned by all my peers.

    I know I can’t write cowpoke, or tell Nevada tales,
    My verses tend to run to sea, with boats and ships and whales.
    But, Harry, I am desperate, I need to get away;
    A Cowboy Poe’try Gath’rin would surely light the way.

    I heard you swore off earmarks – at least the public kind –
    That Washington is broken, and Congress is maligned.
    The GOP is fighting to tighten up the purse,
    And every week the jobs report is pointing bad to worse.

    But cinch not yet those purse strings, and rope not yet that cash.
    Let’s herd a little bill on through before the markets crash.
    We’ll call it Jobs for Poets, funneled through the NEA
    To get me to Nevada, or perhaps, at least, halfway.

    I’m counting on you, Harry. Keep up the fight that’s good!
    Stand tall like old Horatius. Be brave like Robin Hood.
    For hist’ry doesn’t give a hoot if budgets did survive.
    It only cares of poetry and whether Art’s alive.

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