CANDY RUE
I briefly met the girl of my dreams in Porto. It was a dark bar and I had been drinking when this beautiful young lady suddenly came bounding into my presence.
"My name is Candy Rue," she said. "What is your name?"
"My name is Jerry. By your accent, I'm going to say that you are from Australia."
"Really? Is it that obvious?"
"Your accent instantly gives you away, but there is something unmistakable in your appearance that brands you an Aussie."
Unfortunately, the girl of my dreams quickly turned into a nightmare as most these relationships do when two persons' journeys intersect for a few days. Nevertheless, I'm glad we spent time together. Short trysts have less pernicious effects in the long run.
I'll soon be back on the border. The weather is changing as we enter our tropical season before the first norther arrives in October. The bloggers have continued to raise havoc during my absence and I will do my best to add to the white noise upon my return. The Brownsville Herald, as is its wont, remains comatose.
After spending time in Europe, nothing has changed that would lend me to think that we don't deserve the ignominious designation as the Third World Capital of the United States. The Portuguese don't think we're the greatest nation in the world and they consider most Americans ignorant and fanatical in their nationalistic and religious beliefs.
"Any country that has Donald Trump as President cannot be proud of itself," Candy told me one night as we hopped around Porto.
"How could anyone be proud of such a bad person? There is nothing good about him. He has the arrogance of a privileged person exacerbated by the stupidity of a redneck. The United States will never realize its potential until the white man becomes a minority. White is not right. White is humanity's blight."
I did not take it personally when she suddenly left me for an African hash vendor. By that time we had grown tired of thumping each other.
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