The Bowling Green Massacre as it Really Happened!
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The Bowling Green Massacre as it Really Happened!

Author’s Note: this rendition of the massacre comes straight as relayed by unimpeached persons. It was set to paper absent rhetoric flourish, embellishment, or artistic spice.

From a distance, Kellyanne (not her real name) appears lithe and lovely. It is not until she steps into the canopy of light under the entrance to the Dollar Tree that one notices how cares and concerns have furrowed her erst-fair face into a creviced and cratered moonplot. It is as if her sorrows and troubles had impacted her once-gentle visage full-force, unimpeded by the gentle cushion of atmosphere.

We take a seat, tete-a-tete, after she deftly shanks a supine hobo from a bus-stop-bench perch with her polished cane, clearing space for us to sit.

“No recorders,” she begins, “every time I am recorded saying something it comes out wrong.”

“But that’s your own voice speaking, isn’t it?”

“Shut up and take notes,” she replies sharply, “you can still do that can’t you?”

I make a point to reach over and switch off my digital recorder and then, pretending to adjust my nethers, slip a finger into a pocket to activate my cellphone video camera. The picture won’t turn out, of course, but it will pick up sound, even down around my nutsack, and provide me with something to refer to besides chicken scratches.

“Before anyone could react, she had that cane in hand, flailing the God-given freedoms and precious liberties right out of both Steve and Kellyanne. Whenever one would move or moan, the other would get a sound lick and a curse no one could understand.”

“So, you are here to tell me about the Bowling Green Massacre …”

“Yes, that terrible massacre down in Bowling Green. I saw it all, first hand; saw the carnage and destruction that resulted, and how the liberal media,” she pauses glaringly, “ignored it all!”

Trying to appear sympathetic, I calmly reassure her of my sincere intent to bring news of the tragedy to the sweet globe if she will just set her needles to the yarn and get it knit.

“Okay, I was with my friend Steve (not his real name) down in Bowling Green, Kentucky. We were there to hear Governor Bevin explain to all the displaced coal miners how their health insurance was socialism. And how we could make America great again by taking it away from them. Anyway, we were on a lunch break and Steve wanted a taco. He’d spent a lot of time in California at some point and knows how to put a taco to bed!”

She showed me a picture of Steve. He appeared to be a pudgy fellow, red and angry, with rheumy eyes blearing out through shocks of salted hair flogging whisky-blistered cheeks. The guy looked like some of the Hollywood types I know from my travels: the sorts of fellows who spent their robust years snorting cocaine off starlet’s tits only to wake up in the 90s with their hearts dead. She was still talking …

“I had to hurry to keep up with Steve because I have some circulation problems and my heels were killing me! Let me tell you, you do not want to get in his way when he wants his antojitos!”

“So he spotted a taco truck across fountain square and suggested we head over there. But something was strange about that thing.”

“Usually I can make out the Mexican letters on the sides of taco trucks, even though I can’t speak Mexican, I still know the letters – they look like American letters – but not these. They were all angry backwards cursive and made no sense at all.”

“But Steve didn’t need to read anything anyways, he always orders the same thing:”

“Tres al pastor con cebollas, and chop chop! We ain’t got all day, here,” she imitated.

But the guy at the window just looked at him and pointed to the unreadable menu.

“We don’t serve pork here, Sir. No al pastor, no carnitas, no adovada, either.”

“No pork? What in the hell kind of taco truck is this?” Steve asked.

“Halal, Señor! This is halal taco truck and we do not serve the flesh of swine. It is forbidden by Allah to even touch such meat. Can I interest you in some lamb tacos? They are quite delicious!”

“But Steve wasn’t listening. I could see his blood pressure rising as he contemplated this insult to cherished freedoms and values! Steve is a man of principle and damned if he would settle for some kind of foreign tacos here in America’s sweet bosom Kentucky. By God, this was Bowling Green, USA, and he was going to get American tacos or else.”

“So just when I was about to suggest that if Steve didn’t want the schwarmaritos, we could amble across the park to the Subway for footlongs and chips, it was too late!”

The story gets hot and quick here, so I will tell it in my own way, saving you, Dear Reader, from bearing the burden of all the quotes and stops you would otherwise be forced to endure to get to the meat of the Bowling Green Massacre.

Steve suddenly fetched up Kellyanne’s cane and fished it wildly into the ordering window of the halal taco coach. His aim was to poke the brown-eyed proprietor in the jimmy! But that fellow was too fast for Steve, dodging the wild lunges and prods of the cane with an ease that only infuriated Steve more.

“Get away from my truck, Idiot! No tacos for you! Ever! Eighty SIX you are!”

“Eight Six, I said! Allayhoo Akbar, Motherfucker!”

He then grabbed the cane by the business end and yanked on it so hard that the handle snagged his pocket and pulled Steve face-long and straight into an ice bin full of Topo Chicos and Guadalajara Coca Colas on the side of the truck. Stunned and injured by the icy impact, Steve collapsed to the sidewalk as a couple bottles of day-glo Jarritos exploded on the concrete near his head.

Meanwhile, his now angry opponent had undisputed possession of Kellyanne’s walking stick and exited his vehicle,  implement in hand, determined to continue the earnest discussion on the sidewalk. He stepped out the back door and came around to the window where Steve lay, head soaked in prickly pear soda and bedazzled with glass shards. He raised the cane, intent to administer a Charles Sumner-style beat-down on his stunned attacker. But he had forgotten about Kellyanne!

“Yup, he forgot about me,” she agreed. (We will let Kellyanne speak for a moment since this is her time to shine.)

“He got one or two licks in on Steve before I could get my Blahniks angled right, but once I did, look out!”

“I kicked that terrorist right in the taint! Do you see the points on these things?” She raised a varicosed foot.

Indeed I could see them. She was shod in some expensive – and angular – stiletto heels. Nothing I would want anywhere near my taint excepting for friendly encounters of an entirely different sort.

The kick she delivered collapsed the terrorist into a pile alongside Steve, leaving him just enough breath to yell, “OMA!” Now, nobody knew what that meant except one person soon to appear in this tale. She was maybe 5’2” of irate hijab. She came around from the back of the coach like a furious, well-swathed leopard; claws and teeth and snarl and yardgoods! Kellyanne went down. Hell! Some guy from an insurance office – just a bystander – took one in the tits and went down, too. Oma was on fire. Before anyone could react, she had that cane in hand, flailing the God-given freedoms and precious liberties right out of both Steve and Kellyanne. Whenever one would move or moan, the other would get a sound lick and a curse no one could understand.

Oma took the field that day of the Bowling Green Massacre.

But she could not win the war.

Finally, just about when she was going to beat us to death, the police showed up. One of them told her to put down my cane, but she just looked at them like she didn’t understand American so they tazed the shit out of her.”

“Aamir …,” she cried, collapsing to the ground in agony.

It didn’t take long before both terrorists were cuffed and seated in the back of separate patrol cars. The police helped Kellyanne and Steve back to their feet, taking down their information so that a just and thorough prosecution – and Aamir and Oma’s certain deportation – could commence.

“So how about you guys,” I asked, “did you have to go to the hospital or anything?”

“No, Steve hates Jews because they killed Andrew Breitbart with mind control.”

“Huh …”? But that was about all I could mutter; the statement was just splayed too far from anything I can connect to or process as sense.

But you know, I’d better let Kellyanne finish this up; give her the last word, so to speak, and step out of the yarn myself. Sometimes it is not good to let too much of yourself get in the way of the facts of the story. Especially now. Some of us journalists are walking around with targets painted on our fedoras. But speaking for myself, I am not feeling as comfortably saddled on the pony of justice as Kellyanne seems. So I’ll let her ride ‘er home.

“So they are both serving prison terms for what they did to me and Steve out there on the plaza. When they get out, if ever, President Trump will ensure their deportation. We will not be having taco trucks in America refusing to serve Americans American Tacos.”

“If we don’t deport them, the terrorists win.”


Written By: Scott Leahy