You throw the western boot banner in the trash with the knowledge that Cowboy Day was an unmitigated disaster, one from which your fledgling mayoral administration may never recover.
You slink back into the town hall office through the back door to avoid any further entanglements with the protestors on the front steps. You drag your feet on the old green lowest-bidder carpeting as you enter. Your assistant, noticing you pouting, can’t keep silent any longer.
“Sir, you have no one to blame for this but yourself. I told you the ‘Injun Shooting Gallery’ was a horrible idea,” she scolds.
You groan before responding. “Look, Jean, I understand now that ‘injun’ is technically a no-no word, however-“
“A no-no word? Try racial epithet, sir.” Jean shoots you the look that tells you she thinks you’re stupid. You’ve been getting it a lot lately.
“However,” you clench your jaw and continue speaking through your teeth, “I don’t see the harm in a fun wild west shootout.”
“The name is one thing, sir, but you made all the targets Native Americans.”
“Well I wanted it to be authentic, Jean. It’s Cowboy Day. Cowboys fought indians! That’s just fucking history!”
The stupid look again. “Actually, sir-“
“I don’t want to hear it, Jean. Look we need to put this behind us. We have another festival to plan; we can’t dwell on the past.”
Jean sighs. “Yes, sir.”
“Chin up, Jean. In three weeks, this will be a distant memory. It’s going to be the best Watermelon Festival ever.”