Two Flew Over the Coup Coup's Nest
- Gael MacLean
- Mar 30
- 3 min read
Jackie and Marion go to Washington
The hay situation was dire. Catastrophic, even.
“Government bastards,” spat Jackie, chewing thoughtfully on last week’s alfalfa.
Marion rolled her eyes. “Always with the dramatics.”
“You hear that farmer talking? No hay this year.” Jackie stomped a hoof. “Contracts canceled.”
“I heard.” Marion gazed across the field. “They spent a fortune on those fancy sustainable whatevers.”
“Regenerative agriculture,” corrected Jackie. “Cost them everything.”
“And now the suits won’t pay.” Marion snorted. “Typical Washington bullshit.”
Jackie paced the fence line. “We gotta fix this mess.”
“We? Since when are you politically active?” Marion laughed.
“Since my dinner got political.” Jackie nudged Marion hard. “Got any better ideas?”
“Let the humans handle it?”
“Look how well that’s going.”
Marion sighed the sigh of the eternally put-upon. “Washington’s far.”
“I’ve got MetroCard miles.”
“Of course you do.” Marion shook her head. “You’re serious about this?”
“Dead serious.” Jackie’s eyes narrowed. “Farmers go broke, we go hungry.”
“Fine.” Marion spat a glob of cud. “But I’m not sharing a hotel room.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, princess.”
The Amtrak conductor didn’t bat an eye. “First class or coach?”
“Do I look like economy to you?” sniffed Marion.
Jackie snorted. “Your Highness here needs the extra legroom.”
“For my arthritis,” Marion clarified.
“She means her fat ass.”
“Children, please,” sighed the conductor, who’d seen weirder on the Northeast Regional.
Washington smelled like power and sewage.
“Reminds me of the barn,” Jackie remarked.
“More horse shit here,” said Marion, eyeing the Capitol building.
Jackie adjusted her sunglasses. “I’ll take Republicans, you take Democrats?”
“Please,” scoffed Marion. “You’ll spit on McConnell.”
“Only if he deserves it.”
“He always deserves it.”
A tourist took their photo. They didn’t smile.
“Plan?” asked Marion.
“Divide and conquer,” said Jackie. “You charm, I intimidate.”
“So business as usual.”
“Exactly.”
Senator Blankenship choked on his coffee. “There are llamas in my office.”
“Alpacas,” corrected his assistant, who didn’t get paid enough for this.
“Lamas,” Jackie enunciated slowly. “L-A-M-A-S.”
“Not the Dalai kind,” added Marion helpfully.
“We dropped the extra L,” explained Jackie. “Budget cuts.”
“Washington taught us that,” Marion added. “Do less with less.”
The senator recovered somewhat. “What do you want?”
Jackie leaned in, her breath hot and grassy. “We want you to honor your farming contracts.”
“The sustainability ones,” Marion clarified. “That you signed.”
“And then ghosted on,” added Jackie.
“Like my ex-husband,” said Marion.
“I don’t make those decisions,” stammered the senator.
Jackie’s eyes narrowed. “Find who does.”
“Filibuster this,” muttered Jackie, knocking over a potted plant outside the majority leader’s office.
Marion nudged her. “Behave.”
“Tell them that.” Jackie nodded at the huddle of lobbyists by the water cooler.
“Big Fertilizer?”
“How’d you guess?”
“Same shit, different building.”
By day three, they had an audience with the Secretary of Agriculture.
“You’re the famous lamas?” he seemed amused.
“We prefer ‘concerned citizens,’” said Marion primly.
“With excellent taste in hay,” added Jackie.
“And a vote in the midterms,” Marion smiled sweetly.
The secretary blanched. “You vote?”
“Our farmers vote,” Jackie clarified.
“Lots of farmers,” said Marion.
“All hungry for hay-related justice,” Jackie leaned forward. “Like us.”
The emergency farm bill passed on Thursday.
“Told you we could fix it,” Jackie said, munching celebratory carrots in the Senate cafeteria.
Marion adjusted her new “I Visited The White House” cap. “We’re good.”
“Damn good.”
“Make a decent team.”
“Don’t push it.”
A reporter approached. “How does it feel to save American agriculture?”
Jackie yawned. “Tuesday.”
Marion nodded. “We’ve had more exciting days.”
“Remember that coyote situation in ‘19?”
“Or the Great Fence Escape of ‘21?”
“This was nothing,” Jackie assured the bewildered reporter.
“Child’s play,” agreed Marion. “Though the mini bar was nice.”
“Overpriced.”
“Everything in this town is.”
“Except the politicians.”
“Those come cheap,” Marion winked.
Jackie stood. “Home?”
“Home,” Marion agreed. “I miss real grass.”
As they left, three congressional aides were already drafting the “Lama Protection Act of 2025.”
Washington would never be the same.
Neither would spell-check.
Images ©2025 Gael MacLean