No sooner had the Old Prospector driven off in his new Benz than Senator Joseph Biden pulled up to my Upper Valley high-class hacienda in an Indian rickshaw.

Can’t a body get any weeding done around here these days?

Biden walked into my courtyard and planted himself on the plastic-and-wood bench that I haven’t had the heart to toss out. He launched into a 12-minute monologue on his Irish-American roots, Grandpa Finnegan, his son’s application to Princeton, a speech he’d given on the Princeton campus, the fact that he hated giving a speech on the Princeton campus, and then spent much time discussing the vagaries of Sen. Dianne Feinstein’s sunglasses.

I asked if he wanted to help weed.

“Oh, no,” he said, stretching his legs and admiring my beautifully-xeriscaped (i.e., cheap) front yard. “I’m here to talk about the Indians.”

“Mescalero Apache? Tigua?” I asked.

“No, no,” he replied, as if begging off a free Sunday lunch. Instead, he launched into a 12-minute monologue on his Native American roots, Grandpa Son-of-Geronimo, his son’s application to an Indian college, a speech he’d given on the Tohono O’odom reservation, the fact that he hated giving a speech on the Tohono O’odom reservation, and the vagaries of sunglasses sold by Tohono O’odom natives to Sen. Dianne Feinstein.

I asked again if he wanted to help weed.

“No, but I’m here to talk about Indian Americans, not American Indians,” he said. “Seems you can’t walk into a 7-11 or Valero on Doniphan unless you have a slight Indian accent. I’m not joking.”

“Did you plagiarize that, or think it up yourself?”

He shifted his frame about as easily as any long-time politician shifts his positions — just enough to keep the votes and money coming. I felt a few dollars slip out of my wallet, of their own accord. The man was good. But I wasn’t ready to vote for him.

I suggested he help weed.

“Not likely. I’m only here for a minute. Can you give my rickshaw driver some water? Seems he can’t pass a high-class Upper Valley hacienda without asking for water in a slight Indian accent. I’m not joking.”

I took water to the driver. He was from Punjab. His name was Darvesh, and he was a post-doc in medical anthropology.

‘How come you’re with him?” I asked, jerking my head back toward the bench.

“Got caught plagiarizing,” he said.

I nodded.

“Say,” Darvesh said, “is it true about Doniphan? Lots of Indians there?”

“I guess,” I replied. “But be careful of that 7-11 at Redd Road. The night shift guys all voted Democrat, last time around.”

Biden got up and walked to the rickshaw.

“Say, Joe,” I said. “What’s all this about ‘Barack America?’”

That was a mistake. Biden went off on a 30-minute tangent, wandering across the moors of his mind and waxing poetic on such topics as hyperinflation in Hawai’i, the cost of peanuts in Pennsylvania, a new Russia strategy, and the IQ of Barbara Boxer.

I swear I saw the weeds grow another inch before he was done.

Sure wish it had been the Old Prospector in the back of that rickshaw. At least he’d offer to help. He wouldn’t actually help, but he’d make the offer. And that’s the difference between a senator and someone respectable.

OP, the Old Prospector, pulled up to my house in a brand spanking new E320 BlueTEC Sedan.

“Say, partner,” I said, “is that a Mercedes-Benz?”

“Yup,” he said. And then proceeded to tell me all about the 24-valve V-6 engine that delivers 210 horsepower, or something.

“Well, that sure beats your old mule,” I said.

OP only took offense for a second.

“Hell, man, I’m rich!” he declared, staring at me to see if I believed him.

I believed him because I saw the golf clubs sticking out of the trunk with the Coronado Country Club sticker on the bag.

“So have you gone West Side?” I asked.

He looked at me like I was dumb.

“I got a pay raise,” he said, eyeing my xeriscaped (i.e., cheap) front yard and my wood-and-plastic bench on the porch, and my ages-old Justin workboots. “Everyone’s doing it.”

It clicked.

Half of El Paso’s elected, appointed or self-annointed guv’mint officials are getting pay raises these days.

What with the ongoing FBI corruption investigation, I guess everyone who’s anyone on a potential court docket list is trying to grab what they can, just in case.

Just in case they need to relocate assets and asses to Mexico or Texaco or Aruba. Or any outlying outlet where the crazy local ruling body has no extradition treaty with the US, like North Korea or Austin.

I guess 30,105 extra clams will buy any under-suspicion County Commissioners Court member about six months of defense lawyer work, or a year’s protection in Juarez by a drug trafficking organization or, come to think of it, about 2/3 of a Mercedes-Benz E320 BlueTEC Sedan.

“Now, don’t you look at me like that,” said OP, as he ran an Armor-All cloth over the dashboard. “I’m not on the Commissioner’s Court. You know as well as I do that I wouldn’t qualify for that elite club.

“Hell, I’m too damn honest!”

The BBC tried to weigh in on the increased violence in Mexico. They incorrectly implied one thing. In actuality, the surge in army deployments didn’t cause the upswing in killings; their deployment was a result of the upswing in killings.

Maybe some of it will go to diminish flooding in 79932. DHS owns FEMA, too. Rep. Reyes announces nearly $6 million in security grants for El Paso.