Jeff Price In Age Of Corona: The Big Casino

Jeff Price is a screenwriter best known for “Who Framed Roger Rabbit,” “Doc Hollywood,” “How the Grinch Stole Christmas,” “Shrek III.” He also directed and co-wrote “For Cryin’ Out Loud” and co-wrote “My Brother’s Keeper” for “Tales From the Crypt.” Jeff’s debut novel, “Improbable Fortunes,” came out in 2016. It’s a tall tale about the West, hits very close to home and is readily available at Between the Covers Bookstore and on Amazon. (Go here for my review.) 

Jeff and his wife, Jennie Franks (of SPARKy Productions ) have lived in Telluride since 1993, where he is an avid outdoorsman and prevaricator of some renown.

To whit…

Jeff’s observations about the impact of the Age of Corona on the healthcare profession, tongue firmly planted in cheek, natch, are here. 

His off-piste take on the happenings in Michigan on April 16 is here.

Jeff’s perspective on Governor Brian Kemp and his decision to reopen Georgia’s economy. Not peachy keen. Get ready to chuckle big y’all.

For more red meat (and images) from Jeff, check out his alter ego at weegee211 on Instagram

And now? Jeff, a proud dad himself of two wonderful young women, ponders one man’s attempt to use the Big Daddy in the Sky to save his (burnt) bacon. Father’s Day? The Big Casino spins a tale of dads and men. One man in particular.


Image, Jennie Franks (Price).


Howdy Friends and Neighbors,

New Jersey legend has it that in 1991, Trump’s father, in an attempt to save his son defaulting on 16 million dollars in loans for his Atlantic casino, walked into to the moldering gambling house, bought 3.1 million dollars in chips, then walked out without playin’ ‘em. This was his way of giving his son the money without seeming to give it to him. Comprende? In a stroke of luck, the courts ruled it legal and the result was the old man saved his son’s bacon.

And this wasn’t the first time.

Well, here we are thirty years later and it’s Springtime in America. The roses in the Rose Garden are in bloom and so is the second wave of Coronavirus. Backyard BBQs are a-smokin’. So are the streets of New York, Atlanta, Minneapolis, Chicago, Houston and almost every dang town in this country with a populace and a conscience. Black people, as well as white people this time, have finally had enough and are not going home–even if the misguided Generals have given instructions for bayonets in place. The economy has tanked. Record numbers of people are unemployed and may never go back to work. The Republican party is at Trump’s tattered craps table betting the “Don’t Come” line – which, in their world, means betting that black voters won’t have the proper identification, polling places or courage, in the face of getting the virus, to vote in November.

Donald Trump, once again, has screwed the pooch. He doesn’t have a real friend in the world. His re-election is the only thing that’s keeping the Southern District of New York from grabbing him by the ears and taking him the principle’s office. His real father, at whose knee he learned his catechism of racism, is long gone. So, who can he turn to if not his father? Why, his other Father, of course. The Big Father. It’s a crazy idea, but it just might work.

In Chicago, when I was a boy, it was rumored that the cops carried a “drop gun.” This was some cheap Saturday Night Special without serial numbers that they would drop next to a dead black man who they had just shot and claim the victim pulled a gun. Taking a cue from that old tradition, Trump instructed Ivanka to slip a “drop bible” in her purse and with the help of the Seventh Calvary or whoever the heck they were, part the Red Sea of Intifada and Pharisees (aka Peaceful Demonstrators) and deliver The Word in front of an historic Church. Trump had planned to read from Finaglers 11:17, but at the last-minute thought better of it and simply burped out these mystifyin ’ words… “A bible.”

Now if our dear President had actually read the bible, he would have known that the Big Father is a might unreliable when it comes to bailin’ out a feller in trouble.

Everybody in the country who thought they were used to Trump’s shenanigans hooted in disbelief over this stunt. Everybody in the country except those Evangelicals. You could almost hear them sayin’ their “Amens” and “Praise Jesuses.”

Now folks, I’m all for Freedom of Religion, but I gotta say, maybe it’s time for these people to snap out of it. I used to feel that it was their own dang business if they wanted to stand on the pulpit with rattlesnakes in both fists. I used to think it was kinda funny when they spoke in their Hebrew-esque tongues like Sid Caesar imitating French people. I used to think they were sweetly naïve sendin’ in all their money to their crystal cathedrals while their preachers flew around in G-7 private jets.

All kinda harmless stuff.

I don’t think that anymore.

These “fool me twice” Evangelicals are the last solid vestige of support for a fascist and that makes them dangerous. We can’t humor these people anymore for fear of them claiming that we’re having a War on Christmas. Our country is at stake. And contrary to their belief, America was not founded on Judeo-Christian values. It was founded by bright men and women who believed in science and the Rights of Man expressed in the writings of Socrates, the Magna Carta and the European Enlightenment.

Put down your rattlesnakes, Evangelicals. Stop worshipping the Orange Calf and join the rest of this country that’s trying to save it from a madman.

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