According to a recent Associated Press story, the Texas and Southwestern Cattle Raisers Association is setting up a hot line for people in the beef industry to call if they hear anyone disparaging their product. A spokesman for the Association said "If we hear XYZ Radio Station carrying something about the beef industry that is derogatory, unfounded, and untrue, .we will send someone over there to re-educate them, so the next time they talk, they'll be talking from the right side of the ballpark."

I was contemplating the implications of this over the day's first schooner of coffee, when a knock came at the door to the snug bungalow where I do my writing. Thinking it might be the delivery of the monthly bungalow bill, I dove behind a nearby armoire. The knocking continued, however, so I went to the door. As I opened it, two burly men burst in, wearing T-shirts that read "TSWCRA". As I attempted to puzzle out the meaning of the acronym, one of the men cut short my ruminations by pinning me against the wall with a forearm against my throat.

"You that there columnist feller ?" he said menacingly.

"Mrgmph," I admitted.

" Yer not writin' nothin' bad about beef, are ya?"

"Mmmrhgh," I denied frantically.

"Well, see that yew don't," he snarled.

"Rrmphm," I promised.

As the duo left, I went back to work, fortifying my coffee with a medicinal dollop of Bushmill's to settle my nerves. Suddenly there was a mighty commotion on the lawn. I rushed to the door.

A large hydrangea bush was on fire in my yard. As I goggled in amazement, a deep, majestic voice spoke from the bush. "I assume you're going to be writing your usual inane drivel about the NRA," the voice boomed.

Oh, give it a rest, Chuck," I said wearily. "C'mon in and have a drink. And put that thing out." Looking sheepish, actor and NRA President Charlton Heston stepped out from behind the bush. "Sorry," he mumbled, drawing a bucket of water from the spigot and dousing the bush. "How did you know it was me?"

"Hey, I've seen `The Ten Commandments' at least eighteen times. You think I don't know the voice?" I spread my arms majestically and deepened my voice. " `If there is one more plague on Egypt.' " I quoted.

Heston winced. "Please," he muttered. "I think I need a drink."

"So what's all this, then ?" I queried as I poured us both a tall beaker of Old Overshoe.

"Well, we figured you couldn't resist the temptation to talk about the local Christian school that's offering firearms classes to the students, especially since the classes are sponsored by the NRA."

"At ease, Chuck," I said. "I don't have a problem with it. Heck, the Eddie Eagle program is one thing the NRA does right, as far as I'm concerned."

"It is? Oh, I mean sure it is," Heston said, gulping his drink.

"Of course. A class that teaches kids how NOT to shoot people? Seems like a good idea to me. And it's a private school, so it's not like anyone's holding a gun to their. . . I mean it's not like anyone's forcing them to go. "

"You and the NRA," Heston mused. "That's the strangest pair of bedfellows since Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett."

"Hey, even a blind pig finds an acorn once in a while." Heston started to take exception to the analogy, but I hustled him out the door and sat back down to work. There was another knock at the door. I sighed and went to answer it.

Two men stood at the door, clad in cheap black suits, skinny ties, and dark glasses. Each had an earphone plugged into his right ear. Their badges read "Sekurity."

"You guys must be from the Quayle campaign," I said. "Can I offer you some bourbon?"

"We're on duty."

"Beer it is, then."

Over a couple of cold ones, the Quayle contingent laid out their case. "Look, we know the guy's not the sharpest knife in the drawer," they confessed. "But he really deserves more respect than you give him."

"Hey, I said he was smarter than my Golden Retriever," I argued. "You should see the stuff I cut."

A few hours later, after several beers and a few choruses of "Free Bird," (complete with air guitar), the meeting was adjourned with a promise to put the whole Quayle matter on, or possibly under, the table until next time.

So, anyway, that's why there's no new column this week. I've got to go now. Someone's at the door.