Speaking as someone who’s devoted his entire life to the reckless dismantling of our country’s defenses (and who tirelessly seeks to strengthen the hand of our merciless terrorist adversaries), I must tell you that posing as a “Civil Libertarian Defender of the Constitution” has proven to be the most effective and ingenious cover I’ve ever found for concealing my many and varied subversive activities. Let me explain.
In 1998, I joined a group called the “AAA.” No, I’m not talking about the folks who offer roadside service and package discounts for Disney World, but rather a left-wing organization know as “Americans Against America.” Our membership is made up mostly of people who pose as loyal Americans, and who act as if they really cared about the erosion of our Constitutional Rights, but whose abiding loyalty is to ancient foreign governments that have long-since ceased to exist.
I myself am a 12th generation Scottish-American, the descendant of undocumented aliens who snuck into America through the port of Baltimore in the early 1700s. Like most illegal immigrants, they refused to speak English (or at least anything recognizable as English); they multiplied like jackrabbits; they lowered the prevailing wage; and as soon as they found their way into the hills of Appalachia they formed gun-wielding gangs that threatened the peace and stability of the countryside. But how could it be otherwise? How can you expect people with names like Wallace, Gillespie, Ingram, Robertson, and Buchanan to fit into a civilized society? It’s just not possible.
The tragic fact is that my Scottish ancestors were never able to successfully assimilate into American culture, choosing instead to stubbornly cling to their separate and distinct ethnic identity. After 300 years of willfully clustering together in Scottish-only neighborhoods, is it really that surprising that my family’s true allegiance has never been to the United States at all, but rather to the 18th Century Stuart Monarchy in exile?
Alas, my story is hardly unique. The ever-expanding membership of “Americans Against America” now includes 10th generation Cajun-Americans who owe their fealty to the Bourbon Kings of France, 7th generation Turkish-Americans who seek to restore the once mighty Ottoman Empire, and even 5th generation Prussian-Americans who like to eat pickled-herring, wear spiked-helmets, and sit around singing martial songs about the “Good Old Days” under Kaiser Wilhelm II. We’re a diverse lot, and frankly the only thing we have in common is our irrational and relentless animosity toward the land of our birth. If short, we hate ourselves for our freedom.
One of our more outspoken members is an Egyptian-American stockbroker named Said, whose family fled Egypt during the Roman Occupation of 30 B.C., but who, to this day, remains steadfastly loyal to the Ptolemaic Kings. In order to show his solidarity with the deposed rulers of his ancestral home, Said often shows up for work as a receptionist at Smith-Barney wearing only a white linen skirt, a 30” diameter solid-gold collar, and a very realistic looking jackal-head mask. He works out regularly and weighs in at a rock-hard 270, so it’s a safe bet his co-workers at the brokerage firm aren’t inclined to ridicule his unconventional choice of attire.
One day last week, Said, Representative Nancy Pelosi, Osama bin Laden, and I arranged to have a quiet lunch together at an Olive Garden Restaurant just outside the Washington Beltway in Maryland. I arrived sporting a plaid kilt, tamoshanter, and sporran, while Said chose an iridescent feathered cloak crowned with an impressive ceremonial mask -- a peregrine falcon carrying a two-headed cobra in its beak. Osama (for obvious reasons) came incognito. In an effort to avoid drawing attention to himself and his unusually large stature, he wore an eclectic Halloween costume that could best be described as “Hasidic Wookiee.” As for his dialysis machine, it was cleverly disguised as an early cubist rendition of R2D2 on a rubber leash. Needless to say, our little gathering was discreet enough to escape the notice of most of the restaurant’s patrons, although at one point I did overhear an elderly woman say to her husband, “No, I’m sure of it, that tall, furry guy wearing the black hat and pulling the slot-machine-on-wheels is definitely Jack Abramoff.”
Representative Pelosi arrived fashionably late to the luncheon, having come directly from her favorite hair-salon, the “Cut and Run.” She told us that earlier in the morning she’d met with a team of ACLU lawyers, and that she and they were doing everything in their sinister power to advance the evil plans of America’s suspected terrorist enemies by limiting the number of times those guilty suspects could be water-boarded in an eight hour period. Initially, she said, the attorneys could not agree about what constituted a “reasonable interval” between water-boardings, but eventually they had arrived at a consensus that anything over fourteen water-boardings a day was pretty much pushing the envelope.
Just about the time we were finishing up our Spinach and Ricotta Cannelloni, who should happen to stroll by our table but U.N. ambassador John Bolton! He was trying hard to avoid our gaze.
“John! John! Over here!” shouted Nancy to the ambassador, whose strenuous efforts to ignore us had clearly been in vain.
“Ah yes, Nancy, of course. Sorry I didn’t recognize you just now. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”
“Yes, I can imagine. Have you got a minute? I’d like to introduce you to a few of my friends…”
“Well, actually, I’m in a bit of a hurry…,” Bolton pleaded.
“It’ll just take a minute,” implored the congresswoman.
Having thus cornered the ambassador, Pelosi introduced each of us to him with considerable fanfare. Bolton seemed particularly ill-at-ease at the prospect of shaking hands with Osama bin Laden. His demeanor hardened considerably as he stuffed his right hand into his coat pocket.
“Congresswoman Pelosi,” he intoned brusquely, “I’m afraid you’ll have to inform Mr. Bin Laden that any direct communication between his terrorist organization and our government is impossible at this time. As you are no doubt aware, the president has made clear on numerous occasions his firm conviction that negotiating with our enemies is, in all cases, strictly contrary to American interests. Therefore, I would ask you to convey to Mr. Bin Laden our government’s unshakable commitment to “smoke him out” at the earliest available opportunity. Tell him we are currently hot on his trail, and once we determine his whereabouts, we intend to deal with him swiftly and decisively.”
At that point, Nancy turned to Osama bin Laden, who had somehow managed to preserve a modicum of dignity throughout the course of this awkward encounter, even in his Rabbi Chewbacca outfit.
“Ambassador Bolton tells me our government has nothing to say to you, Mr. Bin Laden. Do you have anything you would like for me to relay to the ambassador on your behalf?” asked Pelosi.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” replied Osama. “Tell the ambassador we wish his party well in the upcoming elections. Nothing is guaranteed to advance the cause of Al Qaeda like another two years of Republican control of the Congress. It’s like a life-giving tonic. In fact, if another terrorist incident in the next couple of weeks would help move things in that direction, please tell the ambassador to contact us through the usual channels. I’m sure we could cook up a little post-Ramadan surprise to scare the bejesus out of your average NASCAR mom….”
As Bolton hastily bolted from the room, he was sweating profusely. His cell-phone was pressed firmly against his ear, and he appeared to be howling into the mouthpiece like a badger with his tail on fire.
A scant fifteen minutes later, a team of heavily-armed federal agents arrived at the Olive Garden Restaurant, handcuffed the falcon-headed Said, and roughly manhandled him into an unmarked blue sedan waiting in the parking lot. The screech of tires was heard as the car sped off into the distance. Osama bin Laden seemed to express genuine regret over the incident.
“Sorry about your friend, Nancy. But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what a pain in the ass it is dealing with all these temperamental jerk-offs,” he complained. “Fortunately, the vice-president and I have no trouble at all working together, probably because we’re both Sicilian at heart. ‘Strictly business, nothing personal,’ is our motto. Why can’t we all just act like professionals here?”
As for the unfortunate Said, since his abduction from the Olive Garden by the Department of Homeland Security, we’ve received no official word of his status. However, we have heard through back-channel sources that he was recently transferred to a Bulgarian detention facility aboard Rupert Murdoch’s 727 Fox News Jet. All I can say is, I hope Said learns to enjoy the brief intervals in-between his water-boardings…
Mark W. Bradley is a schoolteacher and political satirist in Sacramento, California. He can be contacted at: firstname.lastname@example.org.
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