THE JOHN BRUNI MUSEUM OF MEDIOCRE (AT BEST) SHIT #59: HOMELAND SECURITY

[This was written during W's first term, which was a few years after I got out of college. To say I was displeased with the direction our government was moving in would be an understatement. This was written from a place of anger, and I've said it here before, but just to remind you, if I write something from anger, it never turns out well. It's always ham-fisted, like the story you're about to read. Also, one of my influences sticks out a little too far on this one. This one is pretty easy, but let's see if you can figure it out.]

     I live in your neighborhood.

     My family works for Homeland Security.  We are paid to look like you, to act like you, to be just like you.  What we really do is, we keep an eye on you, just to Make Sure.

     I’ve played with your dog.

     There’s a family like ours in every neighborhood in every city and town in America.  Mostly, all we do is watch and report, but occasionally something happens.  The Muslim that just moved in turns out to be a terrorist.  Your son starts making bombs from instructions on the Internet and starts taking pictures of a federal building.  Or, God forbid, Al Qaeda stages a guerilla assault on Small Town, USA.  We’re there.  We’re trained snipers.  We will protect you.  We are ready.

     I’ve asked about your kids while shaking your hand at the end of church services.

     We weren’t always Homeland Security.  Before 9/11, we were agents of the D.O.D.  Just like my father, just like his father, et cetera.  I remember when I was a boy in the 1960’s, living with Mom and Dad and Sis, we always watched for anyone who might be a Communist.  The Russians were hard to detect, because they were mostly white, like us, but believe me, when we saw an Asian, we kept on our toes.  Dad said to look in their eyes; you could always tell a godless Commie by the dead gaze in the windows to their souls.

     You’ve borrowed my lawnmower.

     Our position is hereditary.  Upon my death, my son is supposed to take over.

     Our marriages are arranged by the government.  My daughter is supposed to be paired up with a young man just like me, and she is supposed to bear him two children:  a boy and a girl.  They are supposed to have as many abortions as it takes to ensure it works out this way.

     You have no idea who we are, but you know us well.  My daughter has babysat your little ones.  My son plays in Little League with your son.  My wife has worked with your wife on bake sales.  I helped you figure out how to change the oil in your car.  You and I are close friends.

     We have to keep you close.  Our job is to uphold the laws of the United States of America, and to Make Sure you do the same.

     A Middle-Eastern family just moved in across the street.  We keep a close watch on them.  As far as we can tell, they’re okay, but Uncle Sam pays us well to Make Sure.

     Your high school-age son has been mouthing off against President Bush, calling him a fascist, a chicken hawk, an oil monger, and a lot of other unpleasant names.  Freedom of speech is a fine thing, but my daughter is dating your son to keep an eye on him, to Make Sure it’s just talk.  Terrorism doesn’t just grow on trees, you know.  John Walker’s parents were American.

     We’ve talked sports over your grill.  We’ve eaten meals together.  We’ve had a few beers on your porch as dusk slowly oils over into night.

     I was painting my garage door when the idea came to me.  No, I hadn’t been thinking about it at all, it didn’t slowly occur to me, and nothing happened to prompt the notion.  It simply came out of the blue.  It was a revelation.

     I wasn’t being vigilant enough.  I wasn’t protecting all of America’s laws.  If I was, then all of you would be dead.

     I’ve seen how most of you just glide through that stop sign at the end of the block.  Stop means stop, not hesitate.

     I’ve seen how most of you speed down the street, well over the posted twenty-five miles per hour limit.

     I’ve seen how some of you procrastinate on your yard work, as if you wouldn’t be happy until all our property values were down.

     I’ve seen how you copy DVDs you rent from Blockbuster.  I’ve heard the songs you’ve stolen off the Internet.  Did you know that recording television shows is a copyright violation?

     You don’t use turn signals.  You smoke weed.  You curse in public.  You spit on the sidewalk.  You play your radio too loud.  You don’t return your books to the library on time.  You walk your dog without a leash, and you don’t clean up after it.

     And you continue to do these things and more because no one is stopping you.  Because I’m not stopping you.

     You are all terrible Americans.  I am a terrible agent.  Don’t rules mean anything anymore?

     It was then that I knew I had to kill you all, and I knew exactly how to do it.

     When I brought it up to my family, they were appalled.  They thought I was kidding, and when I assured them I wasn’t, they decided I was crazy.  They thought you were in violation of crimes so small they were no threat to our Homeland.  I could not deter them from these views, not even when I explained that we have these rules for a reason, that we couldn’t survive as a country if all American citizens were criminals.

     I wasn’t prepared for this opposition from my loved ones, so I told them I was just philosophizing.  This put them at ease, and when they went to bed, I screwed a silencer onto my .38, and I executed them for treason.

     I’ve hosted our neighborhood Cub Scout den meetings.  I am a concerned member of our school district’s P.T.A.

     Two days later, with my family stashed away in our nuclear bomb shelter, I watched all of you put up roadblocks for our annual block party.  The tables and chairs came out, the food was grilled, the kids were busy in the giant bouncy castle.  The teenagers talked on their half of the table, mostly of video games, music, and celebrities, while adults gathered on their side of the table, discussing the weather, sports, Oprah, and politics.  Ask me if I’m surprised that you think the President is doing a bad job.

     Some of you were upset when I got in my car and pulled out of my driveway.  The sawhorses were there for a reason, you thought.  I saw the disgusted looks on your faces as you got ready to move everything to let me out.

     None of you expected me to plow into your tables.  No one expected to die under their good neighbor’s wheels.  How could such a nice, bright-n-shiny day end with broken bones, blood, and death?

     When you tried to run, I shot you down from my car.  When you made it into your houses, I threw hand grenades through your windows.  A teenage boy threw a rock at me and missed.  I couldn’t help but think about how this new generation was too soft.  Did I mention how easy it is to fluster your kids?  He nervously tripped when he tried to run.  Part of him is still stuck in between my tire treads.

     I didn’t stop until I’d executed you all for treason, but I refused to put down the children, as they were too young to think for themselves and therefore couldn’t betray our country.  I guess you could say I saved their lives.  Orphanages are good at raising moral children.

     I was disappointed that our government didn’t congratulate me.  Instead of being decorated, I was painted as a domestic terrorist, something I completely despise.  It took a while to come to terms with this in my cell at Guantanamo Bay, but in the end, I realized it was necessary.  If they told the world the truth, all those Homeland Security agents disguised in the field would be compromised.

     I’m a good American.  I keep my mouth shut.

     I lived in your neighborhood.  Now, someone else has taken my place.  Someone with the same training.  Someone who is not afraid to do whatever it takes to serve his country.

     If you’re smart, you’ll be a good citizen.

     God bless America.