Life under the sequester, day 2
Surprisingly, my oldest boy’s wrestling tournament hasn’t, to my knowledge, been canceled — this, despite all the civil uncertainty and the roaming bands of former TSA workers looking for the weak and isolated to corner in abandoned rope lines and then pat down suggestively — so we’ll be riding about 40 miles north this morning toward Colorado’s eastern plains, armed to the teeth, (in fact, it wasn’t but a half-hour ago that I put the last bit of solder to the turret and backrest I installed in the space that used to house our Jeep Trailhawk’s automatic sunroof), fully appreciative of the possibility that we may be venturing into a trap, where we’ll find ourselves in some sort of Thunderdome-esque human cockfight arena, forced into hand-to-hand combat with other parents and youth wrestlers by a grim Chinese Triad looking to make bank off wagering on what are essentially death matches. The dirty pan-faced cocksuckers.
But then, if there really is still a tournament, my son thinks he can maybe win a first-place trophy, or at least medal in the event. So what am I going to do, stay home? Because of what might happen?
Hells to the no. That’s not what outlaws do. And that’s exactly what I am in Obama’s sequestered America: an outlaw.
So buckle your chinstrap, Greeley, CO. Because we’re on our way. And Hell is following with us.