Life under the sequester, days 3 and 4
Concerned by a sudden, organized influx of homeless people parading through the streets of our little town yesterday — in what I feared to be either a preemptive invasion or a raid on resources — I lobbed three Molotov cocktails into the procession, then, in the ensuing panic, apprehended a handful of the marchers at gunpoint, secreting them off to a small 6′x6′x8′ sound-proofed concrete bunker I spent the last few months quietly installing into a spot of prairie behind our subdivision where I shot the biggest of the bunch in the kneecap to show the others I was serious about uncovering their larcenous aims.
Turns out, though, that, the weather being so nice and all — mid-to-upper 60s yesterday — what I had witnessed was not an attack by sequester-motivated would-be squatters and filthy, vermin-caked vagrants, but rather a charity walk for some or other childhood disease whose name I can’t remember, and whose affects I could barely make out, what with all the screaming and crying from those hysterically shouting the information at me.
Now, lest you think me reckless, let me just note for the record that ordinarily, the fact that all the marchers were wearing ribbons of the same color would have convinced me to stand down and maybe engage in further intelligence gathering and reconnaissance before going on the offensive with a kind of homemade napalm sneak attack. However, the President, the DOD, and the Transportation Secretary, and the Colorado assembly have me a bit spooked of late — itchy on the self-preservation trigger, if you will — and frankly, I long ago determined that if I’m going to be overrun by desperate bums or furloughed teachers or gaggles of suddenly-neglected autistic children out to pilfer my stash of bottled water or Pop Chips or jerky beef, it isn’t going to happen without my having tried to fry a few of those fuckers for their troubles first.
– Which is a principled — and I believe laudable — posture, under most circumstances. In fact, it’s a posture born of bravery that works quite well as a kind of cold comfort in the most trying of times– that is, right up until the moment when you realize you’ve just fragged, burned, shot, and tortured a bunch of people who, by taking a nice leisurely stroll through the town’s main square on an unseasonably warm Sunday afternoon, were merely raising money for sick children.
So, then. That being life under sequester day 3, life under sequester, day 4 — today — has me doing a little bit of hiding out in a makeshift lean-to I’ve set up and camouflaged in the foothills. Fortunately, it’s snowing right now. And I’m not sure the tracking dogs are permitted to work in these conditions, their being unionized and all, and therefore immune from the affects of all the draconian cuts to government that are threatening to bring about a civil war.
There’s a certain irony to that, I don’t mind admitting — one I happen to find oddly comforting.