Patriot Chains

Goddammit! I'm tired of America taking away my rights.

Add "cooking" to the ever-increasing list of things you're not allowed to do in this country anymore. I was having another fun weekend night off from my job, and had everything all planned out: A lot of drinking, some cruel prank phone calls, and smoke-cooking whatever I could find leftover in the freezer. Well, you can see where this is going, even if you graduated from public schools. The cops knock on my door, mine, and tell me I can't cook.

I don't think it was meant as a critique, once minutes of arguing straightened it out. Apparently, now get this, it's illegal for you to cook in your own house. This is bullshit of colossal proportions.

Don't get me wrong, all y'all. I'm not some bleeding heart queer doing it pro bono for the ACLU, or as I like to call them, Domestic Al-Qaeda. I voted for the Patriot Act, and since I wasn't a congressman it took a lot of deception on my part and I eventually got out of it with a fine, but that should tell you how committed I am to upholding law and order. Except for those dreadful spin-offs. I figured I was white and voted Republican, there was no way my rights would be infringed upon.

But, Oh Contrary. That's the French saying for bullshit, and those French are on to something. If the government wants to know what books I buy, I'm perfectly okay with that—I like to write to Dennis Miller himself sometimes just to let him know I'm putting money in his pocket. If the government wants to know what websites I go to, fine, I don't care; as long as they know occasionally Ramon Nootles borrows my computer to surf for some really freaky weird sex shit—I'm the one surfing turkey-hunting sites and entertainment news. I've let the government so far in they can tell me if I've got bowel obstructions. But here's where I draw the line.

A man's home is his castle. It doesn't matter if his castle looks like a trailer on the outside or not. Keep fucking with me, I'll stow every one of you all in the dungeon. I'm not shitting around here, guys. I'm small, but I'm spry. Just test me. I'm a good American, I always vote, I pay most of my taxes, and now I want to be left alone so I can do whatever the hell I want behind closed doors. If that means I want to start a bonfire and blacken fish in the privacy of my living room, there's not a damn thing you can do about it. In a fair and just America. The America I grew up with.

What do you expect me to do? I've given this country all I can, short of military service or volunteer work. I'm a hard worker, I make my opinion known, sometimes three blocks over in the dead of night, and I salute that goddamn flag every time you run it up the pole. You want my blood, too? Or do you want me to turn informant? Rat out all my red-loving friends at the commune just so I can cook anytime of the day or night, despite EPA emissions standards, and be left in peace and quiet? Because in spite of our differences, these people at the commune are my friends. That's what America is about, in my book: Freaks and normal people, no matter how different, can put aside their differences to be friends, and really rake in the dough.

Not that I'm saying I won't do it, mind you. Some of these whack-jobs can stand to have the fear of G.W. put into them. I think Lil Duncan has committed an obscene act with every object on or in her desk. And Bludney Pludd, I don't think the DSM-IV even has names for the kind of perversions he's capable of. Call me up. We'll chat. You dish your dirt and I'll dish mine. But don't send anymore uniforms to my door—I certainly rate higher than that.

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