Tuesday: They took Mrs. Bloomingberger today. I was washing a rack of dishes and could see through the kitchen window as the Support The Troops Police marched up to her apartment, bashed down the door and dragged the poor old gal away. They said she didn't Support The Troops enough.
I thought she supported The Troops just fine. You know, baked them cookies, sent them pen-pal letters-the weekly minimum amount of supporting The Troops, as required by law. Of course, Mrs. Bloomingberger wished she could support The Troops even more. She just loved those boys. But she was an elderly widow and couldn't get around the house like she used to. Baking cookies was a job in and of itself these days, especially when you bake them from scratch.
Not that any of this mattered to the Support The Troops Police. They deemed it “insufficient” that she only supported The Troops the minimum amount as required by law. So a new law was drafted to expedite her arrest. It was called the Patriot Act XIII and it mandated that all citizens were legally required to do more for The Troops than was the weekly minimum legal requirement.
I remember when George Bush Inc. created The Federal Department of Supporting The Troops a Lot. It was right at the beginning of his ninth term as CEO of America. George Bush himself had died after his sixth term, but his corporation still presided over the country. And it lamented that there was way too much of this not-Supporting-The-Troops business going on around here.
Critics of the administration said it was pretty convenient that, nearly 40 years after the initial invasions, we still had troops in Iraq, Iran, Syria and France. They said that as long as we had The Troops in harms way, George Bush Inc. could do whatever it wanted. The administration countered those critics by saying they weren't supporting The Troops.
Or maybe an environmental activist would say, “Um, hey there, Mr. Bush Inc. We think your environmental polices are lagging a tad, since, there are only like, six trees left in America, and we were just wondering if, I don't know, maybe you could plant some new ones or something.” To which George Bush Inc. would respond, “Whoa! Slow down there, Johnny Appleseed! That's not very Supporting-The-Troops-like of you,” and that was the end of the environmental movement.
Such was the state of dissent in America.
But along came a rising swell of contempt for the government, and the people stopped caring if they were called an Anti-Troopite for speaking against it. So Bush Inc. was forced to amend the Constitution (again) and created an all-robot police department called The Federal Department of Supporting The Troops a Lot to enforce the new Amendment, which read:
The 621st Amendment to the Constitution
“It is a federal offense to not support The Troops when The Troops are abroad. ‘Not supporting The Troops' is defined as:
1. Criticizing The Troops. 2. Criticizing George Bush Inc. 3. Sending The Troops cookies that are not made from scratch. 4. Wanting to marry someone of the same sex. 5. Not reciting, daily, the new Pledge of Allegiance:
‘I pledge allegiance/ To The Troops/ Of the United States of America/ And it makes no difference what they do/ Or why they do it/ Because it's all good/ Under God/ Un-court-martiable/ With liberty and justice forestalled.'”
Sunday: The jig is up. I was washing the dishes when The Support the Troops Police bashed down the door and threw me to the floor. “We have reason to believe you do not support The Troops,” shouted the Robo-Commander in his robo-commander voice.
“Not true!” I protested. “Not only do I support The Troops-I support them “more” than the weekly minimum amount as required by law.”
“The law has changed again,” he snapped. “Now you must support The Troops more than just ‘more' than the minimum weekly amount as required by law. Confess your crimes and we will go easy on you!”
“It's not true!” I shouted.
The commander displayed a 13-inch, barbed, metallic rod. “This is called ‘Satan's Catheter of Toxic Thorns,'” he said, while one of his officers began pulling down my trousers. “You will confess!”
“OK, OK!” I screamed. “I confess! I hate The Troops. I've always hated The Troops! When my friends were playing G.I. Joe, I was playing with little Al-Qaeda action figures! Oh, God, have mercy on my mortal soul, I hate The Troops so much!” I broke down sobbing.
Satisfied, the Robo-Commander leaned back in his chair.
As I sat there moaning and pondering my terrible fate, a perfect escape plan came to me. I cleared my throat and addressed the Robo-Commander: “Excuse me, sir, but did you know the word ‘troop' is derived from the Old French word ‘trope'?”
“Sorry?” said the commander. “That does not compute.”
“The word ‘troop,'” I repeated, “It's from the French.”
“That does not compute,” he said again, scratching his metallic forehead. “Nothing good can come from France.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“France bad. Troops good,” he blubbered, his eye-sockets now smoking and sparks flying from his ears. “The Troops must be supported. Yet, nothing good can come from France. That does not compute.” At that he was joined by his officers, who were also short-circuiting, and bumping into each other like drunken penguins. “It does not compute,” they said. “It does not compute,” over and over until they all burst into flames and crumbled to the ground.
I escaped into the night.
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