I’ll tell you how I’m going to do it.
On the morning of 9/11, I’m going to get off my 911 job, strap on my kilt, and head over to the Waffle House.
And while I’m there I’m going to drink orange juice and eat scrambled eggs and mounds of bacon and hash browns, read my newspaper and tell anyone who asks why I’m wearing a kilt.
And then I’m probably going to eat more bacon, and maybe argue a little politics with the guy on the next stool at the counter, and each one of us will be utterly convinced that the damned country is going to hell in a hand basket unless everybody votes for My Guy, or His Guy, or That Guy Nobody Has Heard Of that hasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of winning.
And we’ll all take it as a given that, no matter Which Guy wins, the transfer of power will be peaceful.
And in our complacency and American naïveté, we’ll fail to recognize just how rare that is.
When I’m done with my breakfast, I’ll mosey on over to the gun shop, and just maybe, buy myself something I really don’t need.
Then I’m going to spend an hour or two turning expensive ammunition into smoke and noise, after which I’ll go to a restaurant with mediocre food served by whorish American women in scandalous outfits that show off their artificially tanned, surgically enhanced boobs, and I’ll order a burger and a beer, and watch reruns of American football while I eat.
With extra bacon on the burger, please.
After which, I think I’ll go catch a matinee; something with plot holes a mile wide and lots of guns and explosions and gratuitous sex and violence and scantily clad women who don’t even know what subservient even means, much less how to behave that way.
In short, I’m gonna be everything our enemies hate; a vain, hedonistic, shallow, greedy, spoiled American capitalist infidel pig.
Because fuck them, that’s why.