RANDY AND PATRICIA JOIN A MILITIA

Considering the day I've had, what with more and more rhetoric swirling around about revolutions, guns,  the 2nd Amendment and the 23rd Psalm, I decided to pull out and reboot an oldie but a goodie.  I hope you enjoy.
 

 

RANDY AND PATRICIA JOIN A MILITIA

By:  Randy Gillis

                                                                      

 

Considering that penises are practically falling from the sky (thanks to twitter and questionable judgment), two ‘end-time’ dates have come and gone with two more on the horizon, people are hoarding gunpowder and potted meat thinking that the apocalypse can be survived, everyone is tossing away their moral codes, and the odds of our evolving past the concept of money seem slim at best, I’ve decided I should find a militia to hook up with.  These are dark days and getting darker by the minute.

I called my friend Patricia.  As she leans toward softball, firearms, and fatigues, I knew she would be the best guide in this strange, new landscape, because let’s face it, the survivalists will soon be at the top of the food chain so I need to get in good with them now.

I showed up at Patricia’s house with my beanie-weenie casserole and a bottle of white wine; considering that ‘weenies’ are an amalgamation of several perfectly legitimate meat genres, I went with the white because it’s all that I had.  She greeted me with a smile.  After I forced her to remove her fatigue pants so that I could properly press them, we were on our way.  She was able to score us two tickets to the Greater Randolph County Sons of the Revolutionary Brotherhood of…something, something, Resistance.     

Patricia navigated her…she calls it a truck; I call it her Mad Max midlife crisis, into the parking lot of the VFW.  At least it will be easy to spot in case we need a quick getaway as it was the only vehicle without a confederate flag decal in the rear window.  That and the fact that it requires a step ladder to board.  I began to rethink the rainbow flag tee-shirt I was wearing.

As we approached the entrance Patricia stopped to inform me that she is perfectly willing to take an ass-kicking….”for a good reason.”  I politely explained that I am alert and oriented to time and place and that I would be on my best behavior.  We marched on.

We stood in the doorway and watched as a wave of silence slowly engulfed the room as more and more folks became aware of our presence.  As I surveyed the crowd, several impressions leapt at me.  First, in this part of God’s creation, the American flag is as vital a fashion accessory as black pumps.  Second, southern gentlemen really need to conquer their vanity and go up a size or two on their shirts.  And lastly, Jesus Christ has a surprising number of personal acquaintances who believe in the sanctity of raw fire-power as evidenced by the tables of AK-16 Magnum, pump-action, semi-manual, crank-start, automatic weaponry-type thingies on display.

           




We were approached by a hysterical bottom (kind of cute in a rotund, monosyllabic way) who demanded to know if I loved my country.  Thinking it was a trick question, I said I was ambivalent.  He asked me if that was a Christian denomination.  In a panic I replied, “Praise Jesus.”  NASCAR caps filled the air. 

My new friend (let’s call him Slim) hooked his arm around mine and led me into the room.  Patricia abandoned me for the ammunition booth, run by a young woman with whom I’m convinced she had a great deal in common.  I was on my own.

 As we strolled deeper into the room, a charming older woman with a sweet smile and a huge crucifix hanging around her neck, walked up to us and offered to take the casserole dish I was holding.  I offered the wine as well but she ever-so-politely explained that there was plenty of sweet tea and no need for hard liquor.  She complimented my tee-shirt and I promised to send her one.  I was doing well.

As we continued on, Slim leaned in and asked me the one question I never expected.  He asked me if I was a tea-bagger.  Finally!  Common ground!  While I had my suspicions about Slim, I never expected them to be confirmed so boldly and in this venue.  I coyly whispered that I was tea-bagging before tea-bagging was cool.  We set a date for next week to discuss tea-bagging strategies (I’m not sure what strategies tea-bagging could possible require, but I’m excited by the possibilities).  I’m just relieved that I found my “in” and that I didn’t have to abandon my moral code.