Most Friday nights in the fall, I can be found enjoying the slice of Americana that is a high school football game. The wife and I make our way up into the sparsely-occupied, far upper corner of the reserved seats we affectionately refer to as the anti-social section.We don't mind people, we just don't like being a crouton in a salad bowl full of them.
Then, as the honor guard marches out with the flag and everyone rises, I pause to soak it all in, marveling at the thought of the millions of Americans who have partaken in this uniquely American pastime. And then, as the band begins to play "The Star-Spangled Banner," I'll look around at all the terrorist interns and wish I'd brought my ray-gun.
It's common practice these days for folks to bash the Transportation Security Administration for terrorizing toddlers and groping grannies just so they won't be accused of profiling. Personally, I have no problem with the TSA. I'd gladly strip right down to my fruit basket every time if that's the difference between flying safe and flying dead, and if finding the terrorists means the rubber glove folks need to schedule a few prostate exams, I say pass the jelly. Violated beats obliterated any day of the week.
The terrorists are just waiting for some old lady to sue the government, claiming a TSA employee, playing the part of produce manager, got carried away checking her fruit to see if it was "ripe," TSA code for "melons with malice." Then, when old ladies past fruit-bearing age are no longer required to pass inspection, the terrorists will have an octogenarian-appropriate, silicone-warhead prototype within a month.
For goodness sakes, these people make bombs from shoes and underwear. Underwear! That proves these whackos are whacked. If they had a shred of sanity left, it would be screaming, "No bombs in the boxers, I'm drawing the line at my drawers!" Fortunately for us, the success rate of the wardrobe weaponry industry is hovering fairly steady around zilch. Maybe over there where these nuts fall from the trees, success is defined as boarding an airplane and melting your tennis shoe around your foot, or torching your tighty-whities and publicly burning your privates. Imagine those final instructions: "If this works, you won't feel a thing. If it doesn't, well…uh, you'll wish it did." So far these shop class dropouts haven't found a way to detonate a Nike or a pair of Hanes, but if we give them a D-cup to fill up, we could all blow up.
"Terrorist interns" are what I call those people at the football game who keep walking and talking during our national anthem.They are oblivious, rude, naïve, disrespectful or stupid, though most likely all of the above. Most are kids, but not all. I wish we could reinstate the draft for these people, just scoop 'em up and drop 'em right in a war zone, since apparently the sacrifices made for our flag means so very little to them that they can't be bothered to stand still and shut up.
One night, we were at a game and they started to play the national anthem. A guy in front of us stood up, but let his 6-year-old kid sit and keep playing his video game. The future is in good hands. God help us if we ever go to war with this generation. If they can't fight the enemy on a Samsung widescreen with a video game controller and a bag of chips, then the war just won't be fought. Their idea of the front lines is the people who camped out to be first to purchase a newly-released video game. When they're done fighting the big one, our flag will be a white sheet.
Maybe it's the song itself, as "The Star-Spangled Banner" is not the catchiest tune, but is it fair to expect a show tune from a guy whose inspiration was watching the Brits bomb the bejesus out of Baltimore? Maybe we need to reach out to these kids, perhaps have rapper Lil' Wayne, now that he's out of prison, do a cover of "The Star-Spangled Banner," one the kids would stand still for. In the spirit of compromise, they could put one hand over their crotch and one hand over their heart.
Once, when I was young, I was at a park and the ranger asked me to take down the flag and fold it up. I took it down, laid it on the ground and started folding it up. The ranger comes running up, yelling at me to pick it up. I thought, "What's wrong with him?" I didn't know you were never to let the flag touch the ground. I was naïve. I've never let one touch the ground since. There were not several thousand other people around me, all folding their flags without letting them touch the ground. If that had been the case, like with the national anthem, then I would have been stupid, disrespectful, rude and oblivious. Just like the terrorist interns will be at the game tonight.
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Kevin says it should be a while before he gets back up on his soapbox because he was on it so long this time that, well, let's just say it gave its life in service to this column. Kevin can be reached at the flagpole at LIFEisHEALD.blogpsot.com or LIFEisHEALD@yahoo.com.