Thursday, May 2, 2013

Rage: Watered Down in Watertown

I cannot remember feeling less positive about being an American, or less hopeful about the foreseeable future of America, than I felt as I sat before my television, watching the citizens of Watertown, Massachusetts pour out into the night-time streets to stomp their feet and cheer, taking up the mindless chant of U ! S ! A !    U ! S ! A !   U ! S ! A !  as the armored vehicles carrying Kevlar-clad storm troopers withdrew from their neighborhoods.

What were they cheering about? They were cheering that an army, numbering in the thousands, clad as Black Op commandos, had finally run to ground a single, allegedly badly wounded, almost certainly scared shitless, nineteen-year-old boy; a boy who turned out not even to have been armed.

In the course of accomplishing this stupendous feat of bravery, this phalanx of commandos had gone door-to-door, forcing the citizens of Watertown to leave their already locked-down homes, hands on their heads, looking into the muzzles of military assault weapons: martial law, folks, martial law—right here in River City.

What I did not see captured on video from behind the lace curtains of any citizen’s upstairs window was any card-carrying NRA patriot, standing on his front porch wielding his weapon in defiance of this order to evacuate his castle, and singing hymns about the  snatching of his Fourth Amendment rights only from his cold, dead hand by the agents of Big Government Tyranny.

No. I did not see Courageous Defender of Liberty, Justice and the U.S. Constitution number one.

What I saw was a compliant herd of bleating merinos, standing on their hind legs in the dark, looking almost like men.

How very cheap is talk.

How easily is any ideal stepped around when the master’s voice is heard.

Time now to turn all mirrors to the wall. Time to grab your ankles and grit your teeth. It’s going to hurt; but always remember—it’s for your own good. God bless America.