Seeing Red
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A warm throbbing at the base of my skull turned into a burning headache as midnight approached and the votes had been tallied, and I sat still trying to decide whether I wanted to scream, howl or fall asleep. I chose sleep over rage because I treasure my TV and my window, through which I would have thrown said TV if I had followed my thoughts to their logical conclusion. We’re fighting the war on terror over there so we don’t have to fight it here.
We’re fighting the war on terror over there so we don’t have to fight it here.
We’re fighting the war on terror over there so we don’t have to fight it here.
We’re fighting the war on terror over there so we don’t have to fight it here.
United We Stand!
United We Stand!
United We Stand!
United We Stand!
United We Stand!
Try to burn this one, asshole!
Try to burn this one, asshole!
Try to burn this one, asshole!
Try to burn this one, asshole!
Try to burn this one, asshole!
Try to burn this one, asshole!
But, I find that it won’t burn because the fabric is made in China, the stars are assembled in Thailand and the stripes are sewn in Mexico. My lighter kicks up a flame, but that’s when John Hinckley, Jr. dressed in a black suit and wearing black Ray-Bans comes running over and tackles me to the ground, rips the flag from my hands and then kicks me with his steel-toed boots over and over until I see stars and stripes and and the rocket’s red glare.
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