First It Was the Nanny Staters

You know. The absolutely insufferable sissies who need to be saved from themselves. They want your rich Uncle in DC to protect themselves from all their stupid fucking decisions. You know, like smoking too much, drinking too much, eating too much and any other idiotic thing one does in a fit of other worldly stupidity. But alas, we weren’t satisfied with a hatchet wielding nanny ready to castrate you every time you did something so fucking stupid Al Sharpton’s perm straightened out.

Now we have the Daddy Staters. People in such abject fear of dying at the hands of a terrorist that they are willing to sit in traffic for HOURS, eating Mexican pastries and getting sore-assed, while they are granted permission to re-enter their own country. Jesus H. Christ what the hell is wrong these cowards? The Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave has no meaning with so many people now convinced by the criminals running the government in Washington that they should be treated like terrorists, so the real terrorist won’t fuck up their Friday night commute. Jesus! The American Dream has slipped away at the hands of people who are afraid of their own shadow.

Here’s my two cents. Citizens of Stalinist Russia never had to worry about terrorism. Joe Stalin was a murderous bastard and we are in trouble if we think these guys in Washington have our best interest and security in mind. We’re just trading the terrorists we don’t know for the terrorists we do know.


About The Ancient Randonneur

A randonneur and epicure without a sinecure.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s